APRIL

It's not often that I sit before a piano in silence, but today I am.

I've already played my fair share this morning at Uncommon Ground; that's not the piano I'm talking about. The one I play at work is grandiose and onyx. The one I'm in front of now is stately, white, and comes with a small child.

Athena told me about her aunt on the way home, Jackson's sister. I learned that her name is Maggie and she has three kids - Athena's cousins - and though they're close in age, they don't often play together. It seems as though the opportunity presents itself frequently enough, but Athena doesn't take advantage of it. I asked her if she ever plays at recess, and she asked me what I meant by 'play.' The need for clarification left me stunned. What child doesn't know what the act of playing constitutes?

I learned that Maggie and Jackson don't always get along and they disagree a lot. She's heard them fighting about her and even talking about me. When I asked for details, she didn't know, so I didn't press. We just kept walking and I accepted what she felt like offering.

Now, we're home. After taking off her shoes and backpack and leaving them in a pile in the foyer, she gravitated towards the piano and I felt there was no choice but to join her. We've been sitting here, not saying anything, for almost thirty minutes now. She's not looking at me nor waiting for me to take action, but instead just being present alongside the hulking instrument. Maybe it makes her feel at ease. Maybe it makes her feel close to her mother. I don't know what it makes her feel, in all honesty, and maybe she doesn't know herself. Maybe, it just feels good to sit here. And that's a fine enough reason for me.

When she lifts one hand and rests it on the keys, little fingers fanning as far as they can go, I smile to myself. They only reach between C and G – and just barely, at that. She presses her thumb down, and the middlemost note of the piano rings out, reverberating through the strings and into our ears. She smiles at the sound she made and moves up a step to D with her pointer finger, ascending slowly. She lets the note fade then moves pointedly to E, then F, then finally, G with her pinky. While at first she went slowly, the second time she moves through much faster. And during the third time, I chime in with, "C, D, E, F, G…" at the pitch of the corresponding notes.

"What's that?" she asks, pinky still pressing on G as it wavers.

"The names of the notes," I say. "This one here is middle C. Then it goes up the alphabet. All the way to G."

She tries it again, moving all five fingers until the pinky has taken its turn. Then, she loops her thumb under her hand and presses on A, asking, "H?"

I chuckle. "No," I say. "A. I know, it's confusing."

She giggles a little and says, "That doesn't make sense."

That might be the first time I've heard her laugh. I savor the sound and try to suppress my smile - I don't want to make a big deal out of it in fear she'll retreat into her shell. I run my fingers along the keys and play a small tune, just something to fill the air, then look at her. "Have you played again since the other night?" I ask. "Did you show your dad?"

She places both hands on the keys now, moving her fingers in a way that might be to mimic the songs in her head. "No," she says. "And my grandma, grandpa and Aunt Maggie wanted to hear, too. But I didn't do it for them, either."

"Why not?" I ask carefully.

"Because they don't care," she explains.

"They asked," I point out. "That's caring. And you play for me."

She turns and meets my eyes with poignance. "You care," she states. "I only want to play when you're here."

"I promise, Athena," I say. "Your dad cares."

She shrugs and says, "No, he doesn't. He cares about work."

"He cares about you, too," I say. "He just doesn't know how to show it."

"That's dumb."

I snort and say, "It is. Would it be alright with you if I helped him a little?"

She shakes her head and watches her own fluttering fingers. "He won't listen," she says. "He never does. Even when he asks questions, he doesn't listen when you answer. Then he gets mad. It makes no sense."

"Boys don't make sense," I say. "And adults in general don't make much sense, either. Some of them just don't get kids. But I think your dad really wants to get you."

"I only want to play for you," she says insistently.

I sigh and remind myself that Rome wasn't built in a day. I'm determined to make headway with Athena and Jackson, though. How much she needs him has become so blatantly clear that I can barely think about anything else. Well, other than her ability to play the piano like a genius. That's on my mind, too. "Okay," I concede. "We don't have to make any decisions right now. We'll see how you feel in a little while."

Her body seems to release a bit of its tension as she darts her eyes to mine. "Will you play another song by your favorite guy?" she asks. "Debussy?"

