Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(90)

“Yes, our nursing-home shuffles up Fifth Avenue. And I have a feeling you’ll be able to practice again soon. It’s just a bad day, Annie. A fresh one’s around the corner.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does, but that’s just how life works. Ups and downs, good days and bad, sunshine after the rain.”

She didn’t speak for a second. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

I kissed her forehead. “Oh, I think you do.”

Annie leaned back to look at me, her eyes so green, the honey-gold burst warm and luminescent. “I mean it, Greg. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even get out of bed. I just want to give up.” The words broke, but she kept going, “It’s too tempting to just slip into the sadness and let it take me away.”

“I know it is. And you know what? I’ll even cosign some constructive wallowing. Whatever you want to do. Carte blanche. Want to curl up here in the dark and sleep all day? I’m in. Want to watch Nicholas Sparks movies and eat ice cream all day? I’m down.”

Her smile was soft and amused.

“But then we’re going to get out of bed and go for a walk. Or open the curtains and let the sun in. I’m going to remind you that things will get better, even if it’s inch by inch. You’re allowed to feel just how you feel for as long as you feel it. But I’m here to remind you that there’s hope, and I’ll be with you every day, every step of the way.”

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, resting her hand on my jaw.

“The feeling’s mutual,” I whispered back.

And I kissed her so she knew it was true.

I broke away, smiling. “I brought you something.”

She brightened. “You did?”

“I did.” I kissed her nose and climbed out of bed, opening her door to bring in the gifts as she brought herself up to sit.

“First, this.” I handed her the big one.

She smiled, her long fingers making quick work of the paper. And when she saw what it was, she gasped, her big green eyes meeting mine.

“Greg!”

I smirked. “Now you can practice. I mean, sorta.”

Annie looked over the small piano. “You bought me a Casio!”

“I really just wanted to hear Mendelssohn in a sweet ’80s synth. I swear, my intentions were selfish.”

She laughed. “Seriously, this is amazing. I can play with it in my lap.”

“I know it only has half of the keys you need, but I figured it would give you something to do.”

She flung herself at me as best she could from half under her covers and with a piano between us. “God, you’re amazing.”

“Please, hold your applause until the end.” I handed her a flat, floppy package.

Her eyes were curious as she unwrapped it, and when she breathed my name, I felt like a king.

I’d do anything to make her happy. Anything.

She ran her fingers over the top page of the Victorian sheet music, the heading of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words illustrated with a beautiful scene around the title.

“Where did you find this?”

“The internet. I found a lady in California who collects vintage sheet music. She didn’t have the entire thing—I guess some weren’t printed until later—but I took everything she had.”

She was still looking through the pages, each song illustrated with a new image. “They’re beautiful. I can’t believe you did this.”

“Really?”

With a laugh, she said, “No.”

“Feel a little better?”

She sighed again, but this time, the sound was light and airy. “Much. How do you do that?”

I twiddled my fingers in the air. “Magic.”

As she giggled, I reached for the book I’d brought, holding it up.

“If you want to be sad for a little longer, I brought Byron.”

She brightened up and made to pick up the piano box. “Oh, will you read to me?”

“Of course.” I took the box from her before she had the chance to lift it. “And then I think we should fool around a little.”

“Hmm,” she buzzed, her face sparking with devilry. “I think I could be persuaded.”

“And then we’ll go on our walk.”

“Shuffle,” she corrected.

I chuckled, climbing back under the covers. “Shuffle. And then the world is our oyster—”

“Shuck it!”

She nestled into my side, and I opened up Lord Byron, turned to The Giaour, and read her the long tale of the infidel who fell in love with a girl in a harem, drowned by her master when the affair was discovered. When the infidel professed his regret in the end of the poem—once exacting revenge, of course—Annie cried silent tears, tears from the girl who felt everything, those feelings vibrating through her like a tuning fork.

It was a wonder to behold.

I hoped I would behold it forever.

I kissed the cool track of tears, kissed the sweetness of her lips. Those lips opened up just as her heart had, granting me passage. Her body molded to mine, our legs twined and hips flush, breaths heavy and hands eager.

But I practiced restraint without second thought. I let Annie lead, gave her what I could without working her up even more than she already was. Hidden away in her bedroom with her heart still mending was the last place I wanted to take her, the last way I wanted her to experience the thing we both wanted so desperately.