The Last Row

When Selena Heart got home, it was nearly 1 a.m.

She carried her cello case behind her, still wearing the black shirt from the concert.

It was not until she reached behind me and her eyes fell on the word "Valdena" on the screen that she suddenly stopped.

"Did you go to Valdena today?"

"Yep." I was pressing the touchpad, deleting a repetitive recording annotation. "I was given an emergency assignment to interview a conductor."

"When did you arrive?"

"Afternoon."

Selena was silent for two seconds. "Why didn't you come see me?"

"I was busy with work. I came back as soon as the interview was over." I did not look up.

From the corner of my eye, I saw her tense shoulders relax, as if she finally confirmed I had not entered the concert hall or witnessed what had happened after the concert.

She set her cello case against the wall and rubbed her wrist. "I played for too long today; my hand is cramping up again."

She sat down beside me and held out her right hand. "Could you massage it for me? And get the herbal bath ready too."

Over the past eight years, this had become a habit that required no explanation.

At her worst, Selena’s right hand had been too weak to even hold a glass of water.

To learn how to massage her, I had sought out a physical therapist, meticulously noting the location of every muscle in a small notebook.

Which point to press when a specific finger grew stiff; which medicine to use, depending on the severity of the pain.

She would close her eyes, and I would know exactly what she needed next.

Tonight, I simply stared at her hand. There was a fresh, red mark on the pad of one finger — a souvenir from playing for far too long.

She spent three hours lulling Theodore Lawson to sleep. She had sat in an empty concert hall, playing the piece she had written for me, over and over again.

That was why she was so exhausted.

That was why she was in such pain.

That was also why she still turned to me to help ease that ache after she got back.

I closed my laptop. "Let your touring team handle it."

Selena’s hand hovered in mid-air. "What?"

"You have therapists on your team." I slid the laptop into my bag. "Have them give you a massage after your concerts from now on."

She stared at me, slowly frowning. "Shawn Bennett, are you still upset about those ten minutes?"

I did not respond.

She pulled her hand back, her tone tinged with a hint of weariness. "You’ve seen my schedule lately; it’s not like I’m intentionally avoiding spending time with you."

"Sure."

"How about next week?" She acted as if settling a pointless dispute. She believed it to be a generous enough compromise after a brief contemplation. "I’ll set aside 20 minutes for you next week. How’s that?"

20 minutes — exactly double the original 10.

Should I be happy? I certainly would have been if it were in the past.

I used to clear my entire evening, turn down all other work, carefully select a restaurant, and check repeatedly to ensure she did not have any last-minute concerts. Even if I only got those 20 minutes in the end, I would tell myself that she had done her absolute best.

However, she sat in the empty concert hall, playing for Theodore for three full hours just last night.

He was asleep in the front row.

Afraid that halting the music might wake him, she endured the pain in her wrists, playing the same piece over and over again.

Each rendition lasted well over 20 minutes.

It turned out the time I spent an entire week longing for was just enough for her to lull another man to sleep.

I lowered my gaze, offering no reply.

Selena waited a few seconds.

Taking my silence as consent, her tense expression gradually eased. "Don't make the herbal bath too hot — just like before."

With that, she turned and walked into the bathroom.

Soon, the sound of running water filled the room.

I made no move to fetch the herbal packets. Nor did I kneel by the tub as I once had, carefully adjusting the water temperature degree by degree.

Instead, I reopened my laptop and logged into the company system.

The confirmation letter for the Northland assignment had been sitting there quietly for hours.

It was a three-year term with my departure in seven days.

At the very bottom of the page lay a blank space, waiting for my signature.

Selena’s voice drifted out of the bathroom. "Shawn, is the bath ready?"

I gripped the mouse, hovering over the "confirm" button for a second and then clicked.

A prompt appeared on the screen: [Application officially submitted].

I stared at the screen and did not answer her for the first time.