* * *
The house is big but cozy, probably the same one Sav grew up in, but I’d bet the fancy piano is a recent gift.
Donna lets Izzie play around first, making up melodies as she goes along, then she teaches her a few notes and strings them together to play a song.
I clap when it’s done. “Look at you, Iz. A modern-day Beethoven.”
“This is fun.” She beams.
“One of my favorite things is to watch the chords,” Donna shares, letting Izzie stand on the bench to watch under the hood.
“That is so cool.”
“What made you interested in piano?” Donna asks.
While Izzie tells her all about the movie she saw, Bobby asks me about my team and how I got into hockey, which I answer extensively for the former, and without going into details for the latter. I also avoid asking him about his athletic endeavors, because I don’t want to lie, and don’t know how else to avoid the elephant in the room.
“Does he still play?” Bobby asks of my dad.
“He died when I was fourteen,” I share. “But he was in beer leagues and coaching little kids until the end.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“It was a long time ago,” I dismiss it, but he nods like he understands, that it never really goes away.
“Do you plan to keep playing after college?”
I’m grateful for the subject change, but this one isn’t easy either. Even without considering that he might be asking not about me as a college athlete, but as the guy who’s clearly very into his daughter.
“I guess if they’ll have me somewhere close, but being picked at all is a long shot. I’m not counting on it.”
“You shouldn’t count yourself out, either,” he argues, then looks around as if to make sure no one else is listening before he says, “We saw one of your games last month in Florida…hockey isn’t my sport, but you looked like you knew what you were doing.”
Izzie and Donna return before I can comment, and Savannah, who has been in and out of the kitchen since we arrived, appears to have set up a feast on the breakfast island.
“Help yourselves,” Donna ushers.
Chapter Forty-Four
Savannah
My Goddamn Hero
Noah makes a plate for himself and one for Izzie, who is busy talking my mom’s ear off about music and hockey, asking about her background, which Mom plays coy about.
“Piano was her talent,” my dad explains proudly.
“For a talent show?”
“Pageants,” Mom tells her. “I was Miss Georgia in my day,” she shares, but I’m blushing from the way Noah is looking at me, biting my bottom lip at half the reason he calls me Peaches. “And third runner up for Miss America before…you know.” Mom blushes, which is hilarious.
“I don’t know,” Izzie argues, and I can barely hide my smile as I catch Noah’s eye.
“We got married and started a family,” my dad rescues her, glossing over the details.
“But you still have a piano.”
“I stopped putting on shows for other people and discovered that I enjoy playing it for myself.”
