Page 151 of These Secret Years

“I can let you breathe all over me now. That’s something right?”

Breathing on someone’s head while I’m holding them is a lot different than panting through an orgasm, though, and we haven’t attempted that again since what happened over spring break. Not for his lack of wanting to but for my lack of willingness to watch him get blindsided with something else “unpredictable.”

“Sure,” I say.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“So, what? You want to play the violin for me while I watch?”

“Not just watch.”

I get the feeling that any therapist in the world would say this should not be done without professional supervision. Even this conversation feels too deep to have without someone here who could drill a little deeper into Sullivan’s unique psyche without the fear of triggering him or, especially in my case, rejecting him.

“Hey,” he says. “How about this—you play the violin, and I’ll correct your positions. Then you’ll see what I mean. I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal. It’s such a small thing.”

Sullivan isn’t impossible to say no to, but it doesn’t roll off my tongue easily either. He’s always on the hunt for a compromise, and I figure I should give him those when I can. It’s what any good boyfriend would do, right?

He’s already up, opening his violin case and pulling out the instrument. “Go sit at the table in one of those chairs. It’ll be easier.”

“I can’t play violin.”

“I always said I’d teach you something, didn’t I?”

“I don’t wanna learn ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’”

“Don’t worry, champ. I’m not gonna start you off with a masterpiece.”

I manage a laugh and get up. At the table, I pull a chair out and turn it around. He’s closer now. He’s growing his hair out again, and it’s pulled back today in a small bun, showing off all the magical planes of his face and his large features that shouldn’t work but absolutely do. With his bow and violin in one hand, he grabs me by the chin and plants a kiss on my mouth.

“I love you,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I admit, I’m kinda counting on that. Have a seat.”

I do. He gives me the violin, makes some adjustments with the shoulder rest, and demonstrates how to hold the bow. “You might never want to play again after I scar your ears with this,” I say.

“Excuse me, are you saying you don’t think I’ll make a good teacher?”

He’s a very distracting teacher in his shorts that hit him mid-supple thigh and the t-shirt with a way overstretched collar falling off one shoulder. He’s just so fucking beautiful—so everything I’m not—and I find it endlessly fascinating. If someone asked me what my major is, I’d probably say Sullivan Scott.

He wrestles with my left hand on the fingerboard, getting all my fingers to be in the correct places, only on one string, the lowest string, and tells me to run the bow up and down just that one.

While the noise I make isn’t off pitch, it is scratchy and uneven. It’s also quiet when I’d prepared myself for ear piercing. “What’d I do wrong?”

“Okay, here’s where the corrections come in. Pay attention. Pretend you’re learning a new offensive formation or something.”

He moves the elbow of my bow arm, then he has me sit up straighter by putting a hand on the small of my back. He runs that same hand down the back of my arm, eliciting a shiver from me while saying, “Loose and relaxed, but intentional. Poised. Also, you have to press harder on the string with the bow to make actual music come out of the instrument. Don’t be shy.”

I pull the bow straight down the string this time with more pressure, and it makes a not too unpleasant note ring out. After another complicated rearrangement of my fingers, he has me play the two bottom strings and laughs at the sound it makes. “Anyway, you get the idea.”

“I don’t know how the fuck you managed to pick this thing up and just start playing it.”

“Well, I don’t know how you throw a ball forty yards with a hundred percent accuracy with twelve men charging toward you, so I guess we’re both entitled to our gifts.”

I hand the violin over. “Play me a masterpiece.”

He gives me a fake purr. “Yes, sir.”

“Fuck you,” I say when that makes my dick twitch.