In the next breath, the lights came back on. The orchestra filled the space with a sharp harmony of sound, full and climactic, like I’d been begging for.
The lights went off. Silence.
The lights turned on. Booming music.
The next time the lights went off, a few annoying people below us had their phones out to take a video. The brightness of their screens ruined the dramatic effect of total darkness.
An older gentleman next to us was quick to intervene on the collective’s behalf. “Put your phones away!” he yelled in a thick New York accent.
Several people shushed him.
The lights came on, bows dramatically met string. I grinned, and Wes’s thigh brushed mine.
The next time we were plunged into darkness, the phones had been put away.
“Did you like it?” Wes asked on our way back to the 1 train.
I side-eyed him. “It was bizarre.” I smiled. “But yes.”
We were less talkative on the train back to Sixth Avenue. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it just felt like we were both mulling over our own inner worlds—whatever feelings the music had brought forth. When I studied Wes’s face, his forehead creased in thought, I wished I had a way to look as deeply inside him as he had with my books.
The pensiveness melted when he met my eyes.
“How long have you lived in New York?” I asked.
“Since I was seventeen.”
“Eighteen,” I said, answering the question for myself.
“Are you no-contact with your family?” he asked gently. “We don’t have to talk about it if?—”
“It’s okay,” I said, cutting him off. “Yeah, no-contact. Lorelei is the only person from my past I still—well, I guess we’re not speaking anymore.” I swallowed, the burn of Lorelei’s abandonment a smack in the face. “Did your family move here?”
Wes shook his head. He tracked a group of drunk men who’d slowly drifted closer to us. One of them bumped my shoulder, slurring an apology as he quickly returned to laughing with his buddies.
Wes glared and reached for me. His hold on my waist was warm and firm as he guided me to stand closer to him on the other side of the stanchion.
I exhaled slowly. Wes dropped his touch and took a step away to give me more space.
“No. I grew up with my mom in North Carolina. When she passed, I was forced to live with my dad here in the city.”
My heart clenched. “I’m sorry about your mom.” Seventeen was so young to lose a parent.
Wes nodded. “She was an amazing mom and an incredible human. I owe her everything.”
He said nothing of his dad—and I didn’t miss the way he said he’d beenforcedto live with him. The bitterness in that phrase was strong enough for me to taste on my own tongue.
“I didn’t want to fall in love with New York, but I did. I fell hard and against my will, kicking and screaming the whole way down,” he said with a small smile. “Love is funny that way, right?”
I shrugged. I knew he was being rhetorical, but I answered anyway. “So I’ve heard.”
Wes’s brows drew together. “The romance novelist has never been in love?”
The question resembled our usual teasing, but his tone wasn’t humorous. He looked genuinely shocked. The way he studied me was imploring, intrusive even.
I was grateful when we pulled into Sixth Avenue, offering a solid escape. My skin burned, and I frowned the moment I turned away from him and exited the car. I shouldn’t have admitted something so pathetic.
It wasn’t like I hadn’ttriedto fall in love. Men had just made the feat extraordinarily difficult for me with their energy, words, and general behavior.
