Chapter Twenty-Four
Gabby
Jonathan turns to me after watching Lance and Abby walk out the door. “We have the house to ourselves.”
“We do.” I hold his gaze, waiting for what exactly he’s going to suggest. He clearly has a plan. Does he want to have loud sex in the living room since we can? It’s not like we’ve been celibate in the two days since he’s been here, but it’s been a challenge to keep things quiet enough not to provoke comments. And I’m not used to having to hold back. It’s made it harder for me to get there than normal, but Jonathan seems to enjoy the challenge in some perverse way.
But that’s not where he’s going after all. “You promised you’d play for me. No one else is here, so you can’t use the excuse that you don’t want anyone else to hear your half-formed musical ideas like you did yesterday.”
I sigh. “Fine. Okay.”
It’s dumb. I don’t know why I’m resisting this. I’m flattered he wants to hear what I’ve done. And I know he respects my musical opinion. I mean, I helped write almost his entire album. Made suggestions for both the melodies and the harmonies. And he took everything that I said, incorporated it, and made it better.
He’s heard my compositions, such as they are. He’s always been supportive and given me nothing but positive feedback.
But this is different. This is me adding to his music. Not making a suggestion for him to accept or reject or change to something that fits his vision better. This is me imposing my own ideas onto something he’s already created.
How would I feel about someone doing that to my music?
I don’t know. Especially since I haven’t written anything for general consumption. Yeah, my professor was complimentary about my class compositions, but those aren’t exactly going to be recorded and sold.
Jonathan follows me up the stairs to my room to get my violin. He sits on the bed, his back propped against the headboard, his legs crossed at the ankle, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me unpack my violin and tighten my bow. I turn up the volume on my phone and select the song I’ve played with the most, then put it in the little bowl that usually holds a collection of necklaces, bracelets, and hair ties on my dresser.
The music starts, amplified by the bowl, filling the room. Closing my eyes, I set the violin on my shoulder, the bow on the string, drawing out a long tone on the D string, before climbing the scale. I know this song inside and out. It’s one of the ones I contributed to the most. I know the key. I know the harmonies. So composing a countermelody to weave around Jonathan’s voice wasn’t too hard. It’s the one I like best.
The music flows, and I lose myself in it, twining my own sound with Jonathan. It’s strange, though. The usual feelings of being closer to him well up inside me, but I’m aware of him sitting here, in person. My pulse picks up, but my nerves don’t make me falter. Whatever he thinks of this, he won’t say anything bad.
When I finish, I tuck my violin under my arm and reach over to tap the screen on my phone, stopping it as it starts the next song.
Jonathan’s face is blank when I work up the nerve to look at him. His gaze is abstract, staring somewhere in the middle distance. Then he blinks a few times, sucking in a breath like he’s coming back to life, and his eyes lift to meet mine. “Holy shit, Gabby.”
I hold my breath, waiting for more.
“That was … that … I can’t even figure out what to say.”
I let out a weak chuckle. “In a good way or a bad way?”
His head jerks. “What? Good way. Of course a good way. Holy shit. That was amazing. That was …” His gaze drifts to the violin under my arm. “That was better than anything I could’ve ever come up with in a million years. God, Gabby. Do you really not understand how amazing you are?”
I blink, biting my lip. “Um, thanks?” I have no idea how to respond to that. I don’t feel amazing. I just feel like … me.
He stands, gently removing my violin from under my arm and setting it on the bed. Then he gathers me into his arms. “Gabby.” He kisses my lips. “I know you think you’re unremarkable. And the fact that you’re so oblivious to the depth of your own talent is at once endearing and frustrating.” He kisses me again, and I relax a little more into his body. “But believe me when I say that I absolutely love what you just played. And I’m jealous that I didn’t come up with it. And now I’m dying to hear what else you’ve done. And trying to figure out a way to get you to play on tour with me.”
I stiffen at the last sentence, trying to pull back, but his arms hold me fast, his eyes now boring into mine. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. That deserves to be heard. By more than just me. And you’ve done that with other songs?”
He waits, bringing the full intense weight of his gaze into play, and I reluctantly nod.
“Then I want to hear them. I don’t care if you don’t think they’re as good or as polished. I want to know how many songs you’ve done this with. We have some time. We can finish the ones you don’t think are ready. And then, when you come with me next week for the next few shows, you can play a set with me.”
My mouth goes dry at the thought, and my heart thuds in my chest. Play? With him? At one of his concerts? In front of all those people?
I still get crazy nervous just to play for Strings Seminar.
But I’ve fantasized about what it would be like to be on stage like that. With fans screaming, singing along with my music. Not that that’s likely for a concert violinist. Not even a soloist. Classical audiences don’t scream, don’t sing along. You’ll get an occasional whistle or shout of excitement during a standing ovation. But not the kinds of reactions Jonathan gets at his shows.
His hand cups my cheek, tilting my face back up to his. “Think about it. I’d love to have you play with me. Any time you’re with me for a show, you could play. We could make it fit your schedule. I’m not asking you to give anything up for me. But if you’re already on the tour, it’d be easy to work you in.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll think about it. And if I agree to this crazy plan of yours, but your fans hate it, then we’re not doing it again. Got it?”
He grins. “Got it. But, Gabby? They won’t hate it. I promise. They’ll love it as much as I do.”
With a squeeze and another swift kiss, he releases me. “Now, onto the next song. Play through all the ones you’ve done that with. I want to hear it all.”
He settles back on the bed as I pick up my violin and bow again, tapping on the next song. He doesn’t interrupt me again, just gestures for me to continue, his expression rapt. And I start to think about what it would be like, how it would feel. Playing on stage, performing something I’ve written for myself, showcasing my own strengths and musical sensibilities, and the whole world loving it.
It’s tempting. Too tempting.
And when I’m done, I meet his eyes and say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”