When I'm finally roused from my slumber by the sunlight seeping in through my blinds, it takes me a few minutes to remember what day it is. Where I am. Who I am.

The details of the last eighteen hours or so trickle back into my brain, methodically arranging themselves into coherent memories like pieces in a game of Tetris.

But then I sit up in my bed, and a searing bolt of agony shoots through my head as though someone took a sledgehammer to my temple.

Oh, right. I did have a few drinks last night.

The intense throbbing lasts for only a minute or two, eventually subsiding into a persistent dull pain. Honestly, as hangovers go, it feels pretty bearable – I've had far worse. A shot of espresso and a couple of ibuprofen should send it on its way.

As my head clears, last night's events come into sharper focus. The Tetris pieces are falling in more quickly now.

A last-minute invitation from Jeremy. Dinner at Ruggiero's. A couple of glasses of wine.

Lively, stimulating conversation. Camaraderie. Laughter. Coffee with Irish cream.

Roxanne.

A freak rainstorm and a shared umbrella. An offer of a ride home. My hand on her thigh, our fingers interlaced. Nightcaps at my place. An emotional connection, innermost feelings shared. And then...

My body warms all over as I recall everything that came after that, and my face can't resist breaking into a giddy smile. It's all beyond surreal, like a decadent dream – a decadent dream that actually happened.

And it's not over yet. Maybe now she's up for a morning snuggle, perhaps more if I'm lucky. I glance to my left, expecting to see Roxanne curled up tightly in the blanket, half asleep, her blond tresses spread across the pillow, delightfully messy.

But the spot next to me is empty. The blankets have been smoothed out and the pillow fluffed, neatly set in its place – almost as if she hadn't been there at all.

It did actually happen, right?

Instinctively, I spring out of bed and to my feet – quickly enough to trigger another jab of pain at the sides of my head. I close my eyes and cover my face with a hand, massaging my forehead in an attempt to rub out the fatigue and the hangover. It takes a little longer for the pounding in my head to return to a tolerable level. I think I'll be adding an ice pack to my coffee and Advil.

I wander from one end of my apartment to the other, hoping there's a chance Roxanne is still around. Maybe she's in the shower again? I listen for running water – there's nothing but silence. No one in the second bedroom, which I've made into a combination of a practice room, workout space, and office. The kitchen is empty. Not a soul in the living room or out on the balcony.

It's clear now that Roxanne has left – but I realize we never bothered to exchange phone numbers, so I can't exactly call or text to check in on her. How is she feeling? Did she get enough sleep? Was she able to drive herself? I'm more than a little concerned as I head back to my bedroom to get dressed for the day and figure out my next move. It's then that I spot a neatly-folded sheet of paper from a yellow legal pad, resting innocently atop the pillow on the far side of my bed. I must have looked right past a few minutes ago – the paper nearly blends in with the cream-colored pillowcase.

I pick it up gingerly, unfolding it with great care, as though I'm opening a Christmas present while trying to preserve the wrapping paper. The note smells faintly of Roxanne's perfume; I can't resist bringing it up to my nose and inhaling deeply. The words are handwritten in blue ink, in immaculate cursive. But then I'd expect nothing less from her.

Gavin,

Sorry to sneak out on you, I have to get home and feed my poor kitties! I meant to have someone check on them. I don't want to wake you, you're adorable when you're asleep. I'm fine to drive myself, just a mild hangover, nothing some coffee and a cold shower won't cure.

There are no words to express how grateful I am for all you did for me. From the drinks, to (literally) a shoulder to cry on, to a warm, dry place to spend the night, to working your magic in the bedroom, you gave me everything I needed and more. You made me feel more alive than I had in, well, forever! You're a kind, sensitive, compassionate young man, and I'm very fortunate to know you.

As for where we stand now, I'm open to wherever this goes. I have no regrets at all about last night and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Let's get together and talk soon, OK?

See you at tonight's concert.

