Page 93 of The Muse
June hums, positioning the cello between her legs. She slides the bow along the strings several times. I don’t know if it’s a song or a warm-up, but as she continues, the melody sounds a little familiar. Her left hand shakes while pressing the strings. She’s so graceful.
I lower to the floor next to the cello, gazing up at her past the long lines of the strings. She grins.
Sometimes she closes her eyes, and I want to crawl inside of her and feel everything she’s feeling, hear the music the way she hears it. I don’t have big dreams, but if I did, I’d want to live life through June’s eyes.
When the song ends, she rests her bow hand beside her.
“What was that song?” I ask, interlacing my fingers behind my head.
“‘Moon River.’”
“Why does it make you think of us?”
“The lyrics make me think of adventure, yearning, love, and dreams. It’s what I see and how I feel when I’m with you. Possibilities. The unknown.” She shrugs. “Following your heart, no matter the outcome. Dream maker. Heart breaker.”
I roll onto my side, propping my head up on my arm while reaching for her bare foot. She pulls it away like it tickles, but I reach for it again, rubbing my thumb along the arch. I had one good foster home growing up. The wife was pregnant, and I went to another foster home after her baby was stillborn. But while she was pregnant, her husband would sit on the sofa and rub her feet, focusing on the arch. She’d close her eyes and softly moan.
“Do you think I’m a dream maker or a heart breaker?” I ask.
June relaxes the more I rub her foot. “Maybe a bit of both.”
She smirks and starts playing another song.
After she’s thoroughly convinced me the cello is the best instrument, she returns it to its case. “You’ve seen my passion. What is yours?” she asks.
I sit up, leaning my back against the loveseat. “You.”
“Good answer.” She slides off the chair and crawls toward me.
I stretch out my legs, and she straddles my lap.
“But before you met me, did you have a passion for something? Goals? Dreams?”
“I like cars. Working on them. Rebuilding them. Really, I like anything that requires the use of tools. When I’m not busy thinking about you, I watch endless streams of how-to videos.” I shrug. “So I guess my dream would be to own my own garage to restore old cars.”
June’s grin has never been so big. “I love that.”
“Me thinking about you?”
“Not that.” She giggles. “I love your love for putting things back together. Especially old cars.”
“You do? I didn’t think you were into cars, since the only thing you remember about your first car is its color.”
“Flynn”—she pecks at my lips and grins—“I love hearing about your passion and seeing the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about it. Passion is sexy.”
“It’s pretty dim in this room. You’re not seeing any sparkling.”
Her cheek brushes mine, and she whispers at my ear, “I seeyou.”
I close my eyes as her hair tickles my face, and I inhale her scent. “I have something I need to tell you.”
“What?” She kisses the shell of my ear.
I lace my hands behind her back. If she goes to run, I can hold her. Beg her to stay and listen to me.
She picks something off my shoulder. “Cat hair,” she murmurs. “Where is Loki? Not to interrupt you. But he wasn’t in the bedroom, was he? Should we be worried?”
I can’t think about the cat when I’m on the verge of telling her something that could end everything. But maybe I should find him, then she can hold him while I tell her. Who can get upset while holding a purring kitten?