"Of course," I say, sitting up straight. "Have you ever heard 'Clair de Lune'?"

She shakes her head. "There's a girl in my class named Claire. She made me get sent to the principal's office for hitting."

I don't suppress my smile this time, I can't help it. Hers is an attitude that, while difficult to manage, I can't help but admire. She has more fire than she knows what to do with, but as she gets older, I can only imagine how she'll blossom. She's already a force to be reckoned with at age 7. "Don't think of that Claire when you hear this," I say, straightening my shoulders. "Close your eyes and just listen. Let whatever comes into your head stay there."

I play the song, fingers flowing easily because I've been playing it for years. Not only is it a popular request at Uncommon Ground, but it's a personal favorite of mine. I love the way the notes run together to make me think of a moonlit night. I don't know why that image always gets conjured as I play, but it does. I can't help but wonder what it might make Athena picture.

When I'm done, she's looking at me. More like studying me, actually. "What is it?" I ask, feeling self-conscious as the absence of music makes the room much quieter.

She turns to the keys quickly, like she's embarrassed to have been caught looking. "You were smiling," she says. "When you played."

"Oh, yeah," I say, laughing softly. "I don't really have control over what goes on with my crazy face."

"My mommy smiled when she played, too," she says, the words cutting through my sentence like a breaker wave. They've been laid out and bare; waiting for me to catch and cradle them. "In the video."

I nod slowly, blinking while watching the micro-expressions on Athena's face change. I'm not sure yet how to read her emotions, but I hope one day I'll be good at it. "Music has the power to make you feel things deeply," I say. "It has the power to do a lot - evoke a whole lot of emotions. For me, it's happiness. Playing music makes me happy."

"I hope it can make me feel happy, too," Athena murmurs quietly, and I close my eyes to let the weight of her words sink in after she says them.

"I think it will," I say after a moment has passed. "Do you wanna try what I just played?"

"Yeah."

I don't give any direction or tell her what to do, instead I take my hands off the keys and wait for her to work her magic. Because that's what it feels like - magic. When I was young and just beginning lessons, I could barely plunk out the five-note scale she played. It took me years to solidify control of my left hand and to this day, it's still not as strong as my right. When I was 7, where she is now, I played the rudimentary version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow for a whole year before my family got sick of it and begged my teacher to show me something else. That was the year Mom died, though, and I dove into music after that. I started the year off playing a tune from Wizard of Oz and ended it playing Beethoven. I was nowhere near Athena's level, but that's where my talent began to grow - from the soil of my loss. Maybe hers will blossom in the same way.

I can't take my eyes off her hands while she plays. They move so fluidly, instantly, before I can ask if she wants to hear the song a second time. Of course, it's not perfect. But it's clearly Clair de Lune. Though she misses a few notes here and there, they're meaningless compared to the whole of the song that comes out like she's been practicing for years. She doesn't watch her hands; she closes her eyes and they stay closed as she leans forward, immersed, passion visible on her face. She feels what she's playing, it's coursing through her veins and coming from her fingertips like a new wave of emotion. She's becoming the song, letting it become her, and nothing else matters while that happens.

After she plays the last note, she lets out a long breath and opens her eyes, staring at her hands for a long moment. The other night, I was too excited to let her finish Ballade. This is the first song she's ever completed - played from beginning to end - and I wonder how it must feel. I wonder where her mind goes while she's playing or if it goes anywhere at all.

"Was I good?" she asks, and suddenly she's the child she's always been. For a moment, as she played, I forgot her age because of how she made the music sound - so mature, round, and deep. But here she sits, 7 years old, waiting for my approval.

"More than good," I say. "Fantastic." She smiles, beams, but can't look at me for long. Instead, she taps on the keys while itching to try again, but I'm not quite done talking. "What does it feel like, when you play?" I ask. "How do you remember all the notes?"

She frowns a little, thinking. "They just come," she says. "I hear it and I know." She looks up at me. "Is that what it's like for you?"

I smile. "No," I say. "I have to read music first, then memorize it."

"Read music?" she asks. "What does it say?"