Hugs,

Roxanne

Roxanne's kind words raise my spirits and set my mind at ease. I'm relieved to know that things won't turn weird and awkward between us as often happens when people hook up like we did. You know, where you avoid speaking, making eye contact, even being in the same room together – only it's blatantly obvious to everyone else that something is up. I've seen that happen with my coworkers a few times, and the symphony gossip mill has an absolute field day with it.

I return to the last paragraph of Roxanne's note, to six words in particular. I'm open to wherever this goes. Until now I hadn't really thought about what changed, and how dramatically it changed. At this time yesterday she was just another face in the string section, a name on the program under 'First Violins', someone about whom I knew only the most cursory facts. And what, exactly, is she now? A friend, of course, but beyond that things start to get complicated.

Does spending a night together mean we're a 'thing'? Should we give dating a shot? Am I ready for another relationship so soon after Tierney? What would it be like to go out with someone so much older, to actually refer to Roxanne as my girlfriend? What would my brother and my dad think? What would Roxanne's daughters think about Mom dating someone barely older than themselves? And then there are our orchestra colleagues. Dating and marrying among musicians is very common; I can count at least eight couples within the Oregon Symphony alone – but there aren't any with twenty-six-year age gaps!

Before my mind spins totally out of control, I remind myself that I don't have to answer all of these questions right away, that there will be time to sort things out. I take a deep, focusing breath and read Roxanne's note once more. This time, I'm touched by her sweetness, her sincerity, the grace and elegance of her writing. Somehow she captures not only her own feelings about last night, but mine as well. I press the paper to my chest, smiling with an unbridled joy. It's only half past nine in the morning, but my day has officially been made.

***

That evening, about an hour before we're due to take the stage for our Saturday concert, I'm backstage at Schnitzer Hall. I'm huddled around a table with the rest of the Oregon Symphony percussion section – there are five of us in all, including Jeremy; we're going over the parts for this new piece we premiered on Thursday night that's also on tonight's program. If there's one thing contemporary composers love, it's writing elaborate percussion parts that include just about every instrument you can think of.

As we're discussing the strategic placement of brake drums and temple blocks over the din of fifty-odd musicians warming up, out of the corner of my eye I spot a now-familiar face on the opposite side of the room. Roxanne must have just arrived; she's rosining her bow, and her violin still sits in its case. She's every bit as lovely as she was last night – her concert attire of a long-sleeved black blouse and matching slacks is simple yet stylish, she's pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, and her lips are highlighted in a vivid ruby red. I watch her tune and warm up, admiring her facile beauty, her firm but effortless grip on the bow, the ease with which her fingers glide up and down the strings...

"Gavin? Gavin? Anybody home?" asks a voice, cutting my reverie short. That's Paul Cardoso, our principal percussionist. I can't tell if he's annoyed, amused, or a bit of both.

Startled and a bit flustered, I shake my head rapidly from side to side. "Sorry, I was lost in thought. What were we talking about?"

Just as I'm ready to redirect myself to the task at hand, Roxanne turns her head in our direction and catches my eye. She flashes a gleaming smile and gives a friendly wave, which I return, as do the other percussionists. Roxanne looks like she might come over to talk to us, but another violinist, sheet music in hand, gets her attention first.

I look back down at the percussion part, feigning an air of coolness and nonchalance. "So, I was thinking that maybe I could take the maracas," I begin, trying to sound authoritative even though I'm completely lost. But I can tell from the warmth spreading through my cheeks that I'm not fooling anyone.

"I take it you got home safely last night?" Jeremy says suggestively, his eyebrow cocked but his face otherwise straight. At least I think it is; his beard provides great camouflage for shit-eating grins.

"Yup," I answer flatly. I'd prefer not to elaborate, at least not here, not right now.

"Is that all?" 

There's that mischievous smile of his. Jeremy thinks he's on to something.

"Oh, right," Paul interjects, his dark eyes wide and his tone as cheeky as Jeremy's. "How was the party last night, guys?" Paul might be a clean-cut, churchgoing family man and father of five, but his propensity for off-color jokes and merciless teasing is well-known in the orchestra family. I might as well be back in middle school, getting grilled by a couple of friends after making eyes at a girl in algebra class.

