What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(37)

Non-commitment suited me well.

And as for my time with Sarah, it was becoming more and more specialized. We’d still work on technique and tension, on scales — though those were becoming almost obsolete as I gave Sarah more challenging pieces to play. The truth of the matter was that we’d reached a point where it was less about what I could teach her, technically, and more about what she still needed to learn musically.

It was becoming a matter of sensational versus Carnegie Hall phenomenal.

And it was almost impossible to explain the difference until she got there on her own.

“Ugh!” she screamed one afternoon, tossing her hands up in the air before her elbows landed hard on the keys, her face burying between her hands. “I suck. I suck, I suck, I suck.”

I chuckled, taking a seat next to her at the piano. “You do not suck.”

It was a beautiful day outside, the sun shining and a cool breeze cutting through the heat that big star in the sky brought. We had all the windows open, the fresh air sweeping in, but it did nothing to calm Sarah in that frustrating moment.

I’d been there.

She removed her elbows with a pouty lip as I started to play the piece we were working on, one that challenged her reach. “We only have ten fingers to play with,” I said as I played, Sarah’s eyes on my hands. “You know the scales. You know how to get to the notes that need to be played, but sometimes, that knowledge works against you. Sometimes, you have to play a little unconventionally to achieve what you desire.”

Her little mouth popped open as my fingers moved across the keys like ice skaters on speed, hands hopping over one another in a way that would have made any piano pedagogue cringe.

“The way I’m playing right now is wrong,” I said, foot tapping on the pedal below us as my fingers stretched and curled. “But no one sitting out in that audience gives a fuck about technique. They care about the music, what they’re hearing, and what they’re feeling.” I nodded toward her. “Close your eyes.”

She did, inhaling a long breath through her nose as she relaxed.

“Listen,” I commanded.

I worked through the piece, taking artistic liberties in my favorite sections, and when Sarah opened her eyes again, they were wide with wonder. She watched my hands to the finish, and kept her gaze on them even after I’d pulled them back into my lap.

“You’re a freak,” she whispered.

I barked out a laugh. “Wow. No need to abuse the teacher, Miss Henderson.”

She rolled her eyes.

“The difference between what you just did and what I just did has nothing to do with me being a freak,” I said, still smiling. “It has everything to do with me playing the piano, versus the piano playing me.”

Sarah frowned, eyeing the musical beast we sat at like it had offended her. I tapped her temple, and she looked back at me.

“You know how to play,” I said. “You know the music, the scales, the keys, the notes. You have all of that knowledge, but you don’t trust it. You think about it every time you sit down to play instead of trusting that your fingers will catch up to your mind if you just let it run free.” I shrugged. “Who cares if the way you play isn’t technically correct, if it leaves the audience stunned and begging for more?”

She nodded, but her brows were still furrowed, and I could see the doubt lining every crease of her skin.

“Look,” I said, turning more toward her. My left knee touched her thigh with the motion, and her eyes flicked down before she looked at me again. “Certain trees yield certain types of fruit, right? No matter what you do, an apple tree is never going to give you lemons.”

She nodded.

“Well, that’s how it is with the piano. It will never help, nor hurt you. It will give you exactly what it has always given you, time and time again. It doesn’t change.” I leaned down a bit, capturing her gaze. “But you do. You learn and grow, and become better. In the same breath, though, I’ll point out that you are also a product of what has happened to you on the specific day you sit down to play, as we all are. If you approach the piano impatiently or impetuously, it’s going to show. But, if you come intelligently, patiently, and with an open mind, an open approach to how you play?” I shrugged. “Well, you might just be lucky enough to be called a freak by one of your students one day.”

Sarah closed her eyes on a snort-laugh, shaking her head. I chuckled, too — but that noise died in my throat when she opened her eyes again.

Her gaze lingered on mine, both of our smiles slipping away as an unfamiliar weight pressed on us. She’d never looked at me like that before, though I couldn’t place what was different about it. All I knew in that moment was that I couldn’t look away.

She glanced at my lips, and in the first time in two years, a line of heat scorched a path from the back of my neck all the way down my spine. Warnings flashed in bright, hot neon somewhere in my mind, but they were muted, the present moment too loud to hear anything else.

Sarah’s lips parted, her next breath touching my own, and it was like that whisper of air broke the spell I’d been under.

I swallowed, breaking all contact as I stood and crossed the room.

“Work on this piece tonight, and we’ll try it again tomorrow,” I said, pretending to look through the folder that held my lesson plans. My heart was thundering under my ribcage so loud it might as well have been the percussion line in a high school band.