I giggle softly. "Not much," I say. "You read the notes, and every note has a name. They're written on what's called a staff and they tell you what to play and how to play it. That's how I learn a song. I can't just listen and know like you." I look at her poignantly. "Not many people can do that. It's special, what you do. You're very special."

"I don't know how I do it, though," she says. "I really don't know how."

"I know," I say. "And you know what? You don't have to. That's the cool part."

She nods, pressing the keys slowly so no sound comes. "It made me feel happy," she says. "Like you. But also, it made me think about sad stuff. So, not just happy."

"What sad stuff?" I prompt. "If you don't mind me asking."

She continues to watch her hands, quiet for a while. I wonder if I went too far and pushed the envelope, though I hadn't been trying to do so. "My mommy's video," she says. "I thought about her playing."

"And that made you sad?" She nods. "It doesn't have to, though, you know," I say.

She looks over, lifting her eyes from her hands. "How?" she asks, studying my face like it holds the answer.

I keep her eyes and wonder how far to go. Maybe this isn't my place, but at the moment it feels like it is. Saying anything less or nothing at all would be a huge disservice to Athena. "You know, I don't have a mom, either," I begin.

She blinks in surprise, like she never thought it was possible for someone to share her predicament. "You don't?" she asks.

"No," I say, keeping steady eye contact. "She died when I was really young. I had her for a little while, but not long. It was just me and my dad for almost my whole life, just like it is for you. But still, I talk to her all the time."

"How?" she asks, eyebrows crinkled. "She can't hear you."

"Oh, I think she can," I say. "She's an angel. And angels can do anything they want."

"She's an angel?" Athena asks.

"Of course she is," I answer, knowing what I need to tell her. "And your mom is, too. Anytime you wanna talk to her, just talk. Out loud or in your head. She's always listening."

With her lips parted, I can tell she wants to be amazed, but something stops her. "My mommy died because I was bad," she murmurs, unable to look at me any longer. "So, that's why I don't think she wants to listen. She's mad at me still."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "She didn't die because you were bad, Athena. That's just… no, I promise. You're wonderful." She looks up again, latching onto the word. "And even though your mom is gone, she's somewhere really beautiful. Just like mine is."

"In heaven?" she asks, her voice a tiny peep.

"Yeah," I say, nodding.

She pushes her lips out and wipes at her cheeks, trying to hide the fact that she's crying. "Daddy doesn't think so," she whispers.

I falter a bit. I wasn't sure about their religious beliefs, but that statement makes them very clear. It makes me a little angry, though, that he wouldn't tell her such a thing for comfort. Her mother is gone and always has been. What's wrong with putting a beautiful picture in a child's head as to where she is instead? "Maybe he doesn't," I say. "But our beliefs don't always match everybody's around us. Even our parents'. And if you think your mom is in heaven, then that's fine if he doesn't. You know? I think your daddy is still sad over what happened, and you're still really sad. People process things a lot of different ways. If Heaven makes you feel good, then you hold onto it."

"Hold it," she says, closing her fingers into loose fists.

Hold it. I can still hear my mother's voice saying those exact words to me at six years old. We were in our backyard and she was in a canvas chair, bandana wrapped around her head. I had drawn on it with Sharpie. In typical Kelley Kepner fashion, she had let me. She had encouraged it.

Hold it, she had said as I stood in front of her with a big kite. The biggest she'd ever bought me, and the wind was picking up. At any second, I felt like my feet would lift from the ground. I wanted them to, so badly. But at the same time, I couldn't think of anything worse.

The wind whooshed around us, making the grass swirl and the trees bend. I looked back at her, expecting to see her smiling, but her face had morphed into something of concern and concentration. Because of that, my heart changed, too. My eyes asked her what to do and she wrapped me in words and kept me safe.

Let it go. My hands shook. I couldn't keep it much longer. I wasn't sure if I wanted to. But if she wanted me to, I would. She bought me the kite. It was special.

She insisted, though. She knew I was scared. Let it go, April.

I set the kite free and watched until it disappeared.

…

When Jackson gets home, Athena and I are still at the piano. She's been able to play every song that I've demonstrated - and after a few rounds of each, she gets them nearly perfect. I've never seen her smile as much as she has tonight, and the grinning doesn't stop when he walks in the door.

