My darlings. Thank you for your patience this year. What a year it has been for me! I turned 30. I quit a toxic job that was affecting my mental health and leeching my passion for my hobbies, like writing. I started a new job that I love. It has taken me a while to rediscover my identity while also acknowledging that I have changed. Anyways. Enough with the therapy session. I couldn't stop thinking about this story and how I need to finish it. I think there are a few chapters left, it won't be the longest story. But there is so much that needs to happen still. Again, thank you for hanging with me. I think this story will be worth it.

Christine

I can't believe I'm late for the first day of school. I can't believe I'm late for the first day of school because I slept over at Erik Destler's apartment.

Luckily my planning period is first so there aren't any students waiting for me to show up. I throw my hair up in a scrunchie and put on a short sleeved sun dress. Glancing at myself in the bathroom mirror, I briefly try to tame the flyaways—my hair was a mess after air drying from getting caught in the storm and sleeping on the couch. It's a lost cause.

I grab an iced coffee from the Starbucks drive thru since I'm going to be so late anyways. Lord knows I need the caffeine after staying up so late talking. I don't get the first day jitters as much as I used to, but I'm still absorbing everything that's happened in the last 18 hours.

A wave of air conditioning hits me once I enter the building. Thank god. The school's AC can be iffy at the beginning of the school year. I have one class of each grade for the girls—6th, 7th, and 8th—and one combined group of boys. Then a random assortment of students in the 7th grade for my home room and lunch period. If they aren't working on homework, I'll ask them to help me with making copies or organizing music folders or painting sets and backdrops (their favorite).

There are new kids in each grade, but there are a lot of returning students in 7th and 8th which makes me happy. The 6th grade girls are especially shy and nervous for their first day in middle school, so we keep it light with some music reading games and exercises. I start sorting the 7th graders into four-parts. And the 8th graders are sight reading music by the end of the class. The boys, however, are positively rowdy and we barely get anywhere.

I stay late at the end of the day to make up for my missed planning period. I better understand the level each class is at now, so it makes planning for the week a lot more informed. My stomach growls as I wrap up the last lessons for the week and I glance up at the clock. 7pm, almost a 12-hour day. Sounds about right. I pack up a few binders and head home.

When I get home I collapse onto my couch immediately. Excited for the week but still so, so exhausted. I don't even want to think about cooking dinner. I should have just picked up something on the way home. Before I can open my phone to DoorDash Taco Bell, there's a knock on my door. Curious, I get up to open it. And there's Erik. White mask, high cheekbones, and coiffed and yet still somehow messy black hair. Looking both sharp and soft at the same time. Heat fills my stomach when I meet his blue-gray eyes.

"Hi," I say, tilting my chin up to look at him. How am I surprised at his height every time I see him?

"Hello," Erik replies, hesitating for a moment. Then he ducks down to kiss me. When our lips meet, he sighs like he's relieved and I melt into him. Ah, yes. This is why I slept over. His limbs envelop me and I can't resist grasping at his hair. A door slams down the hall and we startle apart. I cover my lips and Erik scratches the back of his head as an elderly woman heads toward the stairwell. Once she's out of ear shot, we look back at each other and chuckle. Erik leans on the door jamb. "Long day?"

I sigh. "Yes. Good, but long."

"Are you hungry? I made spaghetti and meatballs."

My throat suddenly throbs like I'm going to cry. Erik wouldn't know that spaghetti and meatballs were my dad's and my special occasion meal. There's no way he would know this. But it still feels kindred, fateful. I smile, "Starving."

I tell him all about my day over dinner and wine. He laughs when I recall some of the goofy things students said. He asks about their ability levels, what I've planned now I know what they need to learn. When I mention something about the classroom piano, Erik reaches across the table to touch my arm.

"Your piano," he says guiltily. "I didn't tune it… you asked…"

I brush my fingers against his. "It's okay. The students don't notice a thing."

"But you do, Christine. And you can't have them learning music with an instrument that's out of tune. That cannot be beneficial to their pitch memory."

"I don't think—"

"I can tune it this weekend. If you'd still like me to.

I'm stunned. "Oh! Um, yes! The piano really needs it. Thank you, Erik." His long fingers brush along my palm.

"I'll need to get a couple tools from Milo's. They're very minimal and I already have the necessary software on my laptop."

"Can I come with you to Milo's? I can pick up some sheet music for the semester."

Erik's lips curl up his unmasked cheek in a lopsided smile. "I'd like that."

Erik

The bell chimes as I open the door to Milo's shop. "Erik, my boy! What brings you in today?" Milo comes around the counter to greet me but pauses when he sees Christine filing in behind me. "Miss Daaé?" He looks back and forth between us in confusion.

