Two Cellos

"Wow, if the cold doesn't kill us, your awful jokes might," she replied. "No, you might be right about the loneliness. I don't know if it was that, but I walked into the academy that day 18 months ago because Clayton was away a lot, and Natasha was a preteen and starting to get busy with her own life. I know he has a demanding job at City Hall, but when he ran for office I didn't think we'd be spending so little time together."

"How'd you guys meet anyway?" Quinn asked.

"We met through friends on a blind date," she answered. "I immediately thought he was out of my league. He had a washboard stomach, tricep cuts, and he could curl 45 lbs."

Holy shit, Quinn thought, feeling even more scrawny than before. That business suit hides a lot.

"If you think I jumped at that, you couldn't be more wrong," Imaani continued to his surprise. "That's what men think women want. Women who are looking for something long-term see a guy who might spend more time at the gym than sharing the chores or taking care of the kids with them.

"Unless you're looking for something purely physical, 15 percent body fat doesn't mean anything," she added. "Plus, it's intimidating. I felt like a beached whale beside him."

"Well, he obviously didn't think so," Quinn replied, amazed that someone as beautiful as his cello partner could ever picture herself in such terms.

"We wanted the same things and had similar backgrounds," Imaani explained. "I mean, we were in love as well, but--"

She stopped short at the sight of red and blue lights coming closer, then parking behind the truck.

"We're saved!" Quinn exclaimed, sitting up. The cold air hit his chest and he slunk back into the sleeping bag.

"This is where you thank me for stuffing our clothes in here," Imaani told him, unzipping her side of the sleeping bag and grabbing a handful of their things from the bottom. They scrambled to get dressed just as a flashlight beam shone in.

"Oops, don't mind us, folks," the service truck driver said through the window glass as he first spotted them but then turned away in embarrassment.

"No, no," Quinn laughed, cracking the door open as soon as he'd zipped up his jeans. "We were just trying to stay warm until you got here. Thank god you're early."

"Then you're a lot smarter than some of the folks we run into," the mechanic said, peering at the sleeping bag. "Can you believe some people get the bright idea to walk along the shoulder in the dark, in the snow to the last service station they were at?"

"I cannot fathom that anyone would be so silly and reckless," Imaani grinned, smirking right at Quinn.

***Present day***

It was the type of Friday night Imaani loved best, as it was one of the most rare--where Clayton was home. After a quick call to check in on her parents she sat on the couch beside Natasha, who was playing Halo, and Clayton, who was giving her pointers on how to grapple up a tower.

"How are they both doing?" he asked, his eyes still glued to the screen. Then he turned to his daughter. "Honey, you have to look upward and keep pressing the right bumper to get higher." Imaani made a face when considering his question.

"They're okay, I guess," she started, "but I'm a little worried about mom's sugar. She might have a cataract and her numbers apparently aren't great for something who's borderline diab--"

"You're almost at the big boss, Nattie!" Clayton shouted.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to take him down this time, either, dad," Natasha responded, shaking her head.

"You can. Just keep hiding behind the pillar and shoot when it looks like there's no movement."

"I'm doing that!"

"But then you have to duck back behind the pilla--ohhhh, you're done. Try again, hon."

Imaani waited until Clayton would turn back to her, expecting him to apologize and give her his full attention. Instead, he continued talking to Natasha as if he hadn't initiated the conversation with his wife at all.

Annoyed, Imaani got up and made her way toward the stairs, speculating whether her husband would follow her. He's a good dad, she told herself. He's spending time with her and she really needs this with him. She reached the top of the stairs and heard her husband and daughter's animated cries from the living room, neither noticing she'd left.

Normally, Imaani would have gone to the basement and taken her irritation out on her cello rather than going to bed. But maybe if she left Clayton to do the security check himself as well as Nat's bedtime, he would notice she was upset with how rude he'd been to her. He asked me, she reflected upon whether she'd prattled on and bored him with unsolicited details.

She wondered if she was being too sensitive and that he didn't even realize he'd cut her off and ignored her. Briefly, the night in the sleeping bag with Quinn flickered across her mind; how she'd felt she had his rapt attention even when they hadn't been facing each other for hours.