"Hello, ladies," he says.

"Daddy!" Athena exclaims, swiveling at the waist to watch him come in.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, sounding surprised. He meets my eyes, raises his eyebrows, and I nod. "What's going on?"

"I can play any song April shows me," she says. "Do you want to hear Courante?"

"Courante," he says, standing beside her at the bench. "What a word."

"It's a style of music, daddy," she says. "It was written by Jean-Philippe Rameau and April showed it to me. Want me to play it?"

"I'd love that," he says.

Sitting up straight and positioning her arms in the way I showed her, Athena begins to play. I began to teach her the importance of dynamics and tempo, and it's clear she's taken the pointers to heart. She plays the song with feeling, like she's the one who wrote it. It feels that personal.

I tilt my head up to Jackson as she plays and he doesn't look back, because all he can do is watch her. His eyes are huge, lips pressed tight together, face a bit pink. I have no idea what's going through his head, but I'm dying to know. I have no idea how I would react if Athena were my child; I would be overwhelmed with the potential. I hope he realizes how special this is and how rare. It would be a shame to see a talent like hers brushed to the side.

When she finishes, she lifts her hands and smiles, glowing with pride in the direction of her father. She hugs herself and rocks back and forth as he begins to clap, slowly at first and then faster. "I did it!" she cheers, smiling so hard that her eyes squint.

"Yes, you did," he says, coming around to scoop her up from the bench. He cradles her body and spins her around, and I watch with admiration. I'm not sure if I've ever seen the two be affectionate with one another, and it's beautiful. "You're spectacular, baby. Unbelievable." He kisses her face and she giggles, kicking her legs with happiness. When she calms down, he looks at her and says, "You know what?"

"What?"

"While you were playing, you looked just like her."

I hear her take a small inhale before saying, "My mom?"

"Yes," he says. "You reminded me so much of her."

I grin softly as I watch Athena soak up his praise. She throws her arms around his neck and stays there while he rubs her back, his eyes on me. The expression in them thanks me while his mouth says nothing - but that's okay. I know the feeling. This moment is too loaded to be encompassed by something verbal.

"Okay, daddy, put me down now," she says after a few moments have gone by. "I wanna keep playing."

"Alright, alright," Jackson says, then nods towards the kitchen with his eyes on me. "You wanna come help me with dinner?" He pauses. "I mean, you don't have to. I was just hoping we could chat about what you guys have been up to today."

"Sure," I say, then get up from the bench after giving Athena a small pat on the shoulder.

He preheats the oven and I open the fridge, but I only stand there a second before he comes over, too. "Don't worry about it," he says. "You sit. I've got this."

"It's part of my job description," I say, smirking over my shoulder.

"I'm giving you the night off," he says, pressing a hand to the small of my back to guide me away from the fridge. I try not to react to the contact, but I flinch anyway. Not for a bad reason - actually, for a very good one. The way his hand feels there, such an intimate spot, makes a shudder run through me. I hope he didn't notice. "Seriously. Sit."

"Alright," I say, getting comfortable at the bar across from the sink.

"She was smiling," he says, looking inside the fridge. "I haven't seen her smile like that in a really long time."

I smile myself, thinking while listening to the music coming from the front room. "It's so cool, what she can do," I say. "She's so proud of herself. And she should be!"

He nods, then turns around with few raw chicken breasts wrapped in butcher paper. "You're right," he says. "And hey. I've been thinking about what you said the other night.

"About that," I begin. "It was-"

"Completely on point," he finishes. "You're right. I do need to put Athena first more often. She's not a baby anymore. I can't just hold her on my hip while I go about my business and assume that's enough. She's a big kid now. She needs more attention, and I realize that. Believe me, you're not the first person to tell me."

"She loves you," I say, glad that he's not angry with me for what I said. After I left that night, I was afraid I was going to wake up to being fired over text. "She wants to be close to you."

"I used to know her better," he says, but then contemplates his words. "Well, I'm not sure. Maybe before, she was just easier to know. Now that she's getting older, she has all these complex thoughts. I don't always know what to do with them."

"Listen," I offer. "That's all. Listen and let her know that you hear her."