Christine smiles. "Did you know that Erik and I are neighbors, Mr. Reyer?"

"I… didn't…"

Christine glances up at me and winks. I tilt my head slightly—I think I'm missing something. She innocently wanders off to the sheet music library and leaves me with Milo at the counter. He fidgets, something I rarely see him do. I'm definitely missing something. "Are you…?"

"I'm tuning a piano for Christine's classroom. So I'll need a tuning hammer and a few sizes of mutes."

"Is that all?" Milo looks up at me directly.

"Yes, that should be everything. Unless I'm forgetting a tool?"

"No, I mean… is that all there is between you and Miss Daaé?" Milo doesn't pry like this, he barely knows anything about me if it doesn't relate to music. But he isn't embarrassed. He seems incredibly serious… protective. Ah. Interesting.

"We're…" How do I define what we are? We've been on a date. She knows more about me than any other woman does. We've kissed. A lot. "We're together."

Milo pulls his shoulders back and juts his chin out. "You treat that young lady with respect and loyalty, do you understand me, Erik Destler?"

I'm stunned by his brazenness momentarily. I half expect him to pull me down to his eye level by my ear. "I—of course, sir. Of course I will."

"Good," Milo nods, "good. Now about those tools…"

He heads toward the back storage room and I follow him from a safe distance. I'm still baffled by our last interaction. "Milo, do you… know Christine well?"

"I've known Christine since she was a little girl. Her father used to bring her into this very shop nearly every month since she was a toddler."

He points to a shelf above his head. I grab a box on the tallest shelf and follow Milo to another grouping of shelves. "He was an incredible musician, that Gustave Daaé. He played the piano, violin, viola, cello, and guitar. I think he could have rivaled you in piano." Milo gets lost in thought. "He would bring Miss Daaé along to the shop any time he needed tools, music, repairs, new instruments… She loved it, like she was in a candy store. They were close. He passed… I think it's been twelve years now."

He pulls another box from a shelf and I follow him back to the front counter. Now I understand Milo's protective tone. He begins ringing up the tools. He probably views Christine as some sort of granddaughter who needs a fatherly guide to watch over her and keep her safe. Very understandable. I pay for my purchase and Christine returns to the counter with a stack of sheet music. He charges her half price because she insists on paying. Now that I understand more of their background, I recognize this as a routine they perform every time she comes into the shop.

"Thank you, Mr. Reyer."

"Always a pleasure, Miss Daaé. Take care. And give me your school's performance calendar for the year!" He calls as we walk out the door.

"I will have it printed up and ready for you on my next visit!"

Christine

"Here we are." I turn on the lights in my classroom. The heat is only slightly uncomfortable; the school is trying to save money running the air conditioning less on the weekends. "Sorry it's so hot in here," I apologize, surprised by how embarrassed I feel. I pull a large box fan from the storage closet and turn it on. "Hopefully this helps." I pull my hair up into a scrunchie.

"It's fine, Christine, don't worry." Erik touches a stray curl on my neck and I shiver. "Is this the old broad?" He sets his backpack on the piano bench.

"There she is in her poor out-of-tune glory," I sigh with my hands on my hips.

"I'll fix her up."

I watch him unpack a few tools, a microphone, some cords and his laptop. Erik unbuttons and removes his shirt to reveal a plain white short sleeved t-shirt underneath. He usually wears long sleeves, even in the summer heat. I think he's self conscious of his thin limbs. His arms are long and pale. Sinewy muscles flex and stretch as he adjusts the tuning hammer. Pale blue veins unfurl like lightning on the inside of one arm.

He pauses and looks up at me from his slightly hunched position over the piano strings. "This will take a bit of time, if you have anything you need to work on…" My cheeks flush, I've been caught staring.

"Oh, right. Yeah." I grab my laptop and settle in the middle of the risers. I set a few standards for each class and lesson plan for the week while stealing glances at him.

I had hoped we could talk while he tuned, but I had forgotten how tedious the process was. Erik starts out with a microphone set up near the strings with cords feeding to his laptop. Apparently there is some program that can tell him if the key is too sharp or flat. But after an octave using the microphone and laptop, he sets all the technology aside and listens. He plays the keys at different intervals to compare the tones. It's fascinating to watch and so satisfying to hear my precious piano in tune.

After an hour or so, I sneak away to use the restroom. When I return down the half-lit hallway, a Chopin Nocturne echoes dreamily from my classroom. I can't believe how effortlessly beautiful Erik manages to make my piano sound. It's perfect. I linger in the doorway as he finishes. He's facing me but his eyes are closed; I love seeing him in this state. So relaxed yet emotive. In his element. The last decrescendo evaporates into silence and his eyes open, already fixed on me. "Perfect." I whisper.

