Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(73)

“Ohhhhh nooooo,” I chuckle, closing the book and sliding it back along the top of the piano. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What?” he asks, his face an expression totally foreign to him. It’s fake, and Owen can’t pull off fake. He’s clear about everything, and I like that he can’t pretend with me. “Yeah…all right. You’re right,” he says finally, pushing the book a few inches more away from me. “But you haven’t played, not really, not since—”

“I know,” I answer without him finishing. “I can’t explain it, but…I just don’t want to anymore.”

“But you love this. You love music,” he says.

“I did,” I say, looking down at my keys, my right hand finding familiar—hating it and loving it all at once.

Owen studies me, his left hand still stroking my back, soothing me—lulling me. “Bullshit,” he says.

“Owen, it’s not bullshit. The piano, me playing, studying it—that was always my dad’s dream for me,” I say.

“Bullshit,” he says again, his eyes a little darker, challenging.

“Stop it,” I say, my tone angrier. “Don’t say that.”

“Because it’s true,” he says. “You might associate this with your dad, but there’s a part of you, a part of your heart, that loves your talent. I know it.”

“Owen, I know you’re just trying to be supportive, or whatever, but please don’t. You don’t understand,” I say, and he runs his right hand over mine, pressing my fingers into the keys slowly until they make a sound, a sound that breaks my heart and fills my chest.

“Yes I do,” he whispers into my ear. “I understand, Kens. You know how I know?”

“How?” I ask, a breath in response to him.

“Because I heard you,” he says, his eyes boring into me, like he’s reaching inside me, rattling my heart back to life. His right hand holds my fingers into the valleys of the pressed keys. “Play for me. None of this,” he motions to the books spread out on my piano top. “Play what you love, what you want to hear. Please, Kens. Just this once, for me, for your birthday.”

“Do you know how f*cked up it is that you are asking for a present on my birthday?” I tease, my heart rapid in my chest, my fingers rigid, not wanting to do this. I’m frightened.

“Not a present,” he says, his lips sliding into a smile, a new smile. “A gift.”

I roll my eyes, but let them settle on our hands together, mine still resting in their position on the keyboard. Slowly, I slide my hand out from under his and crack my knuckles against my chest. With a deep breath, I nod once to Owen, then move my hands back into a different position—one far away from the usual classics I’ve been forced to practice. I move them into a loose position, comfortable, barely touching the keys. Eyes closed, I begin to drag them slowly around the middle of the keyboard, my foot pressing the dampening pedal, trying not to play loud enough for my mother to hear. It’s pointless, though—the music echoes in the cavern of the tall dining room and front foyer of the house.

Owen’s hand stays on my back, his rhythm constant, fingers gliding up and down, until I finally let myself have this small break, allowing my fingers to fly further up the keyboard, breaking rules, changing time, changing speed.

What comes out is completely out of my head, something bluesy, and something that never repeats. I play for maybe a full minute, and somewhere along the way, my mouth curves into a smile, and I don’t realize until I open my eyes; Owen is looking back at me. I stop abruptly, my smile collapsing fast.

“What?” I ask, embarrassed, feeling foolish, feeling as though I betrayed myself somehow too, giving in to my protest.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he says, his eyes bright, his smile full, and his hand never breaking its soothing touch. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my hands back into my lap, closing them into fists. “I made it up.”

“Wow,” he says, and when I look at him, he’s still smiling.

“Stop it; you’re embarrassing me,” I say, a small giggle slipping out. I tuck my face into his shoulder.

“All I know is you…you loved that,” he says. I look long and hard at the keys, my mouth a faint smile, afraid to give in to Owen’s temptation, afraid to admit that I did love it, that I still love music, that I still have this connection to my father.

“Stop thinking it’s for him,” Owen says, reading my mind. My eyes snap to his. “It never was—your gift? It was never for him. So don’t go giving it away to him now. He doesn’t deserve it.”

I lay my head back along his chest, and just breathe. Owen holds me, and we sit still in the silence of the enormous room for almost an hour, my hands never crossing over onto the piano again. I let my eyes take it in, though, mentally playing every sound in my head—my sounds, the songs that were always for me.

Owen is right.

“I never gave you your present,” he says finally, snapping me back to the present, bringing me out of the dream I was so happily falling into while resting in his arms. “You think we can make it upstairs?” he asks, nodding up, toward my mother’s door, the one that comes before my bedroom.