He chuckles a bit, putting three chicken breasts onto a pan and sliding them into the oven after seasoning them. "You know a lot about kids," he says.

I shake my head. "No, not really," I say. "But I was raised by a single dad, too, so I know how it goes. I know that it feels like you can't relate sometimes, and that probably won't change. But all she needs to know is that you're trying."

"I appreciate that," he says earnestly, shutting the oven door. "I'm sure your dad is great. Probably way better at this whole fatherhood thing than I am."

"Not better," she says. "Different, but… better? I don't think it's so easy to compare parents like that."

"You're kind to say so," he replies, warmth in his eyes. "What does your dad do?"

"He owns a pharmacy in Michigan," I say. "Where I'm from. Small town."

"Ah," Jackson says. "So, what does he think of his little girl living in the big city, then?"

I laugh. "He hates it," I say. "He doesn't come to visit if he can help it. I always go home to him."

"Are you an only child?"

I nod. "They wanted to have more," I say. "But my mom died when I was 7, so they never got the chance."

His face falls; he obviously hadn't been expecting that. "Oh," he says. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah," I say. "It's okay. You know what they say. Fuck cancer." He's quiet for a moment and I wonder if I shouldn't have brought it up. It's a tricky subject - I'm never sure how people will react. "I didn't mean to make you think about… you know," I begin.

"Oh, no," he says. "I mean, I was thinking about her. But not in a bad way. Just kind of… I don't know. Thinking about how you and Thena are similar." He meets my eyes and smiles. "She's lucky to have you. We are, I mean. Our family."

I grin, pressing my lips together, and feel my cheeks redden. "Thanks," I say. "I like being here, too."

Dinner takes quite a long time to cook, and before it's finished the piano music in the other room stops. I only notice the silence in the back of my mind, and I don't acknowledge it, but I can't help but wonder what Athena is up to out there.

Once dinner is on the table, I stand up and tell Jackson I'm going to get his daughter. I realize, just then, that it was assumed I would eat here tonight with them. He hadn't asked nor had I thought to leave, and I wonder if that's a good or dangerous thing. "Athena," I call, walking through the dining room to get to the front. "Dinner's ready." I get no response, which makes me frown with curiosity. "Athena?" I get closer to the piano after seeing her legs still hanging over the bench and when I get near enough, I see she's doubled over with her head resting on her forearms, fast asleep. I smile and stay a moment to soak up the image, then go back into the kitchen.

"Where is she?" Jackson asks, setting out glasses of water.

"Asleep at the keys," I say. "A true virtuoso."

"Oh," he says, following me out there. "She's whooped. I'll put her in bed. I'll suffer the consequences if I wake her back up."

"Do you want me to go?" I ask, edging towards the door. "Since she's…"

"Oh," he whispers, turning around with Athena cradled in his arms. "If you still want to stay, I'd like that."

"It's better than eating alone," I agree, smiling. "See you in a sec."

I sit at the table and wait, and when Jackson comes down, he looks happy and peaceful. There aren't any worry lines on his forehead and the corners of his mouth are turned up instead of down. "Out like a light," he says, eyeing the water glasses. "You know, since she's asleep… would you rather we have wine?"

"Sure," I say. "I like wine."

"Cool," he says, then gets up to pour it.

He sets a goblet in front of me and I take a smaller sip than I'd like, watching him over the lip of the glass. I know I shouldn't let myself think it, but this almost feels like a date. Almost. If I let my mind go there, it would. "Wow," I say. "This is really good."

"Montoya Cabernet," he says, taking a sip as well. "One of my favorites. Can't go wrong."

"Sometimes, I'm picky with red," I say. "I was afraid I wasn't gonna like it."

"As long as you didn't spit it at me," he says, chuckling. "There's always more."

I look down at the plate after sizing up the wine and see a beautiful roasted chicken breast with seasoning, brown rice and fresh green beans - the sight alone makes my stomach growl. I cut up my chicken and take a bite, letting my eyes roll back as I do. It's not that I'm a bad cook, because I'm not, but Steph is picky so I don't get to stretch the muscle often. I haven't tasted chicken like this in a long time, maybe since living at home with my dad. "So good," I say, still chewing. "So, so good."

