What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(29)

As I sat down at the piano, hands moving on autopilot over the keys, I repeated that sentiment over and over until I slipped away into the music, into the night, into another dimension.

I needed to get out of my head.

And that’s exactly what I’d do.





Sarah



“Relax.”

Reese’s voice was soft, gentle, mixing with the notes I played on his piano. He didn’t yell and there wasn’t an ounce of attitude laced under his request.

Still, I had to force a stiff inhale to keep from screaming at him.

I played Sentiment by Robert Gafforelli, each note strong and romantic, dripping with emotion. My wrists felt good that day, and I was doing everything I could to lay myself bare at his piano. That’s what he had requested I do that night he took me up the Incline, and that’s what I had promised him.

It had been nearly two weeks since that night, and every lesson with him, every night I went home to practice on my own, I felt myself getting stronger. Still, he watched me each lesson with a quirk in his brow that unnerved me, like he was disappointed, like there was something missing.

It was maddening.

I saw him every Tuesday, and Thursday night for lessons, and starting next week after school let out, we’d add Sunday and Monday, too. When we weren’t at his house, at his piano, I saw him mesmerizing the crowd at The Kinky Starfish.

It seemed every facet of my life was tied up in Reese Walker in some way.

When we were on top of that mountain, I’d seen a side of Reese I knew for a fact he didn’t show anyone. And ever since then, that version of him had been put under lock and key again. The first couple of lessons we’d had after that felt heavier, like by asking me to be vulnerable, he’d agreed to do the same. But just as quickly as that wall had come down, it was up again, and we were back to only talking about piano and music and tension and technique.

We didn’t talk about the Incline, or that night, or the woman he loved who was married to someone else.

And even though that was normal, and that was what our relationship as teacher and student should have been, I couldn’t get the other version of Reese out of my mind.

There were so many layers to him, so many sad, broken, busted-up pieces that made the man who sat down at that piano every night and left the residents of Pittsburgh speechless with his musical ability.

I’d only gotten a glimpse, but it was enough to make me crave more.

“Relax, Sarah,” he said again, this time a little firmer as I moved with the music.

I blew out a breath, closing my eyes and focusing on the notes I brought to life. I felt the keys under my hands, the pedal under my foot, the music in my soul. That song was meant to be played with emotion, and I felt it — I truly did.

Until Reese told me to relax again.

I huffed, tossing my hands up in the air as the song came to an ugly end, the notes dying all at once as soon as my hands were off the keys.

“Damn it, I am relaxed!” My chest heaved as I found Reese standing in the corner of the room. He was leaning against the wall, in the shadows, like he wanted to disappear and leave me alone with the piano.

Except he kept interrupting me.

He just watched me as I tried to steady my breathing, not affected in the least by my outburst. “Clearly,” he finally said, kicking one foot off the wall behind him. He crossed the room until he stood next to the piano, and he pointed one finger down at the keys I’d abandoned. “Try again.”

“I think I need a break.”

“Just… try again, Sarah,” he said, voice softer. “Please.”

His eyes were patient, but tired — like my own. Still, even with what seemed like the weight of an entire lifetime resting in that expression he wore, he was handsome. Tragically so. And though I’d noticed the beauty in his music, in his playing ability, that was the first time I noticed the beauty in him.

For a moment, I wondered what he had looked like when he was my age, before life had creased the skin around his eyes. He was still dressed in the teacher get up I assumed he wore the entire day at Westchester — khaki slacks, dark brown chukkas, a navy blue button-up with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the top two buttons unfastened, tie hung haphazardly on the chair in the corner of the room. His long hair was pulled back in a loose bun at his neck, just the slightest bit of stubble peppering his strong jaw.

I wondered how many young middle school girls had his name sprawled across their notebooks, outlined with little hearts.

I sighed the longer he looked at me, finally rolling my shoulders a few times before my hands hovered over the keys again. I closed my eyes, steadied my breath, and began to play.

I hadn’t made it twenty seconds in before Reese spoke.

“I can feel your tension from here.”

“I’m not tense,” I almost sang, forcing a smile as I continued to play. I opened my eyes and glanced up at where he stood as my fingers still moved over the keys. “I’m relaxed, and if you’d stop talking, you’d be able to see the emotion in my playing, too.”

“Not with every part of you wound up like that, I won’t.”

He moved until he stood behind me, and I frowned, still playing but with a bit of nerves now that he was out of sight. I still felt the heat of his body radiating off him and warming my back as I closed my eyes again. The song was sad and slow, and I found myself considering what the composer felt when he created it, when these notes were sewn together and a new piece of music was born.