My fingers crept slowly and quietly across the keys, notes dancing into the air. I saw the crescendo and began to quickly drill more sound out. The melody resonated through the tiny room’s glass walls. Each pitch was perfect and whole as they escaped my grasp. They filled me and–
Suddenly, he I felt him lace his fingers into mine, delicately, one by one until they were intertwined as one. “Oh, Wes, I didn’t hear you come in.” I turned my head to look up into his eyes and smiled. His lips slowly curved up into a tiny grin. “I think you deserve a break,” he said, his grin still widening. He lifted up my fingers on one hand like he was about to twirl me. Wesley led me out the door, then picked me up as we entered the fresh air. He laid me down under the shade of our tree.
It was the tree we’d first kissed under, the tree we’d bought together when we first moved into our house, and the same tree we always came to when we were feeling any emotion. We came there, because, it was our tree.
The wind blew, and my hair flew behind me. I closed my eyes and laid my head on Wesley’s shoulder. He stroked my cheek, and I sighed, “Mmm.” I opened my eyes again and followed his gaze. It went out into the distance, not particularly toward anything. I saw worry in his eyes and sat up. “Wesley, what’s wrong?” He looked down and furrowed his eyebrows slightly. “Nothing, Riley,” he muttered. I tilted his chin up so our eyes met. “Don’t lie to me.” He breathed out heavily. “I got another rejection for the manuscript for my book.” I tried to think of words of encouragement, but I knew deep down this would be hard for him. He’d sent his book to sixteen different publishers, and so far, seven had rejected him. I scooted closer and slid and arm behind his back. “Someone will accept it. Don’t worry.” The fact that he was looking away told me he wanted to believe this, but was having a difficult time. “They will,” urged. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t. We’ve got mortgage payments and school loans, and you’ve got another symphony performance. How will it look for all the other girls’ husbands to bring flowers, and all I can say is, ‘Want a manuscript?’” “Wesley, we’ll be okay. The symphony pays pretty well, and I’ve got the photography biz. I don’t care about flowers.” I leaned over and kissed his lips.

We stayed under the tree for hours, the sky darkening and the crickets chirping. I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder.