Now, I thought of what the bottom of the piano looked like from the floor, what the weight of an unwanted man between my legs felt like. I thought of my injury, felt every stiff, sore muscle that surrounded my wrist bones like hot barbed wire cutting me over and over again.
I didn’t just have to work on technique with Reese. I had to learn to love the piano again, to not be afraid of it, to not associate it with that night.
Perhaps that would be my biggest challenge.
Reese stood in the corner, giving me space, but his eyes watched me like no eyes had ever watched me before. I opened my mouth, but the words I wanted to say stuck in my throat. I wanted to tell him that I knew I was rusty, that I knew I needed work. I wanted to tell him that I was one of the top students in my class at Bramlock, and that I had potential. I wanted to tell him that I could do this — with his help.
But instead, I decided to let my hands to the talking.
Once I was warm, I stopped playing and stretched my wrists out in front of me, rolling them a few times before wiggling my fingers. I closed my eyes, cracking my neck once on each side, and I let out a long, smooth breath.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t with Reese.
I was alone, in the house I grew up in with both parents. I was at the piano my mom bought for me on my tenth birthday, the one I’d lost entire afternoons with, the one that still sat in our little apartment in Atlanta. My father was there, too — standing in the corner instead of Reese — and he smiled at me with shining eyes, the same way he had when he was alive.
My heart beat grew steadier, my rib cage loosened its grip on my heart.
And then, I played.
I chose River Flows in You by Yiruma, or should I say, it chose me. I hadn’t planned a piece to play, but it was the first one that came to me, and I felt those beginning notes like a long walk home on a sunny day. It was a more modern song than what I typically played, but one that I felt so deeply every time I brought it to life. And with every new chord, with every second of the melody, I felt myself slip away, into that piano, into the music.
There was a sort of sad hope weaved throughout the song, with prominent rests that seemed to impress that hope into your soul, and it spread over me like the warmest blanket.
It was a short piece, but it showed my strengths, the arpeggios and rests so beautifully connected that I could display my emotion along with my talent. My nerves still fired to life with each stretch of my hands, the recovering muscles reminding me how fragile the human body really was. I used that painful reminder as fuel, letting it flow through me and into the song.
When I played the last notes, I held the keys down, eyes still closed. I didn’t want to open them yet, to see if Reese was emoting with me, to see if he believed me yet.
And I didn’t have to.
I felt the heat of his body take the space next to me on the bench, and I withdrew my hands from where they’d held the final notes, folding them in my lap before finally creaking my eyes open. He was close… too close. I stared at his thigh, just inches from mine, and I prayed he wouldn’t touch me.
Please don’t be like him. Please don’t be like him.
I stared at the black and ivory keys, and Reese stared at me.
“I see you,” he said, his voice low, almost so low I couldn’t be sure I’d heard him right.
I turned, eyes cast up at him as he furrowed his brows. He searched my gaze like I was a puzzle with all the right pieces shoved in all the wrong places, and I’d never felt more pegged down in my entire life.
For a moment, he just watched me, concern etched in his expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was louder, deeper, commanding all my attention.
“Even when you are the most talented pianist at your school, or perhaps in your area of the country, or in the entire country as a whole,” he said, pausing a moment. “And even when you know all the right people, in all the right places…” Reese rolled his lips together, a slight shake to his head. “Being invited to play at Carnegie Hall is still a pipe dream. And being a concert pianist in one of the largest, most artistically competitive cities in the world isn’t an easy job. It’s going to be incredibly difficult, every step of the way, and the truth is… you may never make it.”
I scowled, chest tightening again.
“Look, I’ve gone my entire life having people like you tell me what I can and can’t achieve, and I’m not subscribing to this channel anymore.” I sat up taller, eyes fixed on his. “I can do this. With your help, I can likely do it better, and faster, but make no mistake, whether I have you in my corner or not, I will play at Carnegie.” I swallowed. “And I will be a concert pianist in New York City.”
There was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips as he lifted one brow. “If you would have let me finish,” he said, searching my gaze. “I was going to say that though it may be difficult, I’m ready to put in the work if you are.”
“Oh.” I blinked, heat spreading over my cheeks and down my neck. “Well… in that case, yes. I’m ready to put in the work, Mr. Walker.”
He kept his eyes on mine for a long moment, almost as if he was looking for a sign of breakage. Then, he simply nodded, closing the lid on the piano keys and standing.
“Let’s outline this lesson plan, then,” he said, already making his way back to the kitchen before I could stand to join him.
He paused in the open doorway, glancing back at me with a curious look. His hair was pulled back in a low bun, a few strands framing his face, and I traced the hard edges of his jaw and nose as he stared back at me.
“For the record,” he finally said. “I am in your corner.”
With that, he left the room, and once I was alone in it, I took the first breath that didn’t burn since I’d walked through his front door.
“He’s just very… moody,” I said around a mouthful of carrot the next evening, already dipping my next one in hummus. “Like, he stares at me a lot without saying anything. And he smiles, but it’s not like a real smile. It’s subdued.”
Mom chuckled, her soft voice soothing me through the phone. “Well, maybe he’s just a quiet man. Or maybe he’s been through hell in his life. I’m sure you’ll get to know him more as you practice together, and he’ll open up.”
I chomped on another carrot. “Maybe,” I mumbled. “But, it’s kind of intimidating.”
“Nothing intimidates my girl.”
“Say that to Captain Moody Face.” I swallowed the bite, waving what was left of my carrot around as I spoke. “I swear, it doesn’t make sense how he doesn’t have the thickest wrinkles in the middle of his forehead. He’s always scowling, especially when he plays.”
Mom laughed again. “What did he say when you played?”
I ate the last of my carrot, setting my plate on my bedside table and leaning back against the mountain of pillows on my bed. Aunt Betty loved pillows, I’d learned, and the room she’d set me up in had at least a dozen if you combined the bed and the chairs.
“He said he sees me,” I said softly, letting those words settle over me once more. “And then, he reminded me how impossible what I want is. But… he also said he was in my corner.” I huffed. “Do you see what I mean? Captain Confusing.”