(Many thanks for all the reviews, they're much appreciated. Thank you to my guest reviewers for the kind words. To the reviewer who enjoyed the reference to Rouse's-sorry about the apostrophe, I'm a Yankee :D Hope you all enjoy the new chapter, and thanks again for reading. -Brig)

Beth gave her student an encouraging smile. "You played that well. Let's try it again. Do you remember what comes after the second measure?"

"A pause." The girl brightened when Beth nodded.

"Exactly right. Okay, here we go."

By the end of the lesson Jessie had the phrasing down correctly, and a bigger store of self-confidence as well. Beth sent her out to her mother with a sense of mingled accomplishment and relief; this was the last student of the day, as well as the week. She shut the door and returned to the piano. It was a bit more difficult to teach these days, but she still enjoyed the process.

"The kid's got no talent." Greg stood in the connecting doorway. Beth gave him a glance. She put her hands on the keys and began a quiet melody with a rolling bass line beneath the simple melody. It hurt to play, but she didn't mind. The ability to make music compensated for the discomfort.

"She enjoys the lessons."

"Once she hits the end of her learning curve she'll find out how bad she really is." He came into the living room, a hand on his right thigh. "False hope is worse than none at all."

"Not everyone who learns an instrument wants a career. If she plays well enough to enjoy it, that's all that matters." Beth finished the song. "She's the first person in her family to take up the piano. No matter how well or badly she plays, they'll think she's amazing."

"More fool them." He perched on the arm of the easy chair. "She's the last student."

"Yes." Greg had been in residence for almost a month now; he knew her lesson schedule and daily routine better than she did. "Let's get takeout tonight. Got a taste for anything in particular?"

"Chinese. Crandall's coming over for the game."

Beth rubbed the knuckles on her right hand. "Yeah, he'll be here a bit later. Menus are in the drawer by the fridge." She watched Greg head into the kitchen. Since he'd started using cannabis he slept better—she'd heard him at the piano in the early hours just twice in the last week, instead of almost every night-and his pain levels were down somewhat, if his reduced limp was anything to go by. She was glad to see it, but the happiness was accompanied by worry.

He's thinking of leaving. She couldn't shake the knowledge. Of course he'd never said he would stay; she knew he'd come here as a last resort, and she was glad he'd done so. She'd watched him regain some strength and maybe even a measure of peace, although she knew he held a profound grief for the loss of his friend. Still, he was well enough to go now if he wanted . . . and she hoped with all her heart he wouldn't.

Forty years later, and I still love him. It was utterly ridiculous; all that time meant both of them had changed in some ways that would be difficult to talk about, much less understand. And yet the feeling deep within was love, she knew it beyond doubt. She'd never tell him of course, unless she wanted to see him take off even sooner than he would otherwise. The pain of that knowledge caught at her.

"Mu shu pork with extra pancakes," Greg said from the doorway. "Chicken fried rice and two orders of dumplings." He stared at her. "Something's wrong."

"I'm a little achy today." It was close enough to the truth to be plausible. "Okay, I'll call it in."

She'd just paid the delivery guy his tip and put the order on the kitchen table when Greg spoke again. "You're not hurting any more tonight than usual." His voice was level, but Beth saw his hand tighten on the fridge door handle as he got himself a beer.

"I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you're worried about." She kept her tone light. "Wanna get me a beer too?"

"Bramble." He stood behind her now. Beth concentrated on setting out the containers. She stopped when she felt Greg's hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle. Whatever he was about to say was lost when Dylan banged on the front door.

"Hey Beth! I'm here!"

Greg muttered under his breath and moved back. Beth closed her eyes for a moment. "I mean it," she said quietly, "you can stay as long as you like," and headed into the living room where Dylan stood with arms outstretched and a wide grin.

They settled into dinner around the coffee table as usual, with jazz playing in the background and Dylan's chatter filling up the room. "Leona says hi. She's working in New York but she'll be down to visit in the fall." He took another dumpling and some chicken. "I got a pickup gig at Three Muses tomorrow if you want to check it out." He glanced at Greg. "You should go to a rehearsal sometime. They're always looking for decent piano players."

"Kinda hard to do when you're dead." Greg dumped pork on his plate.

"You think someone would recognize you or something?" Dylan took a large bite of dumpling. Chewing, he considered the problem. "Yeah, they might. Everyone has a phone with a camera now."

Beth stared down at her food, her appetite gone. "The longer you stay, the more chance that will happen." She hadn't meant to say it out loud, but now she realized it was true. Her heart sank at the knowledge. He'll leave soon, I know it.

"Hey!" When Beth looked up she found Greg glaring at her. "I can make my own decisions!"

"Well yeah." Dylan gave him a questioning glance. "No one said you have to leave, G-man." He polished off the second half of the dumpling and reached for his beer. "I'd kinda like you to stick around. It's great having you here."

Beth took a chance. She kept her gaze on Greg as she spoke. "What—what he said." It was as close as she could come to saying 'I love you' without spooking him completely.

Greg continued to stare at her. Slowly his expression softened. "Huh," he said at last, and picked up his beer. For some reason that was it, she couldn't take any more. She got up and fled to her bedroom, closed the door behind her, sat on the bed and wiped away the tears on her cheeks. But more followed, and she ended up curled on her side with her face buried in the pillow like some lovelorn teenager, to stifle the sound of her crying. When she felt a hand on her arm she pulled free, mortified.

"I'm fine. Go away."

"Jesus, you're still a prickly little brat!" Greg eased onto the bed next to her. She rolled over a bit and fumbled around for a tissue. He took one from the box, gave it to her and made a sound that might have been the ghost of a laugh. "You're also a mess."

