Which was really saying something, considering I was already starting to respond to the scent of honey and the way her warmth enveloped me.

“Now,” I said, picking up speed. “Note the difference.”

Same song. Different type of playing. I let every note flow from my fingers all the way through my body like my soul and the music were one.

When I was done, I opened my eyes.

To see Saylor crying.

“Shit.” Yeah, because saying shit immediately made girls stop crying. Brilliant move. “Are you okay?”

“That was beautiful.” She sniffled, her blue eyes glowing with excitement. “I’ve never heard anything like it. I’m sorry for crying. Ugh.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You must think I’m such an idiot! I’ve cried twice now.”

I shrugged. Actually, she’d cried once and even then it wasn’t some crazy sob-inducing spectacle, she cried with… restraint. It was almost weird. “At least this time I earned the tears.”

Saylor smiled. “Yeah, you really did.”

“Alright.” I stood and slid my hands around her waist gently pushing her toward the middle of the bench. “Now, play one of your songs, any one of them, and I’m going to help you feel.”

“Feel what? It’s just music.”

“Just music?” I repeated. “That’s like saying you’re just breathing, or I’m just existing. Not true. Music is a story. And you’re the author.” I placed her hands on the piano and put mine over them. “Each stroke of your fingers is a different word that describes the story. By itself it’s meaningless, but—” I pushed down on a few fingers helping her play a few notes. “String them together and you have a melody. You have a story. So, Saylor, what story do you want to tell?”

Her entire body froze in front of mine. Her warmth against mine drove me insane. Saylor began to tremble as if the closeness was too much for her to handle. If I were being honest, it was taking every ounce of restraint I had not to touch her more. Being near her was the closest to living I’d experienced in a very long time. And damn, damn, damn, I really did want to live, didn’t I?

For some reason I felt like we had stepped over some invisible boundary, but I wanted to help her. It was almost as if helping her find that passion was redeeming my own damnation.

Music made me feel alive.

And those who made beautiful music? Were like an addiction all by themselves.

“Yours.” She said it so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. “You won’t use words to explain — part of me thinks you never have and never will. So, show me through the music, show me your story, Gabe.”

The room was suddenly too small.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Saylor, my story… It isn’t a happy one.” I pressed down on her fingertips anyway as I helped her play a melody.

“I don’t need a happy story.”

“And the ending.” I continued helping her with the melody, my abdomen pressed against her back as I hovered over her. “It’s one of those endings…”

“What kind?” she breathed.

“A sad one.” My voice quivered.

Her fingers became strong underneath mine, her body stopped shaking. In an instant, her hands slipped out from beneath mine and moved to press over the top. “So change it.”

Life has two stages. Birth and death. That’s it. What you do in between the two? Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? —Wes M.

Saylor

Behind me, Gabe ceased all motion. The only way I knew he was still there was from the heat that seeped into my back from where his body touched me. More warmth rolled off his hands where they seemed fused to mine. Any minute now, I expected him to pull away, to slip into mask number one or mask number two. Instead, he flipped my hands over, gripping them with his fingers and exhaled, long and slow. Seconds went by, but they may as well have been years. Each time he let out a breath, my heart skipped a beat of longing, needing more of his touch — more of something. My back tingled as the hard planes of his stomach pressed against me. I was in a Gabe cocoon.

And I loved it.

Until the music started.

With slight pressure, Gabe moved my hands to the piano, slowly, effortlessly placing them on each key.

He was playing through me, using my body as an instrument to convey the story of his life. Each time he pressed down on one of my fingertips or guided me to another area of the piano, I felt the sadness of the song clench deeper. The notes became floating tendrils of pain, each one of them slowly invading my body and taking hold until it hurt to breathe.

He moved faster and faster, my hands couldn’t keep up. I pulled back as he continued the song, in such a rush it was like he was yelling but doing it with music. Unable to convey it in any other way.

With a final burst of movement, he lifted his hands off the piano and smashed them against the keys, causing a chaos of notes to burst forth.

Gabe’s breathing was uneven, ragged as he leaned heavily against me, his chin resting on my head, and he whispered brokenly, “I can’t.”

“You were doing so good.”

“It’s like getting into a car with suicidal tendencies. You keep going faster and faster, needing the adrenaline to keep you alive until suddenly you turn the wheel and everything goes black. The notes, they go higher and higher, and right when I feel like I can change the outcome — I panic. Some things…” He sighed and pulled away. “Some things are better left in chaos.”

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure about perfection?” I folded my hands in my lap, but didn’t turn around.

“Sure.” He moved from behind me and sat on the bench. “If life was perfect, how in the hell would we ever learn to depend on someone other than ourselves? If anything, that’s what life’s taught me. The need to be perfect is stemmed in the very belief that it’s actually something we can achieve. Self-actualization — doesn’t exist.”

I licked my lips and looked down at the keys. “Does that mean we don’t try then?”

“No.” Gabe tickled a few of the ivory keys in front of him, the music note tattoos on his fingertips looking darker against the white of the piano. “It just means when you reach the end of your rope, you shouldn’t regret a damn thing, but applaud yourself for trying to do the impossible.”

I felt like he was using double meanings. The philosophical Gabe was a bit terrifying because he made me feel more insecure than the jackass Gabe. But the guy sitting next to me right now? I was beginning to understand, he wasn’t just one person. He was every person, everything, whatever he needed to be, he was.

Like a chameleon.

And suddenly the ending to the story made sense.

Ten different notes all clamoring at once.

Chaos.

Gabe was Chaos.

“So.” He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Now that I’ve totally ruined the moment by talking in my serious voice and scaring the shit out of you — why don’t we work on one of your performance pieces?”

“Okay.” I placed my hands on the piano again, careful to angle my wrists at the perfect degree and keep my eyes on the music ahead. Sometimes I wondered if my posture was better than my playing.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked in calm voice.

I turned and gave him a resolute nod. “I’m getting ready.”

“To go to battle?”

“What?” I relaxed my hands a bit. “No.” I straightened. “This is the right posture, it’s—”

“If you say perfect, I’m going to kill myself.”

“Someone should have majored in drama.”

He burst out laughing. “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”

“So?” I lifted my wrists again and looked ahead.

“Fine.” He smirked. “Play just like that.”

“Okay.” I started one of my harder pieces, Piano Sonata 14. It felt exactly the same. The movement wasn’t as fast as some of the others, but the timing for it had to be perfect.