"I'm glad you think so," he says, glowing. Then, suddenly, he reaches across and thumbs something off of my cheek and wipes it on a napkin. "Little bit of parsley," he says.

"Oh," I say, blushing. "I was obviously saving that."

He laughs, the happiness finding its way to his light eyes. It strikes me then that Athena must have inherited her chestnut eyes from her mother. "Of course you were," he says.

We finish dinner - both of us downing two glasses of wine. By the time our plates are clear, though, I'm holding the bottle and pouring us each a fresh glass. "Is this alright?" I ask.

"Might as well finish it," he says, and I start to pick up my plate and bring it to the sink before he stops me. "No need," he says. "I'll do that later. Do you want to go sit by the piano?"

"You figured out the way to my heart," I say, lips a bit looser as I pick up my glass.

He sits down first and I follow his lead, sitting a cushion away on the couch with one knee bent, an elbow resting on the back. I glance at the piano while taking a sip and hear him say, "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

I nod. "It so is. Different than the one I usually play, but I actually like it better."

"Oh, you have a piano at your place, too?" he asks.

I shake my head and take a drink. "No, no," I say. "I couldn't get something like that up the stairs, are you crazy?" I laugh. "I play for a restaurant. Lounge music, that kind of thing. I pick the songs, people leave me alone, I work my shifts before I come to pick up Athena. I like it. I have a lot of fun." I wiggle my fingers around. "It keeps these guys warm."

"When you're not teaching my daughter how to be a prodigy," he says.

"Oh, stop," I say, leaning in. "That's not something you can teach. Even if you could… I don't have the ability. You think too highly of me."

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe you deserve it."

I take another sip and lock eyes with him as I do, smiling through the liquid. My lips are probably stained red at this point, but I can't find it within myself to care. "I sing, too," I say. "Remember, I told you?"

"I remember."

"At The Whistler."

"On Milwaukee."

"Yeah, that's the one," I say. "The other night I sang Vincent by Don McLean. Do you know that song?"

Suddenly, his eyes light up and he smiles wider than before. "That's my favorite song," he says. "I named Athena after the verse 'swirling clouds in violet haze.' Athena Violet."

"Oh yeah, you did," I say, nodding.

He squints and asks, "How would you know that?"

I think hard for a second and wonder the same thing. I really can't remember. After a considerable amount of silence, I answer, "I honestly have no idea." We both crack up after that and my glass tips, subsequently dribbling red wine down the front of my light pink shirt. "Oh, shit," I say. "This is Steph's!"

"Hold on," he says, hurrying to the kitchen. He comes back with a Tide pen only to realize that the stain is across my chest, and his plan won't work. "It won't lift the stain unless we do it quick," he says. "You know what? I have something you can wear." He hurries upstairs and returns in a flash, handing me a t-shirt that's worn and gray, with the word DEPAUL written across the chest in block script. I turn around quickly and put it on, handing the pink shirt over as soon as I'm clothed. My mind is buzzing and clouded as I watch him blot the stain with the pen, a look of intense concentration on his face. Once it's applied, he looks to me and breathlessly smiles. "Hope it'll work," he says.

"Thanks," I say. "Steph isn't exactly aware I was wearing that. So, you just saved my ass."

"No problem," he says. I look down at the shirt I'm wearing and notice that it's soft and fits me well - it's not a man's shirt. He must sense my realization because before I can open my mouth, he pipes up. "Yeah. That was hers. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd want to wear something of mine."

My face goes cold as the color drains from it. "Oh, no," I say. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't…"

"I wouldn't have offered if it weren't okay," he insists. "She graduated from there. There's a ton of old DePaul clothes upstairs that haven't been touched since she died. It's okay. I've actually been meaning to donate them, but… I haven't had the time." He sighs. "Work."

"Work," I repeat, resting an elbow on my thigh. "Work, work, work. Is that all you know how to do?"

He glances from my eyes to my lips, then to my chest if I'm not mistaken. I'm not sure what he thinks he'll be able to see under a high-necked t-shirt with a cotton bra underneath, but I'm sure his eyes roved there. "No," he says. "No. At least, I don't think so." He shakes his head.