"Thanks a lot." She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and sat up, aware her face was scarlet and swollen from crying as well as the embarrassment she felt. Greg took the tissue and tossed it in the general direction of the trash basket, put his hand under her chin, studied her for a moment. Beth saw amusement and something else in those vivid blue eyes, some emotion akin to tenderness. Slowly he leaned in and kissed her. She trembled under the unexpected touch of his lips.

"Still feels pretty much the same as the last time we did this," he said softly when the kiss ended. Beth nodded. After a moment's hesitation, she took his hand, felt his fingers clasp hers.

"I'm . . . I'm not a naïve young girl anymore. But I'm still me, and I still love you. It's a bit of a surprise to me too."

"Beth . . ." He sighed.

"It's okay, I know you don't feel the same way—"

"No, it isn't that." He fell silent a few moments. "I'm . . . I'm not good at this. I hurt people." He paused when a loud, ostentatious set of knocks sounded through the room.

"Are we gonna play or what?" Dylan wanted to know. Beth couldn't help but smile when Greg growled and moved back a bit. His bright gaze met hers; then he gave her another kiss, one that made her tingle right down to her toes, before he got to his feet and brought her with him. When they opened the door Dylan regarded them both, hands on hips. He said nothing, just rolled his eyes, shook his head and stomped off to the kitchen. Greg glanced at Beth and raised his brows, so that she couldn't hold back a watery giggle. Just for a moment they were back in time, scamming the people in her dorm, a conspiracy of two.

She didn't remember much of the evening after that—only laughter and music and several lost hands about which she didn't care at all, and at the end Dylan at the door, holding her in a gentle embrace before he left. "Damn, wild child. Still going for nimrods," he'd whispered, but his smile told her he was genuinely happy for her.

When she returned to the kitchen Greg stood in the doorway, beer in hand. He watched as she gathered up the remains of the takeout and put them away. When she was done he turned and limped into the living room. Beth followed him, to find he'd claimed the recliner. She chose her easy chair and turned on the table lamp next to her.

"If you want to talk, go ahead." She broke the silence reluctantly.

"I'm a private person. You don't ask, I don't tell."

She fought an urge to both laugh and give him a thump. "Greg—"

"Stop. I know what you want." He took a long swallow of beer and stared off into the distance for a while before he spoke again. "You're offering free room and board to an ex-con with charges against him if the cops find out he's still kicking. Aside from that I drove a car into my girlfriend's living room after she dumped me. And I let a patient die in that warehouse—before the fire, if that makes a difference."

Beth didn't answer him right away. What he'd told her was a complete shock, like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. "You—you let a patient die. And drove into your girlfriend's house."

"Just said so."

She considered his statement for a few moments. This didn't fit the Greg she knew. Forty years, she reminded herself. "Is she—was she hurt?"

"Whether she was or not is immaterial." He sounded hostile now, a sure sign he was ready to shut down on her. She wasn't about to let him off the hook though, not after this revelation.

"It's important to me." She folded her arms. "I need to know, Greg. Because if you—"

"No, I didn't hurt her. Not physically, anyway. Otherwise, I have to say yes." He finished his beer and set the bottle on the floor. "Satisfied?"

"What happened before that?"

Greg glared at her. "Don't find a way to make excuses for me."

"I'm not! I'm trying to understand," Beth snapped. "You cheated on an exam and lost a year of school for no real reason, but I don't think that's the case here."

He was silent so long she didn't think he planned to answer her. "Exchange."

She knew that was coming. He wouldn't tell her more without payment in kind; she was surprised he'd opened up as much as he had in the first place. "Okay. Ask," although she had no doubt about what he'd demand.

"The guy you lived with."

"I met him at a concert ten years ago. We had a mutual friend and he'd invited Chris along with him. We got to talking and found we had some things in common. He said he was a musician with a lawyer day-job gig." She paused, remembering. "Not a bad guitar player, not great either. He didn't put any effort into either his partnership or his playing. That should have tipped me off. But he was funny, charming, smart. Good looking. I couldn't figure out why he wanted to be with someone like me. For all four years we were together, I wondered every night. When we split up, he told me. He just wanted a housekeeper and a handy fuck. As long as he kept me sweet, he got both." She shook her head. "Kicking his sorry ass out the door was the most satisfying thing I've done since I told Worthing to fuck off right after graduation."

Greg almost smiled. "Good for you." He looked down at the floor. "All of what you said about your ex could apply to me."

Beth gave him an appraising stare, secretly amused at the way he squirmed under it. "Some, maybe. But at least you'd be honest about it." She leaned back in the chair. "Exchange."

"Already did."

"No you didn't. You gave me a taste to get me interested."

He snorted. "Huh. Still not boring." His amusement faded, replaced by a fleeting expression of profound sadness.

"So you went to prison," she prompted when he stayed silent. "How long?"

"Eight months. Should have been a year, but they got tired of my shit and kicked me out."

The casual remark appalled her. "A year . . ." How had he survived?

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm tougher than I look."

No you're not, Beth thought. Aloud she said "What was your girlfriend like?"

"That's another question—"

"Yeah, okay." She waved a hand at him. "Tell."

"It was Cuddy."

"Lisa?" Another surprise. "H-how-?"

"One interrogation at a time. Long story." Suddenly he sounded defeated, almost scared. Beth decided to take another chance. She reached out and took his hand in hers.

"I'm listening."

He looked down. With great gentleness he turned her hand palm up, traced the crooked fingers, the bumps and twists. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. "Okay."

'Girls Talk,' Elvis Costello