How could she not even engage her husband in a conversation past one sentence anymore? She knew if the situation were reversed and she'd ignored Clay, he would have immediately let her know his displeasure.

Imaani had a disturbed sleep that night and awoke the next dawn expecting Clayton would apologise to her, or at least notice she was upset. She thought about her parents' marriage, where neither would bite the bullet to come to the other and discuss their frustrations but instead opt for the silent treatment for days.

I don't want Nat to be one of those kids who wishes we'd get a divorce and get it overwith, she conceded, thinking about her teenage self.

"Hey," she finally spoke up mid-morning Saturday when standing by the pantry where Clayton had come to get an extra box of cereal. "I'm only saying this because I don't want to be like my mom and keep things bottled up. It's nothing, but something you did yesterday kind of bothered me." There was a pause between them and Imaani was heartened that she had his full attention.

"God, I am sick of this," Clayton muttered. Imaani felt the slap of his words. "If it's not enough that constituents and the mayor are breathing down my neck, it's you, too? I thought I could get some peace at home."

"Clay, it's something tiny," she tried to explain, partly confused and a little panicked. "And I thought we promised we'd never keep our feelings from each other."

"What did I possibly do this time?" Clayton spat out. "If I didn't even notice it, it means it's who I am, Imaani. Sorry, but you're stuck with this imperfect version of a husband you settled for."

"What are you even talking about?" Imaani exclaimed. "I am not criticizing you. I'm just saying something little happened that I hope you might be aware of next time. Why are you reacting like this?" she took a step back, vaguely aware that her hands were starting to shake.

"Because nothing I do is good enough!" Clay all but shouted. "I'm not here, you're unhappy. I'm home, you're unhappy. And half the time you're with your music friends working for free to help your boyfriend's failing business."

"Wait, this is about Quinn?"

"Come off it, Imaani," Clayton thundered. "I've seen how you look at each other when you play." Imaani took a deep breath and tried to remain rational.

"I have been nothing but loyal to you, Clayton. Quinn and I are good friends and that's it. I don't know what my face looks like when I play, but I do know I'm caught up in the music. As you just said, if I didn't even notice it, it means it's who I am." Clayton was silent and Imaani softened her voice.

"I can't believe how angry you're getting when you don't even know the incident I'm referring to last night. I assure you, it's absolutely nothing compared to how you just blew it out of proportion."

"I don't have time for this," Clayton flatly replied, shuffling out of the kitchen. "I have a store opening to get to at noon."

***********

"Are you sure you wanna be doing this tonight?" Ethan asked Quinn Saturday night, setting down two pints on their table in a crowded pub. "I've known you long enough to know you're not much of a drinker."

"Yeah, I wasn't, back when I thought alcohol would do more harm than good," Quinn replied, picking up his glass. "But I need this tonight."

"Is there something you wanna tell me?" Ethan pressed. "Imaani's staying, right? You managed to backtrack after hitting on her again in the middle of a concert, in a room full of schoolchildren this week?" This time, Ethan couldn't keep the smirk off his face.

"I managed to get her to stay, but I think it's going to mean self-medicating like this every time I'll have to see her again," Quinn said despondently. "Just do me a favour and keep me to two beers."

"Are you sure this is about her and not just the closest you're ever going to get to fucking a cello?" Ethan was trying to stifle his laughter by this point, and Quinn glared at him. "I'm sorry, man, too far," Ethan coughed.

"I get you have a crush on her, but she's no different than any other fellow musician you've gone after in the past." He took a sip of his beer. "I'm kind of struggling to figure out how you let it get all the way here."

Quinn's mind zipped back to the night he and Imaani were stuck in the rental car, snuggled together in the sleeping bag, talking for hours. He hadn't told anyone about that night, and he was hoping Imaani hadn't either. It somehow felt sacred; something that was just theirs.

Her warm breath against the back of his neck, her smooth sienna forearm contrasting against his pale chest... Quinn shook his head, annoyed at himself. It had been a crush up until that night. Then, he'd solidly fallen in love with her.