"What do you do, anyway?" I ask.

"I'm VP at MERGE downtown," he says, and I pretend to know what that is. "I only got the position two years ago or so. I like to use the excuse that I'm still getting used to the workload."

"I think it's more along the lines of that you're addicted to it," I say.

"Maybe," he says, then nods to himself. "Probably." He moves his lips to one side. "It wasn't always like this. You might not believe me, but it wasn't. Myla… she would hate it. She would really hate it."

"Well, I can see why," I say, then change the subject. "Did she ever get to meet Athena?"

"Once," he says, and I can tell that he's closing off. "She held her once, then they ripped her away and gave her to a nurse, pushed me out of the room while it happened." His lips tighten for a moment, then he shakes off the feeling and returns to the light and fizzy state he'd been in seconds prior. "Would you mind if we didn't…?"

"Of course," I say. "I'm sorry I asked. I… yeah. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem," he says, eyes darting to my lips again.

"You sure seem to like talking about your work, though," I say.

He shrugs, writing it off. "It's not that I enjoy it," he says. "It comes easily. Once you get me going, I could go on about it all night."

"All night?" I ask suggestively, and by the spark in his eye I can tell he knows exactly what I mean.

"Until you tell me to stop," he murmurs.

I inhale sharply and lean in, smelling the intoxicating scent of red wine between us. He leans in, too, eyes burning, before taking my neck and pulling my face closer. I don't ask if this is okay and I don't wait for him to, either. Instead, I copy his hand placement and plant mine on either side of his neck before pressing my lips to his in a long, searing, heart-pumping kiss.

It lasts for a while, that contact. And when it breaks, I don't want there to be a moment where we stare at each other and gauge whether or not to go back for more. Instead, I open my mouth and tilt my head, touching his tongue with mine while feeling his hand solidify on the curve of my waist. I grab his head and squeeze my eyes shut, breathing his air as I kiss him hard, with everything I have. I hadn't realized how much sexual tension had been building between us; all it took was two glasses of wine and not a single clear thought can be found inside my head.

He presses a thumb to the middle of my neck and I sigh against his lips, tipping my chin up as he kisses it and moves to my throat. He swipes hair out of the way while I grip his chest for some sort of support. "God," I breathe, nails digging in over the fabric. He moves lower, pulling down the neckline of the t-shirt so he can kiss my collarbones, then gets me on my back as a gust of air escapes both of us.

"You good?" he asks, one hand on my bare side where the shirt has ridden up.

"Yeah," I say, looping my arms around his neck. "Are you?"

"I'm great," he says. Just before he moves to kiss my jaw, I push him up by the shoulders and take the shirt off entirely. Now, I'm lying under him in a bra and jeans, nothing else, and his body feels so good resting on top of mine. "You smell amazing," he says, threading his fingers through my hair.

"It's just hair product," I say, letting my eyes flutter closed.

"It can't be," he says, before kissing me again. "It has to be more."

"No…" I say, dragging my nails down his back. "That's all."

"I haven't been with enough women, apparently," he says. "To know that all of you smell so good."

"You haven't?" I ask, pulling his shirt up a bit to run my fingertips along the small of his back. The skin is warm and soft, and I don't plan on stopping.

He shakes his head. "No one since…"

"Shit," I say. "7 years?" He nods and I'm shocked. It's not that 7 years is a long time without sex - I've gone my whole life. Jackson, though, he's attractive and older; it would seem he's had his fair share of women. But with Athena in the house, I guess it's not that simple. "You're a virgin born again," I giggle.

"Shut up," he says, laughing as he kisses the corner of my jaw. "God, shut up."

"You don't really want that," I say, smiling.

"No, you're right," he says "I like hearing you talk. But right now…" He kisses my lips, strong and sure. "I'd like you to shut up."

I wrap my legs around him and let him work his magic - the man knows what he's doing with his lips, teeth and tongue. I'm absolutely caught up in this, in him, what we're doing, but I'm not thinking clearly. And I want to be thinking clearly for something like this.

"Jackson," I say, speaking against his mouth as I force myself to stop. "Jackson, I have to go."

