We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee (moboreader .TXT) 📕

was how he cooked. Combined with a warmth that felt entirely Southern. Unfortunately, he only released videos once a month.

It was through him that I’d found Camden Adair, King’s husband.

Unlike King, who was a renowned chef and had four restaurants across the country, Camden was an amateur. He’d given me some hope that you didn’t need a fancy education from a culinary school in order to make a nice dinner. But then I’d watched more of his videos, and safe to say, I’d never be that creative or skilled in the kitchen.

In short, my midlife crisis, which had prompted me to reinvent myself and learn new things, was going swell.

Similar results in my attempt to learn leather crafting. I was already a decent woodworker, so I’d thought working with leather would be simple. And maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. I’d just ended up watching the guys work with their hands. I’d picked up jack-shit in actual knowledge.

I had a thing about hands.

While I tucked into Nonna’s turkey casserole, I went on to my Instagram app and scrolled through my notifications first. I had students who enjoyed tagging me in their practice videos, and I had to admit it was the highlight of my day. My kids were all special to me.

Today, eleven-year-old Tatiana had tagged me in a video where she rehearsed with her clarinet for an upcoming recital. She had tagged Micaela too, her instructor and one of my friends. I played a dozen or so instruments, but the clarinet wasn’t one of them.

I trapped my spoon in my mouth and typed out a quick comment to the girl.

Great job, Tatiana. You’ve come such a long way.

The next student who had tagged me was James. I knew I wasn’t allowed to have favorites, but Madonn’. This kid. James had been one of my very first students at the Initiative, too. Back then, a six- or seven-year-old boy on the autism spectrum. Now, I had no words. Music was his therapy, as had been my intention with the school from the get. Music wasn’t the only thing I loved. I’d studied psychology in college and early on noticed the profound impact music could have on children with cognitive disabilities.

I had nothing left to teach James. He’d grown up to become a well-spoken—albeit shy and anxious—young man who’d recently been accepted into his dream college. It wouldn’t be much longer before I could sit in an audience somewhere and watch him perform in concert.

I chewed around a spoonful of food and closed my eyes as I listened to him play the piece he’d focused on the most this month, one of Chopin’s nocturnes.

The featherlight notes filled my soul and brightened my mood more than any hot shower could, and I took my first easy breath in several days. James had adopted a similar style to Chopin and shared the composer’s playfulness and lightness.

I remembered James had come to me one day before class, excitement written all over him. “I figured it out, Mr. Fender! The music—it doesn’t come from the piano. It comes from me. If I feel the music in my fingers, I can pour it out over the keys.”

Just like I had run out of things to teach him, I’d exhausted my vocabulary for praise. There were only so many ways I could express how impressed I was before I started to feel repetitive. But I gave it a go in a comment anyway.

You continue to amaze me, James. I notice you’ve worked on the transitions. It’s much smoother now when you reach bar 47. Keep up the good work.

Taking a swig of my beer, I returned to my notifications to see if there was anything else. A couple new followers, one of whom was a student. She’d told me yesterday that her parents had finally allowed her to start an account to upload rehearsal videos so long as she kept it private. I sent her a request to follow back, figuring she’d want feedback if she ever tagged me.

I didn’t recognize the other follower, not the username or the profile photo. Just in case it wasn’t a random follower, I clicked on the profile and felt my eyebrows crawl up toward my hairline.

Definitely a random NSFW user. I didn’t follow those. My account was essentially the official account for the Initiative, and God forbid a student checked out who I followed.

I scrolled down a little, because why not, and shifted in my seat.

Someone was into kink. Gay kink, to boot.

I had two friends who were into this too. By day, Greg and Moshe worked in accounting and education, and they raised two children together. When they had babysitters, Greg was a Daddy Dom who called Moshe his little boy.

Having always loved taking care of people, pleasing those I held dear, I did see the appeal of that kind of dynamic. But I couldn’t say it was directly up my alley. What I wanted couldn’t be split into left or right, dominant or submissive, black or white. I wasn’t what a kinkster friend might call Switch either.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate BDSM porn…

All the photos on this account were black-and-white, not to mention heavily shadowed. Both sexy and beautiful. One hinted at a man kneeling in front of another, and he had his cheek resting against the dominant man’s thigh. Without revealing any details or features, the picture had peacefulness written all over it.

Must be a nice feeling.

Oh, hands. I clicked on a photo displaying two hands, one gripping the wrist of the other, and I squinted at a small tattoo. Hadn’t I seen that before? I assumed it was the submissive guy who had his wrist in someone’s hold, and he had a small snake that slithered up along the side of his thumb. I was sure I’d seen it before. Maybe it had something to do with a kink. Kinda like what everyone my age did twenty years ago, a star inked somewhere to show