He keeps his eyes on his phone but smirks. But he’s right. I’m stalling.
Which piece should I play?
I think over my repertoire. Through my years of experience, I have dozens of pieces memorized. Brahms’ “Intermezzos”, Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”, Rachmaninoff’s “Etudes”…
Ah. I know.
CHAPTER 19
Ryder
FRÉDÉRIC CHOPIN — BALLADE NO. 1 IN G MINOR, OP. 23
Isettle into my seat, ready to read my book. There’s a tightness in my chest, a feeling that began when Lily held me tight and thanked me for bringing her here. But these aren’t feelings I should have for her.
I wait for her to begin. I’m not sure what I’m expecting her to play. Something light and cute, I guess? Maybe “Für Elise”? That’s pretty much the extent of my piano knowledge.
She hits the first notes with a bang, a low, melancholy progression that travels up the piano and softens as it continues.
I was not expecting this.
I planned on keeping my eyes on my phone, but I’m so startled by that introduction and its contrast with what I know of Lily that I have to look up.
The melody starts, somber and simple. Her fingers curl gracefully as she touches each key. She leans in on some notes, leans back on others, changing the volume and speed of the piece. Suddenly her fingers fly over notes up and down the piano, and the music changes intensity, speeding up andleading to a powerful set of notes. Her hair flies around her shoulders as she plays low notes with her left hand, and her right hand flies up and down the keys, a furious intensity in her expression.
Then the music shifts back to something simple and beautiful. I should look back at my phone. I should read, like I told her I would. But I can’t tear my eyes away from her. The music coming from this piano is more than I’d ever expect from this girl—no, woman. She may only be nineteen, but she’s playing with such emotion and intensity that proves she’s got the maturity of a woman beyond her years. Yes, she’s quirky and bubbly, but music like this doesn’t come from an immature teenager. This depth that lies hidden beneath her surface pours out on the keys of the piano.
The music builds again, then tinkers into something cute and light, but quickly transforms, rising in intensity and complexity.
I’m completely transfixed, frozen in place, unable to look away. She’s drawn me in, more than I ever thought possible. I’d believe she was a siren, but instead of her voice, she uses her fingers on the piano.
The music rises and falls, then leads to a moment I swear is beyond human capability. Lily’s left hand bounces back and forth between low and high keys, her right hand rapidly hits notes, and then together they make their way down the board and back up again.
I think the music is over, but she plays a few more notes. Again, I think it’s done, and then she crashes down on more chords, then finally she plays the last loud notes. Her hands have a visible shake as she lifts them off the keys, and I hear her sigh softly.
Then she looks at me, and I think my heart has stopped.
Her wide eyes blink a few times, then an indignant expression fills her face. “You said you wouldn’t watch!”
I’m dumbstruck. She’s right; I said I wasn’t going to pay attention or listen. But I couldn’t help myself, and now I’m caught in a trap.
At my lack of response, she tilts her head to the side. “Ryder?”
I can’t let her know the change that just happened inside of me. For so many reasons—she’s my best friend’s little sister, her family doesn’t even know we’re hanging out, not to mention everything she’s going through emotionally—I’m not going to rush on the stage and pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless.
No matter how much I want to do that right now.
I clear my throat. “It was hard not to notice all that hair flying around,” I say, covering my feelings with a joke.
She rolls her eyes. “Great. You probably heard all my mistakes.”
“Mistakes?” I repeat. “What are you—” I cut myself off so I don’t sound too emphatic about her music. I shrug it off. “I don’t know. It sounded fine.”
She chews on her lip, glancing at the clock in the corner. I look over and see that it’s one in the morning.
“Do you want to play more?” I ask, hoping she can’t hear the eagerness in my voice.
Her eyes brighten. “Really? You don’t mind?”
