What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(19)

“No.”

“Even better. Just, trust me on this,” he said. “Maybe you fell out of love with romance books and fantasy books because you want something a little more real, a little less perfect, a little more messy. I think you’ll like this.” He thumped the hardback in my hands with his knuckle. “Plus, Palahniuk is a phenomenal writer. He’ll make you think.”

I smoothed my hand over the cover, and for some reason, a gentle ease came over me. I knew how precious all of my books were, and I couldn’t imagine offering one up to a practical stranger. It was a special gift to have a book purchased for you, but to have one lent to you, to have someone trust you to take care of a piece of art so precious to them?

That was rare.

“Thank you,” I said, turning back toward the piano. I slipped the book in my messenger bag, placing my glass of water on the coaster on top of the piano before I met Reese’s eyes again. “And thank you again for letting my uncle accompany me the other day. I’m sure that was a little out of the ordinary.”

“It didn’t bother me at all,” Reese said quickly. “Invite him any time.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

My eyes slipped to the piano, to where the wood panel covered the keys. I let my gaze wander over the rich wood, the smooth edges — and with every second that passed, I felt my heart picking up speed.

“I have a piece I’d like you to play today,” Reese said after a long moment, stepping up on the other side of the piano. He flipped the cover off the keys, opening a book of music that had been sitting in the holder to a bookmarked page. Once it was in place, he crossed the room to the far corner by the bookshelves, leaning against the wall. “No rush. Warm up, take your time, but I want you to take a stab at that.”

I nodded, setting my messenger bag to the side as I took a seat at the bench. The nerves that had subsided a bit as we talked books were back in full force when I was seated, my fingers resting gently over the keys as I digested the piece of music in front of me. It was a feeling I still wasn’t familiar with, almost a sense of dread as I warmed up my wrists. I used to sit down at a piano with eager anticipation, with excitement, with joy.

Between my injury and what happened at Bramlock, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel that again.

Now, my relationship with the piano was one I had to work at. It was a love I had to wake up every day and choose, over and over again. Sometimes, I wondered why I did at all, why I hadn’t turned my back on piano the way I had on my romance books.

But I knew the answer, even if I couldn’t admit it out loud.

The truth was, music was my life, my heart, my soul. Without it, I couldn’t breathe. Without it, I couldn’t survive. So, choosing the piano, choosing to fight for us even when it seemed hopeless? Well, it was my way of saying I still wanted to be here. I wanted to survive.

And I would.

When I was warm, I played the piece Reese had set up on the piano, stumbling through the first part of it until I got my bearings. It was a quick and bubbly piece, cheery and jubilant. It reminded me of a song I’d selected for my spring recital my sophomore year of high school, a Chopin piece that was one of my father’s favorites.

I tried to latch onto that feeling, to the memory of my father, of my youth, but it slipped away as soon as it had come. I finished the song without fanfare, and then I pulled my hands to my lap, a long sigh leaving my lips.

Reese cleared his throat from the corner, kicking off the wall and making his way across the room. He stopped when he was a few feet from the piano, that little crease between his brows reappearing as he stared at the keys with me, like he wasn’t sure what to say. After a long pause, he settled on, “How did you feel?”

I swallowed. “Detached.”

He nodded, hands slipping into his pockets as he worried his bottom lip. After a long moment, he rounded the piano, tapping the bench with his eyes on me. “Mind if I sit?”

I slid over to the right, making room for him to sit next to me. My heart kicked up a notch again at the heat of him filling the empty space, and I swallowed, smoothing my damp palms over my dark jeans.

Reese flipped back a few pages in the book, back to the beginning of the piece, and began playing. He played softly, like background music, and once he flipped to the second page, he spoke again.

“How long have you been afraid of the piano?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the sheet music and the keys, but I felt like he’d just pinned me with a heavy, accusatory stare.

“I’m not afraid of the piano,” I argued.

Reese glanced at me with a cocked brow. “You look at it like you are. You touch it like you are.” He shrugged, fingers floating over the keys as he played. “Even in our first lesson, it seemed like you would rather submit yourself to a hundred paper cuts than play. And that doesn’t make sense for someone who wants to make a career out of piano.”

I sighed, hating the truth in his words — hating the fact that he saw my fear even more than the fact that it was there at all.

“It’s not that I’m scared of it,” I tried to explain, watching his hands so I didn’t have to meet his eyes. “But, it feels… foreign. Sometimes. Like, someone who used to be my best friend, but now is so different, I hardly recognize them. And everything that used to come easy, doesn’t.” I shook my head. “Nothing comes easy anymore.”