He pulls away, lips swollen as he looks at me with confusion. "You…"

"Have to go," I finish, sitting up and covering my chest with one arm. Instead of going for Myla's old shirt, though, I go for mine that's still drying.

"Did I do something…?" he asks, sitting there stunned and mussed.

"No," I say. "I like you. But I'm drunk. And I don't wanna make any decisions that are…" I shrug. "I just wanna be smart."

"Right," he says, standing up while trying to compose himself. "Right."

He walks me to the foyer and watches as I put on my shoes. Blood still pumps through my veins at a fast, hot rate, but I force myself to ignore it. "Thanks for dinner," I say, rocking onto my heels while leaning against the door.

He stands stiffly, like he isn't sure what to do. So, I take the lead and pull him in by a belt loop, allowing him to press me against the door frame so we can kiss - slow, steady and sure. "Thank you," he says, blinking hard once we pull away. "I…" He laughs at himself for stammering. "Shit. I… I will see you."

"Yes, you will," I say, running a hand down his chest before pulling him in one more time. I kiss him soundly on the mouth and frame his face, loving the way he looks at me. "You definitely will."

…

At The Whistler the following night, Steph can tell something is up. It's not common that we keep things from each other, but I can't see myself telling her about what happened with Jackson. I already know she'll judge me, have some sort of advice that I don't want to hear. She doesn't live inside my heart or my head - she doesn't know how I'm feeling, and she doesn't get to tell me what to think. So, for now, I decide to keep it to myself.

My mind was on Jackson all day as I waited to come sing. I can't stop thinking about him. It's a little obsessive, actually. But he's so attractive – in every aspect - that I can't believe last night actually occurred. It feels like a dream.

"Hi everybody," I say once the lights are up. Right now, I'm happier than I've been in a while. It seems that everything in my life is falling into place. "I'm April Skye. I'm singing Honey tonight, originally by Kehlani. I hope you enjoy." I smile and close my eyes, hands wrapped around the mic as I shift my weight from foot to foot. I listen to the guitar intro played by our friend, Shane, and tap my toe to the beat. "I like my girls just like I like my honey… sweet, a little selfish… I like my women like I like my money… green, a little jealous… 'cause I'm a beautiful wreck, a colorful mess, but I'm funny… oh, I'm a heartbreak vet with a stone-cold neck yeah, I'm charming…"

The song is slow and sweet, just like honey. I sung it on purpose because the vibe it puts across is exactly how I'm feeling, like drowning in sweet wax. I hope it stays like this forever. I've never had a crush this big.

When I get off the stage, Steph goes on. I stand and watch her from behind the tables instead of backstage this time, smiling as she introduces herself. Before she can start her first song, though, I feel a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist from behind and I gasp, totally caught off guard before I realize who it is. "I found you, April Skye," a deep, familiar voice says.

I smile so hard that it hurts as I turn around in his arms. "Jackson," I say, still surprised at how my breath leaves me when I look at his face. "What are you doing?"

He smiles, too, leaning down to press his nose to mine. He kisses me softly and says, "You like your girls like honey, do you?"

My cheeks redden as I flatten my hands on his chest, back bending as he holds me. "I like my boys that way, too," I say, scratching slightly with my nails.

"Good to know," he says, kissing me again.

"What are you doing here," I whisper.

"I wanted to see the other side of you," he says, swaying with the song Steph is singing. I couldn't say what it was if someone paid me, it's so far in the back of my mind. "The other part of your life."

"That's sweet," I say, tilting my head to see that his eyes are shining. "But you can't stay. I don't want…" I glance over my shoulder and see a bunch of my friends, luckily all focused on Steph instead of what's transpiring here. "It's… just not yet."

"I get it," he says. "I just wanted to see you. And I did."

"You did," I say, winding my arms around his neck to pull myself higher and kiss him. "And now you have to go."

"I'm going," he says, lingering as he pulls away, dragging his fingers off of my waist slowly. "I am."

"You are," I say, feeling cold as soon as his arms leave. I reach for them again and grab his wrists, pulling him back to kiss him one more time, the last time. "Okay," I say, giggling. "Now, you are."