What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(94)

I didn’t live anymore.

It was the same state of being I’d been in before Sarah walked into my life, and it didn’t surprise me that with the knowledge of her leaving, I was slipping right back into my comfort zone of nothingness. For the last two weeks, I’d done the same thing every day — wake up, take Rojo for a long walk, work out at the house, play piano, lose an afternoon watching movies, pop open a beer as soon as five o’clock hit — unless I was working at The Kinky Starfish — and to be honest, even sometimes then. I was doing whatever I could to get my ass out of bed and keep going, even when it felt like there was nothing to keep going for.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, my pulse beat hard and haphazardly right along with the windshield wipers on my old car trying to combat the rain. Because I knew I would see her.

And I also knew it would be the last time.

I’d made a promise to Charlie when she chose Cameron that I would let her go as gracefully as I could. Well, it turned out I had about as much grace as I did vegetables in my pantry. That is to say — absolutely none.

But with Sarah, I would follow through on my promise.

I’d tried to keep her, tried to get her to listen, to believe me, to believe in us. I couldn’t make her choose me, and so I would choose to be happy for her, for her next journey — whether I was a part of it or not. This time, I would have grace in letting the one I love go.

Maybe because she was the one I’d loved more than any other in my life.

It seemed impossible, even as my heart beat the truth of it into my chest. How could I love her after only knowing her a few months? How could I feel this connection to a woman just barely over half my age?

None of it made sense, and I guessed that was the most intriguing thing about love. It didn’t have to make sense.

It didn’t have to be reciprocated, either.

The potholes in the back lot of The Kinky Starfish were full of water, and I sloshed through them as I parked my car, pulling my rain jacket on and popping open a large umbrella as soon as my door was open. My shoes were soaked in an instant, the rest of me barely saved from the coat and umbrella. It was the kind of rain that was nearly impossible to shield yourself from.

When I made it inside, I shivered at the air blasting from the air conditioner in the back of the kitchen. Shaking my umbrella off, I propped it by the door before peeling my jacket off and hanging it on the rack.

I was in such a daze that I didn’t realize mine was the only jacket there.

Or that my car was one of only two in the parking lot.

Or that the kitchen was empty, the lights dimmed, even though our doors would open in less than half an hour.

None of it hit me, not until I walked through the swinging kitchen doors and out onto the floor to prep my setlist for the night and saw that my seat was already taken.

It all hit me then — the dark, empty restaurant, the candles flickering from where they sat on top of the piano, the fact that I was completely alone in a place that should have been buzzing to life right now in preparation for a busy night ahead.

Well, almost completely alone.

Sarah sat at the bench I usually occupied, a soft melody flowing through the space between us as she let her hands glide over the keys. Her eyes were soft, hopeful, and yet I saw the fear in them as she watched me from across the room.

I stepped closer, broaching the circle where the piano sat under the chandelier. It was funny, the way the room was set up, because I was in almost the exact same proximity to her as when we were together in my home — her at the piano, me off in the right-hand corner. As soon as I crossed that threshold, Sarah paused, letting silence fall over us. Her eyes met mine, and I saw goodbye written all over them as I waited for her to speak.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she closed her eyes, blew out a long, steadying breath, and began playing a song I’d never heard before.

The song struck violently to a start, a crescendo of sharp, dramatic notes causing my heart to kick harder in my chest as I watched her play. There was violence in that music, and pain, and sorrow — and she moved with every beat of it. Her shoulders were rounded, relaxed, her fingers flying over the keys as she brought the unfamiliar song to life. Her face screwed up as the harmony shifted, the volume of her playing softening in a gradual decrescendo until she stopped playing altogether.

She took a long rest, eyes fluttering open and meeting mine. She held my gaze, and the softest, sweetest smile touched her lips as she started playing again.

The new melody was strong and hopeful, romantic and sweet, like what you would imagine if you were strolling along the river boardwalk with a lover’s hand in yours, the moon full and bright above. It felt like home, and adventure, like something fresh and new and somehow familiar all at once. I wanted to pull her up from that bench and dance with her, that’s how powerful the music was.

Instead, I leaned a hip back against the low wall that circled the piano, watching as the shadows from the candlelight danced over her face, instead. She pulled her gaze back to her hands, moving with them as the song progressed, and the longer she played, the more dramatic it became.

Her fingers pounded the keys in a crescendo, the brazen forte making me suddenly feel uncomfortable, like I was in danger or on the brink of a discovery I didn’t want to make. I felt every flex of her body as it moved with the beat, every tap of her foot on the pedal, every dramatic scale she took me on.