“Huh?” The thoughts dissipate and reality returns as I look at him.
“The guy. The one it didn’t end well with.”
Right. “Not physically, but… he used me. I thought—”
I focus my attention on the piano, not wanting to look at him when I say what I’m going to.
“I was twenty. I was stupid. I thought he liked me. He was charming and hot, and he offered me three grand to sleep with him. Said his husband had a fantasy about catching him with someone else and wanted to watch.”
I stare at the spotlight that shines over the ivory keys.
“What happened?” Aaron asks carefully.
“He lied.” It’s a simple answer, but the repercussions of that lie are anything but simple.
Because that one lie, that one moment, changed everything for me.
I reach for my flute and drink my champagne slowly, savoring the tart taste on my tongue.
It’s then I realize that the room has cleared out, and it’s just Aaron and I.
Aaron gets up, grabbing the bottle and his flute, and climbs up on stage.
I watch as he sets the bottle and flute on top of the piano and sits in front of it.
“I won’t lie to you,” he says, firing me a heavy gaze that pins me to my seat.
I believe him. I shouldn’t. But something inside me knows I can trust him, and I know how dangerous it is to believe that beautiful lie.
I think I love you, too.
I don’t want to believe that those words were true. Because if they are…
He turns from me, his fingers grazing over the keys, lightly. It’s not a tune, as much as it is a taste, a curious stroke.
I watch as he sets his fingers, realizing as he positions them, he must know how to play.
Of course, he does. He’s Mr. Perfect.
The melody sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.
“What is that?” I ask, sipping my champagne.
Aaron glances at me softly. “You can’t tell?”
I shake my head. “Sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”
He continues to play the song, humming along to it, and then he starts to sing. His voice is low and deep, not loud at all even though there isn’t anyone here but us.
I watch as he plays, watch how his fingers slide over the keys with precision.
“‘Rocket Man,’” he says with a smirk.
I nod as he continues.
“Tell me you’ve at least heard of it,” he says.
It’s my turn to smile back. “I’m twenty-four, Aaron. Not twelve. Yes, I’ve heard it.”