"Imaani's something else," he vaguely answered Ethan. "I wasn't friends with any of the women I was with before, not even Monica." He briefly wondered what kind of glamourous and ragged life his ex-wife was living up nowadays while playing her trumpet in Paris. That is, if she was even in Paris anymore.

"I don't even know why we got married, to be honest," he confessed. "I thought we loved each other and we'd been together for a while so that... that was enough?" Ethan shook his head.

"Nah, man, let me tell you what being married is like. It's like having a business partner with whom you run a very small, very boring establishment that's always losing money."

"So you and I are married then?" Quinn laughed.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Ethan said confidently. "We take care of each other, we don't need things to be super exciting all the time in order to stay together, and until Imaani came along we were sturdily losing money."

"Doesn't having sex play a role in there somewhere?"

"I love you, man, but I am not throwing away my life with Cliff for your puny ass." Ethan took a swig of his beer as Quinn chuckled. Then, Ethan spotted an idea.

"Well, look, there's more than one way to self-medicate but I don't know if it's for you," he said, glancing past Quinn to the bar. A striking blonde kept rubber-necking in their direction, and Ethan balanced his chin in the palm of his left hand as he rested his elbow on the table.

"It's sure not for me. There's no way she can't see my wedding band and she still keeps looking over here." Quinn followed his friend's gaze back behind him to catch a glimpse of the young woman and who seemed to be her equally attractive friend perched on barstools about six meters away.

"Dude, no," he sighed. "I can't. No one else has what Imaani has. I'm going to compare everyone else to her and that's not going to be fair t--"

"Are these seats free?" a melodic voice chimed behind him. Ethan smiled charmingly and looked over his friend's head, while Quinn squeezed his eyes shut and felt his face get warm.

"Sure!" Ethan replied pushing out a chair. "Join us."

"I'm Fiona," the blonde introduced herself, "and this is my friend, Kate." Kate brushed aside a lock of her long brown hair with her bejeweled left hand, and Ethan smiled thinking of the secret gestures married people used to indicate their lack of intentions.

Quinn spent the next 20 minutes barely saying two words as Ethan chatted up Fiona and Kate, telling them that he and Quinn were music teachers.

"What do you play?" Fiona asked Quinn, tossing her straight blonde locks over the shoulder of her little black dress. "I bet it's something sexy like guitar or bass, huh?"

"The cello," Quinn blandly responded. The women laughed merrily until Fiona noticed Quinn's solemn expression.

"Oh, you're serious." She cleared her throat. "So you must play in an orchestra or something?" Ethan glowered at Quinn, begging him with his eyes to stop being rude.

"We used to," Quinn conceded, not daring to look into Fiona's ice blue eyes. "That's actually how Ethan and I met a long time ago. Then we parted ways for a bit but when he got back into town we decided to settle down and run a music school together."

Fiona then told them about how she and Kate were colleagues at work as well, and how they'd known each other from their MBA program about a decade ago. She seems nice enough, Quinn found himself thinking as she told funny stories about her banking job.

Maybe it'd be a good thing to try something with someone who has nothing to do with music whatsoever. And who's actually available and into me.

He indistinctly recalled Kate saying something about having to get home, and then a few minutes afterwards Ethan looking at his phone and giving Quinn a little wave goodnight. Then there was just him and Fiona, her hand first covering his on the table, then sliding onto his knee, then higher up. What amount of time elapsed between those touches Quinn could not say.

Somewhere between her whispering in his ear and the numerous shot glasses that magically appeared on the table in the next while, Quinn realized in the back of his mind there was a chance there would a big hole in his recollection the next day.

***********

After Clayton silently left the house shortly before noon, Imaani kept herself busy for the rest of Saturday afternoon cleaning and tending to Natasha. Between taking her daughter to a birthday party after lunch and helping her with a social studies project that night, she had fleeting thoughts about how she and Clayton would patch things up.

When Natasha had gone to her room for the night and Imaani heard her laughing while talking on the phone, she went to the living room and picked up her own phone. Her heart fluttered with a bit of hope when she saw she'd missed two texts from her husband.

Remember I told you about Greg from college? he'd written. We were in the business program together at Western. He was at the store opening and back in town visiting his parents for a week. Going out for dinner with him and may spend the night at his folks' place if I can't drive.

