Page 77 of Last Chorus

The power comes back on midafternoon, but we don’t bother turning on any lights. Wilder makes us tea and disappears upstairs, then reappears with my guitar. When he asks me to play some of my new material for him, I do. He listens the same way he always has, with a rapt expression that makes me feel like the center of the universe. Like I’m precious and worthy and magical.

I have to stop to wipe away tears. He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, simply holds me until I’m calm again. I reward him with another blowjob, thankfully less traumatic than the first. Then I make the mistake of confessing that I thought swallowing cum would be grosser.

He laughs so hard, for so long, that I attempt to smother him with a pillow. My punishment is his mouth on my pussy, two fingers in my ass, and a husky warning that soon it’ll be something a lot bigger than his fingers inside me. The so-called threat triggers an immediate, shattering orgasm.

I’m still buzzing and relearning how to breathe when he whispers in my ear, “The reason my cum tastes good is because I’m made for you.” He leaves right after to wash his face and hands, sparing me the embarrassment of a witness as I dazedly wonder if he’s right.

When he returns, he has his own acoustic, a custom Gibson slightly larger than mine. I cozy up in blankets, grinning like a fangirl because I haven’t heard him play in far too long.

He stands dramatically before the fire. Makes a show of tuning the guitar with a frown of concentration and nervous glances. Right when I’m convinced he’s about to break my heart, he launches into a ridiculous, ad hoc song about a storm cloud that contains no less than five sexual puns.

We spend the rest of the afternoon playing an old game where we give the other person a color, emotion, and a setting, and five minutes to come up with a jingle.

Just before sunset, the rain lets up and the sky partly clears. We bundle up and go outside, presumably to see if any tree branches have fallen, but end up walking down to the water on a path clogged by yellow and white daffodils. The blooms are a little beat up from the storm but glow like fallen stars in the fading sunlight.

I crouch beside a section of flowers near the small beach and gently lift bent stalks. “I planted these same colors once. Did you ever see them? At my first place?”

Wilder’s gaze lifts from the flowers. “I saw them.”

I almost ask whether these were here when he bought the property or if he planted them, but something stops me. Maybe how presumptuous the question is, but more likely his lack of smile.

A cloud covers the sun, the temperature instantly dropping, and a gust off the water makes me shiver.

“Let’s head in,” he says softly. “I’ll get started on dinner.”

He pulls me up, warm fingers around mine for two seconds before he releases me and tucks his hand in a pocket.

Those two seconds—and the loss of them—stay with me as he reheats leftover pastitsio. As I fold the blankets and clean up the mess we left on the coffee table.

Lights are turned back on. Candles are blown out. The fire is covered by a grate and left to die.

Over dinner, we try to get it back—the peaceful, joyful bubble we floated in most of the day—and we almost do a few times. But as we finish eating, Wilder’s phone starts vibrating on the mantel and doesn’t stop. He ignores the first two calls, but on the third, he leaves the table to grab it.

He frowns down at the screen.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine for a moment. “Fine, but I need to return a call. Be back in a sec.”

He walks from the room before I can decide whether or not I have the right to ask who’s calling.

By the time he returns, the kitchen is clean and the dishwasher is running.

“Don’t tell me I didn’t have to,” I say as he opens his mouth. “I might throw a chair at your face.”

He chuckles. “I was going to say ‘thank you,’ you maniac. Want to watch a movie?”

I stare at him, waiting for more before realizing he’s setting another boundary. He’s not going to tell me who was on the phone, and he doesn’t want me to ask.

Because he’s not mine.

The silence vibrates, a rubber band stretched to snap. I can already feel the impending sting.

I summon a weak smile. “I’m actually pretty tired.”

Concern, regret, acceptance—they cross his face like fast moving clouds before he nods. “Absolutely, sure. Sleep well, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

I’m smiling as I thank him for dinner and say goodnight. Smiling as I grab the two blankets I brought down from the guest room. Smiling, smiling as I say goodnight again and leave him standing in the kitchen with a lost expression on his face.