I lock up my room and by the time we return to the apartment building, it's golden hour. I invite Erik in for a drink; I'm not ready for our time together to be over. I crave him like a yearning for a past life. I feel like I've known him for years.

He looks out the window, still just wearing his short sleeved tee. The golden light casts shadows among the contours of his arms and mask. I quickly pour some whiskey in lemonade and hand him a glass.

"Can I show you something?"

"Of course."

I open the window and Erik offers his hand as I climb out onto the fire escape. He smirks at me from inside before following my lead.

"Do you come out here often?" he asks, standing chest to chest with me on the landing.

"Sometimes. When it's too hot inside. To read or drink or listen." I climb up a few steps and sit down; he settles a couple steps below me. "I would come out here to listen to you play when you would have the windows open. At the risk of sounding silly, it was magical."

"You're not silly. But I do worry about your hearing if you enjoyed the music with all this street noise," Erik teases, looking down at the cars below.

I giggle and stretch out my legs next to him. "It just adds to the ambience," I say stuffily, swirling my glass.

He brushes the backs of his knuckles against the side of my bare thigh and electricity shoots through me. He takes a drink and glances at the sky, the light making his eyes practically glow from the inside out.

Once I catch my breath, I say, "Thank you again for fixing up my piano, Erik." He tilts his masked side toward me. "Of course, any time." Then he smiles to himself. "I'll never be the one someone calls to fix a tire, but I can always fix a piano."

I let out a staccato snort that surprises us both. Erik's teeth flash as he drops his head back in laughter. I reach out to his unmasked cheek and pull his jaw toward me. I hover my mouth over his lemonade lips, relishing this new angle, being above him for once. I kiss him deeply. Our laughter dissolves into sighs.

September

Erik

"Nadir, you can't be fucking serious."

"I'm perfectly serious, Erik."

I am furious. Fucking fuming. I can't believe Nadir would betray me like this. I arrived to our usual meeting at my favorite caf é, expecting to discuss new clients, but Leonard Hodges is sitting in my seat. Nadir, you bastard. He clearly chose a public place to ambush me so I won't make a scene and scare Lena, but this is the last straw—

"Erik. I promise you're going to want to hear the latest offer. Leonard reached out one last time and I arranged this so it would be on your turf."

I scoff.

"No entourage, no pressure. Just listen. Then I promise, no more Leonard offers."

"You owe me for this."

Nadir raises an eyebrow like I'm a petulant child, which infuriates me further. But I take a breath and stride over to my usual table.

I take a seat across from Leonard, my ears ringing. He smiles at me like he has no idea how much I despise him. His white hair is slicked back, horn rimmed glasses, trendy suit. Always trying to be relevant, pleasing someone else. Leonard slides a piece of paper across the table and Nadir explains how this offer is at an even higher pay rate, includes benefits, and upward mobility.

"What does that mean? There is only one pianist." I say flatly.

"Erik, I'm going to retire in five years, and I want you to take my place as Artistic Director."

I'm about to tell Leonard what place he can take when Nadir elbows me. Damn him.

"Leonard, this is a generous offer, incredibly generous, actually. But you do see our dilemma here, right? Erik isn't everyone's cup of tea."

They both laugh like there is some big inside joke I'm not a part of. I clench my jaw.

"How do you expect him to take the leadership mantle if the board can't or won't accept him? Will his artistic genius and innovation be accepted? Or disregarded? If Erik is to be the lead pianist and, one day, Artistic Director, he will need growth of artistic license. When Erik is in leadership, it will not be business as usual. Things will not be done the way they always have been. You and I both know that's not how he functions. Erik is not stagnant or fearful, but he will need support. Can you guarantee this, Leonard?"

I'm… shocked. I shouldn't be, Nadir knows me best. He knows my hopes and fears even when I have never put them into words in front of him. These were all the points of why I didn't want this position or career to begin with. But if those obstacles can be removed, or better yet, if my vision and style can be embraced? This is something different entirely. Think of the scope, the level my art could rise to. I'm already drowning in the possibility. Do I dare hope?

Leonard looks confident. "That's what I'm aiming for. This company needs new blood, new life, new direction if we are going to continue to not only be relevant in the performance community but also a pillar, a trailblazer, a beacon of the arts in the Midwest. We need Erik to do just that. In my 5 last years, I hope to ingratiate Erik to the board. To show him how things work, but also to show them how change works. Hell, maybe we'll ruffle enough feathers, there might be some board turnover, but I only see that as an opportunity to continue attracting new blood!"

