She’d only played for Owen once in their time together, that first night he’d come for dinner. She’d been reluctant. Part of her didn’t want him to think she was showing off, and another part couldn’t wait to dazzle him.
“Play one of your recital pieces!” her mother had called from the kitchen, and Sam, lounging on the couch, had popped his head up to say, “She’s really good.”
She sat at the keyboard, played a few scales to warm up her fingers, and decided on one of the first recital pieces she’d ever learned, something that even a nonclassical-music lover would appreciate: the first movement of Beethoven’s Opus 79 in G Major. “The Cuckoo Sonata,” so-called because it imitated the call-and-repeat of a songbird. It was bright and playful, and had some showy moments where her left hand would cross over her right. Sarah had adjusted the bench, then her posture, then struck the first three chords. By the third or fourth measure, she’d closed her eyes, and by the time she reached the first repeat the room and her family and her boyfriend had all ceased to matter, the room had disappeared, and it was, as ever, just Sarah and the music, Sarah and the song.
When the final note had died away, she’d opened her eyes. Her parents stood together, her dad with his arm around her mom’s waist, both of them beaming at her. Sam applauded. Owen had looked stunned.
“Oh my God,” he’d blurted.
Sam had sat up. “Toldja,” he’d said. Sarah had brushed off their compliments, feeling proud and shy. Later, on the beach, Owen had kissed her with something like reverence, and said, “You never told me you were that good.”
In her studio, with the sounds of the city coming through the windows, Owen took her hand and led her to the piano. “Please,” he said. “I’ve waited so long to hear you play again.”
Sarah struck the first notes of “The Moonlight Sonata,” knowing that she was lost. She might have been able to resist Owen’s good looks and charm, she could have made herself immune to flattery, or the way hearing someone else’s confession could soften you. But the way he looked at her, that combination of tenderness and awe, like she was special, and talented; some rare and beautiful creature he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch—that, Sarah could not withstand.
She played him pieces she thought he would know, a Brahms lullaby, a Bach concerto and Mozart’s Piano Sonata 16, which made him smile. This time, instead of losing herself in the music, she found herself aware of Owen: his presence, his warmth, his eyes on her.
When she finished, she pushed back the bench and got to her feet. Owen was standing behind her, with that same look of amazement on his face; a look that said You are the most incredible thing. You astonish me. When he opened his arms, Sarah did not hesitate. She walked into his embrace, fitting herself against him like a puzzle piece into its space, like a key into a lock, like every cliché about long-lost lovers who are meant to be together. She was the one to put her hand on his neck and draw his lips down to hers; she was the one who unbuttoned his shirt, then led him toward her single bed. I deserve this, Sarah told herself, remembering all the times Eli had ignored her or looked right through her; all the times he’d come slap-slapping down the hall in his infernal flip-flops, or tried to give away the things she loved.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, pulling him close. Then his arms were around her, his mouth on hers again. Sarah closed her eyes, savoring the sensations that threatened to overwhelm her, the feeling of adult Owen superimposed over Owen at eighteen. Then-Owen’s face had been boyishly smooth. Now-Owen had stubble that rasped her cheeks. Then-Owen had been more passionate than skilled; enthusiastic with his tongue and his hands. Now-Owen was a much more skilled kisser. Much more skilled at everything, Sarah thought as he unhooked her bra, one-handed, and eased his other hand up her skirt. But then, when he touched her between her legs for the first time, he gave a soft groan, just as then-Owen had done, all those years ago. He’d sounded like she was a marvel, like she imagined the old explorers had sounded when they’d finally sighted land. Now-Owen hummed a pleased sound against her neck as he slipped his fingers inside of her, then pulled them out, stroking delicately along the edges of her most private place, and it was so good that Sarah gasped out loud. She reached for his belt, then his zipper. Part of her wanted to show him that she, too, had grown up; that she, like him, had learned things, but part of her—most of her—just wanted him naked and inside her.