Jeremy gives everyone the lowdown on dinner and our lively conversation with Roxanne, and I fill them both in on what happened afterwards – the PG-rated version, of course. I recount the crazy weather, the ride home, and the drinks at my apartment. I gloss over the rest of the night with "We talked for a couple hours and had a really good time. Then she went home." – which technically is all true. The others seem satisfied with just the highlights, though Paul asks if anything more will come of it – a question I answer with a noncommittal 'we'll see.' Jeremy shoots me a surreptitious nod and a wink – he knows there's more to my story than I'm letting on, but we can talk about it later.

The five of us turn back to our parts for tonight's program, and we finalize the last-minute tweaks we were discussing previously. We're about to head up to the stage to arrange the instruments when a hand lands on my shoulder. Even without looking, I know that hand – how could I forget it? Those long, elegant fingers and that gentle yet powerful touch couldn't belong to anyone else.

I tell the rest of the section I'll join them in a few minutes, and when I turn to face Roxanne, she wraps her arms around me, pulls me in, and we hug – not the quick, almost perfunctory hug of a couple of casual friends, but the affectionate embrace of two people who have shared something extraordinary. Her body fuses seamlessly into mine; her heavenly scents flood my senses. Last night comes rushing back to me, and in a matter of seconds I'm all raging hormones and white-hot desire.

I very much want to kiss her. I don't, of course, though a wry smile flashes across my face as I imagine how our colleagues would react to such a sight. We finish the hug, almost reluctantly, and stand facing one another a few feet apart. Roxanne is beaming, almost luminous; I manage a dopey schoolboy grin. Neither of us speaks, as if we're each waiting for the other to go first. As mature and confident as Roxanne is, she seems as anxious as I am right now.

After a moment, I relent. "So... uhh..." I gaze downward, as if I'll magically find the right words scrawled across the floor. "So, yeah. That was a really sweet note you left me this morning," I say, turning my head to one side. "It made my day."

"Oh, right. I'm so sorry about that!" She lets out a nervous chuckle. "I felt really bad just ditching you. But I had to get home – my cats do not appreciate missing a meal. And like I said, I didn't want to wake you – you were sound asleep. I mean, you were totally out of it."

"Hey, it's not a problem. I know what you mean. If I was even half an hour late feeding Duke, he didn't let me hear the end of it."

The laugh we share dissipates, and then we're back to that familiar yet awkward silence. Though the sexual tension between us is almost tangible, there's so little – yet so much – to say. As easily as the conversation flowed last night, I'm reminded that we've known each other well for no more than twenty-four hours.

Again I'm the one to speak first. "So..." I hesitate for a second, remembering I haven't asked a woman on a date in seven years. Come on, McKee, just do it and get it over with. "You said in your note you wanted to talk. Do you want to chat after the concert, over drinks?"

"Absolutely! I'd love to," Roxanne says, her voice bright with enthusiasm. "Though if you don't mind, could we do dessert instead? I think I need a break from alcohol after last night." She casts her eyes downward for a second, slighty embarrassed as she recalls her mild inebriation. "And I can't have coffee after four in the afternoon, or else I'm up half the night. Anyway, there's this lovely place on Broadway and Alder that does Japanese desserts. And bubble tea, if you're into that. They're open late on weekends."

"That sounds perfect," I say with an easy smile.

We make plans to meet up backstage once the performance is done and walk the four blocks to the restaurant. "But if it's pouring rain," I add with my best poker face, "I expect a ride."

"Oh, Gavin, you crack me up." Roxanne laughs lustily and gives me a gentle, good-natured elbow to the side. "Okay, but just a ride, got it?" she adds with a grin. We walk up to the stage together – loose, carefree, happy.

What a difference from where we were at just a day ago.

********

What a day (and night) it's been for our guy Gavin – and for Roxanne! So what do you think? Should they give a relationship a go? Even if they don't, there's nothing saying they can't get together for a replay of last night – as long as they're both single!

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