Page 109 of Find My Way Down to You

“Do you ever finish any of them?” I ask.

“Of course. Time moves slower here,” he reminds me. “One page at a time, August.”

My eyes stray to an oddly shaped guitar on a tufted ottoman. It’s long necked, the round wooden body polished. I almost reach for it.

“My mother loves music,” Cary says.

“What is it?”

“A bouzouki.”

“Do you play?”

Instantly, my skin prickles. I want to launch myself into the sea. It’s a ridiculous question. Why else would it be here?

His mouth stretches. “Sit.”

I look around. The options are sparse. I could knock some books off his chair. Or flop onto the floor. Instead, I gently lower myself onto the very edge of his bed.

He takes the ottoman. Holds the bouzouki like a practiced performer. He plucks a string. The note is like honey. Rich and thick and soothing.

I lean in to watch.

Eyes closed, Cary plays. His fingers move smoothly along the fretboard. I don’t recognize the song, but it’s beautiful. Haunting. The melody buries itself in my bones.

It’s not until Cary lifts his head, threads of hair in his eyes, that I realize my hands have been moving along with his.

My body tightens as I stare at my blue-and-yellow bracelet. A memory springs free: London explaining why he gave it to me. To control my anxious nerves.

So he wouldn’t be embarrassed by my silly composing gestures.

Shame rises feverishly into my cheeks. But Cary doesn’t look at me the way London would. He mouths,Keep going, giving me permission.

And I obey.

When he plays again, my hands follow his melody. Sound for sound. For a second, I picture a piano in front of me. I hum, low but freely. A smile tucks into the corners of his mouth.

Our eye contact doesn’t break until the song fades.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s not accusatory. It’s just that…Carykeepssurprising me.

“Like you told me you play piano?” he retorts.

I scratch the back of my head. It’s a fair point.

He grins wryly at me. “Is it my fault you are as bad as Henri when it comes to secrets?”

I lean back on my hands, lips pursed. “Since when did you get a sense of humor?”

“A very, very,verylong time ago.” He smirks. “Since, you know, I am so old.”

“Ancient,” I agree. “Prehistoric. I didn’t even think I was into older men until—”

I stop short. Cary’s mouth widens. “No, please. Continue. Until…?”

Glaring half-heartedly, I mumble, “Never mind.”

Cary rests the bouzouki delicately on the rug. He sits next to me on the bed. This close, his lashes are fine and feathery. His eyebrows thick, lips full. He takes my hand.