"Erik, I first heard you play two years ago at some dinner theater. I don't even remember what the show was, but I do remember looking you up in the playbill and making calls to find out who your manager was. Since then, I've coerced Nadir in disclosing every performance, sharing every recording and a few compositions, so I could hear the range of your talent. Erik, I am floored every time. I don't mean to kiss your ass, I know flattery means nothing to you, especially from me. But I have seen talent. I've been in this position for 22 years and in this industry for 37. I've seen primadonnas and virtuosos, but I have never seen a gift like yours. Let me show the world. Or, at least, Kansas City."

I knock on Christine's door with my usual rhythm so she knows it's me. I'm not entirely sure who, if anyone, else knocks on her door but I like having routines that are ours. I hear papers rustle before she opens the door. Christine moves her reading glasses from her nose to her head, pushing her curls out of her face. She smiles softly up at me and I want to worship those lips.

"Baklava?" I hold up the bag of sweets I made Nadir buy me after the Leonard meeting.

"From Lena's? Yes please. White wine?" Christine takes my free hand and draws me inside.

"Yes please," I mimic, pulling her back toward me for a kiss once I cross the threshold.

"Grading?" I ask, eyeing the piles of papers on the coffee table.

"First big written test of the year. Staff reading and rhythm." Christine uncorks a bottle of Chardonnay. "They're doing… okay so far."

I tap my fingers as she pours me a glass.

"Something on your mind?" she asks.

I lean against the kitchen counter. "Have you ever experienced a situation where you needed to make a difficult, life-altering choice? When the correct answer wasn't clear?"

She hands me a glass. "Yes, I suppose I have."

I follow Christine to the couch. "What did you do? How did you choose?"

She takes a drink and turns her body toward mine. "Well, sometimes there is no 'right' or 'wrong' answer. The choice is just that—a choice. I had to look at it objectively without letting my fears color my decision. I had to choose what was best for me in the long-term, even if it wasn't necessarily comfortable or easy." She grazes her fingers against mine. "So, what's going on?"

"Leonard gave me another offer. A very good one. But I need to talk it through with someone who isn't Nadir."

"I'm all ears," she leans back on the couch. I start pacing the living room and tell her everything that has been running through my mind for the past hour.

"The positives: more consistent and increased income. Benefits. I can be more selective for what gigs and freelance projects I choose to do. Performing for hundreds, if not thousands of patrons regularly. Upward mobility—he's offering to train me for the role of Artistic Director in five years. To think of what I could do as Artistic Director is positively incomprehensible!"

Christine stands up at the last bit. "Erik, you kind of buried the lead here! Artistic Director? That's huge!"

"The negatives," I look her in the eye and will her not to get my hopes up. She purses her lips slightly and sits back down. "The upward battle of working with Leonard and the board. Making a long term career commitment when I don't know where my health will be in ten years." I start pacing. "Will the mask be a problem for the other musicians and staff? What if Leonard doesn't hold up his end of the bargain—"

Christine stands again, interrupting my madness and takes my hands. When I look into her eyes, I feel myself stop spiraling. I loosen my grip on her hands and she guides me back to the couch.

"Let's work backwards on that, shall we?" Her small fingers gently stroke the back of my hand. "Get that shit in writing. If Leonard doesn't hold up his end of the contract, you owe him nothing and can leave the decision of your replacement in the hands of the board. Leonard's offer isn't contingent on your health. He already knows you wear a mask, people can get used to it or get out, honestly. As for the board, boards are almost always stuffy and old. If Leonard is promising a leadership pipeline with full board support, maybe he has some new members in mind. Younger, edgier, new money types.

"My only question for you, is can you handle the five years of being the pianist with less influence? That's your only real barrier, Erik. Your ego. This is such an incredible opportunity and I wouldn't want you to let it slip away because of pride or fear of the unknown. You have such a remarkable mind and talent and I want to see what you do with the position and vision."

No one has ever spoken to me about myself in such a way that I actually believed what they said. I have such a strange combination of narcissism in my craft and vast insecurity in my own self worth. I know my work and talent is unparalleled and yet I haven't believed in myself enough to seek roles or validation from industry behemoths. And yet here is Christine telling me I am good enough, and I understand it for the first time. From her lips.

I take her small face in my hands—freckled nose, glistening mahogany eyes, soft cheekbones—and rest my forehead against hers. Carefully avoiding the mask.

"My Christine, you are an angel I don't deserve."

I brush my thumb against her rosy lip, still aghast that I get to touch her like this.

"You deserve it all, my Erik." She kisses me and I feel whole.

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