Looking back, Imaani would find the amount of detail in the texts to be suspect. But in the moment, she found herself wondering why he couldn't just take a cab home from the restaurant or whatever bar he and Greg ended up at.

That's fine, she typed back instead. Have fun and be safe. She put her phone in her lap but then picked it up again. Let's talk tomorrow. I miss you.

After some time went by with no response, Imaani switched on a movie and threw a blanket over herself, her mind never fully forgetting her phone. Eventually, she was rewarded.

I cannot wait to fuck you tonight, B. Wear that little pencil skirt I like, but no panties. Every time I see you in it, I want to throw you over my desk and hike that thing right up to your stomach.

Tremors overtook Imaani's hands and she dropped her phone while starting to hyperventilate. In seconds she was doubled over on the carpet, then alternatively gasping and crying while her limbs shook. She wondered if she was having a heart attack but couldn't even call out to Natasha to call 911.

Whatever happens, happens, she thought, resigning herself to the possibility she might lose consciousness right there. Somehow, the thought took the pressure off her mind and her breathing slowed down after several minutes of her lying on the floor, the blanket still twisted around her knees.

Imaani stared at the legs of the TV table with her head resting on the carpet for several minutes, then slowly tried to sit up. She leaned back against the couch caddy while observing her breathing. When she was confident the panic attack had passed, she lifted herself up to the couch, then stood up to see if she was steady on her feet.

After gulping down a big glass of water, it was as if all of her emotions, her longing, her will to strengthen her marriage--all of it had drained out of her while she was curled up shuddering on the floor. It suddenly made sense. Clayton's long hours, his popping in and out of their lives in convenient snippets like picking Natasha up from school or dropping in on one of her band's concerts--the pieces finally fit.

Oh god, all the times I was doing a show with the band, or at the music academy with Quinn and Ethan! she realized. How supportive he was when we left to play at schools up north for days. It dawned on her that he wasn't proud his wife was a musician; he was thrilled she was giving him massive blocks of time to fuck his mistress.

B? she thought next, suddenly hyper-aware of the task at hand. She sped through a virtual catalogue in her brain of all the people she'd met from Clayton's office. Did she know this woman? Britney... Brianna... Bryn, was it?

Then the picture became clear as she recalled meeting a busty blonde woman in her mid-20s at a charity ball some six months ago. Bree, she snapped her fingers. Bree Collier. She's an aide in the constituency office.

She ran to Clayton's home office upstairs and methodically trifled through the drawers, wondering why she didn't feel more frantic. She felt as calm now as she'd felt terrified during her panic attack just minutes ago. She knew that Clayton never took to keeping things on his phone and preferred writing down information in an old-fashioned agenda book.

He has to have his staff's contact info in here, Imaani thought, and she was right. Mapping out the address on her phone, Imaani stopped by Natasha's room.

"Baby, sleep in tomorrow," she advised her daughter. "I have to go out really early but I'll be back before robotics starts. If you have time tonight, pack a bag with enough stuff for a week. After robotics, we're going to visit your Aunt Sidrah for a few days." Imaani then texted her sister a short note, knowing she was always welcome at her home. She dreaded having to tell her what she had learned.

Imaani hadn't had such a awful night since Natasha was a newborn, her body waking her up every two hours to check the time. Finally, she relented at about 5:30 a.m., got dressed, and decided to go out for a coffee and donut.

I mean, now what? she asked herself while seated in the coffee shop, barely tasting the sugary goodness she was forcing down her throat. Do I stake them out? Do I knock on the door and catch them? She stared blankly ahead, her mind out of focus. What am I even doing out here at this hour?

She thought about Quinn and how this would have been almost fun instead of anxiety-inducing if she'd been doing this with him. Instead, she felt alone and unable to rise to whatever mystery challenge she'd set for herself. Finally, she left the coffee shop and set off toward Bree's place.

Imaani turned on to a quiet suburban street just minutes later and took everything in, almost trying to memorize every detail of Bree's neighbourhood. It looked fairly new, as she noticed there were fence posts planted in the backyards of adjacent streets, but no privacy fences yet between the houses.