Page 48 of Under Your Spell

I know for a fact that he spent the morning working out because I walked in on him in the office/gym while looking for a package that David sent while I was ill. He was lifting a heavy-looking dumbbell in a way that made his bicep curl and all the muscles pop out, and I had to go and lie down on my bed for ten minutes while thinking extremely pure thoughts.

‘Do you need anything?’ I ask.

‘Nope.’

Theo doesn’t say anything else and so I force my attention back to my work, reading over the chapter notes I’ve written for the hundredth time. Since we’ve been here, I’ve made precisely zero progress. It’s funny how little I’ve been thinking about work.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Theo looking out the windows, his guitar in his lap. Finally, he starts playing.

He plays quietly, so quietly, and it doesn’t seem like he’s playing a song or anything, just strumming gently, absently, his fingers drifting over the frets. Occasionally he’ll play the same thing – the same few notes – over and over again, and then he goes back to drifting. At one point he leans forward, pulling a pencil from behind his ear, and scribbles something in his notebook.

I feel like I’m holding my breath, like I don’t want to do anything to distract him or let him know I’m watching. I start tapping at the keyboard in front of me so that he’ll think I’m working, typing anything that comes into my head.

Table

Laptop

Chair

Legs

Hands

Hair

Smile

Teeth

Dimple

Dimple

Dimple

When I finally focus on my screen and observe the wild ramblings of a stalker that have appeared there, I backspace frantically, the cursor gobbling the words back up. If only it were so easy to delete the thoughts from my brain.

‘Is something wrong?’ Theo asks. ‘Your face has gone pink.’

I smother a groan. ‘Just stuck on something.’

‘I know the feeling.’

My eyes slide towards him. He’s slumped back in his seat, practically horizontal. The guitar is cradled in his lap.

‘You’re making a start, though,’ I say. ‘That’s something.’

‘I guess.’

‘I like that bit you were playing. The bit you played over and over again.’

‘Yeah?’ He sits up at that, a pleased smile on his face. He plays it again, louder now, the handful of notes that rise and fall, sweet and melodic.

I nod. ‘It’s pretty.’

‘Pretty?’

I laugh awkwardly. ‘I mean, if you’re looking for musical insight you’ve come to the wrong person.’