Page 97 of Resisting the Fall

“Are they that cold?” I asked, stepping off the step to stand next to him.

He sent me a warning glance, but he didn’t stop me as I slid my hands under his shirt until they found his pleasantly warm, firm abs.

He clenched his eyes shut and tried his hardest not to groan, but it escaped as a low, gravelly sound.

I smiled, trying not to appreciate the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips too much when he was clearly suffering at my hands. “You’re right. Compared to your skin, my fingers feel really cold.”

“You using me to warm your cold extremities might be the only thing I don’t miss about you,” he said in a strained voice.

“You don’t miss this?” I slid my hands upward, but when I tried to place them under his arms, he stopped me, grabbing my wrists through his shirt.

“Don’t even think about it.”

I grinned. For such a tough guy, Ben was unusually ticklish. “But that’s the warmest spot.”

Ben released a tight breath. “If your brother walks out here right now with you groping me, you’re going to have some explaining to do.”

He was probably right. I gave an overdone pout, then dropped my hands. “Fine. Be that way.”

Ben chuckled, quickly tucking in his undershirt and giving me a quick peek at those abs I’d just assaulted. His gaze softened. “I didn’t mean it.”

I quirked my head, not sure what it was he didn’t mean.

He took hold of my hands again. “I even miss you warming your hands on me.”

My breath hitched at the sentiment, and as he drew in for another kiss, I closed my eyes. How was I ever going to go back to New York after this?

I stood on the platform, tapping my foot and glancing at my watch like it was going to help the 1 Train come any faster. “Come on,” I muttered to myself, the crowds of people pushing in around me. Why did so many people choose to live in such a small geographic location? I just didn’t see the appeal.

The rumble of the approaching train had us all pressing forward, attempting to guess where the nearest door would stop. We adjusted like we were one mass and waited for those exiting to get off so the rest of us could force our way on. Not even attempting to find a seat, I held onto the vertical bar near the door, along with several others. No one made eye contact with me, and I didn’t make eye contact with anyone else. It was something I was sadly growing accustomed to now that I’d been in New York City for the past ten months.

When the train got to Lincoln Center, I maneuvered my way off and jogged through the station. Maven’s concert was going to start in less than fifteen minutes, and I still needed to change out of my work clothes. After going through security at the Juilliard School’s entrance, where my backpack was nearly confiscated because of its size, I found a bathroom and quickly changed. The shirt was wrinkled and the tie creased from being in my bag all day, but I didn’t have time to care. The theater lights were dimming just as I made it to my seat next to Maven’s mom.

“Great timing,” Sharon whispered.

The orchestra walked onto the stage to take their seats, and I glanced at the program Sharon had just handed me.

Jean Sibelius (1865–1957)

Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. 47

Soloist: Maven Walker, violin

Directly under the name of the piece was Maven’s name: Maven Walker. That was my wife! Of all the exceptional violinists at Juilliard, she had won the concerto competition. Pride welled in my chest.

The applause continued when the conductor came out and took his position. Then came Maven. She glided onto the stage, her long blond hair pulled up into an elegant style. I’d splurged and bought her a new gown for the performance. The gold fabric hugged her frame in all the right places, and I suddenly pitied all the men in the audience who would never know what it was to love and be loved by Maven.

And that pity only grew when, after the orchestra began playing, she lifted her violin and moved the bow across the strings with precision. But also, with so much feeling. For a person who couldn’t claim much musical knowledge, I felt transported when Maven played. With each stroke of her bow, she evoked some new emotion in me. Forty minutes flew by, and when the last note of her violin dimmed and the sound of applause erupted, I rose to my feet, clapping so loud my hands stung.

Sharon and I made our way out of the theater, standing off to the side while we waited for Maven.

“I wish Carson could have been here to see that.” Sharon’s smile was as full of pride as my own, and there were tears in her eyes. “She’s incredible. I can hardly believe she’s my daughter sometimes.”

I wrapped my arm around Sharon’s shoulder and pulled her to my side. “So much of who Maven is, is thanks to you and all the sacrifices you’ve made.”

Sharon nudged her shoulder into me. “I’m not the only one who’s made sacrifices.”

“To see her up on stage, it’s all worth it. Isn’t it?”