He turns to me, shattering the moody vision I’d had moments before with a full, dazzling grin. “Fuck if I know.”
A thoughtful, almost painful looking expression replaces his grin as a small furrow forms between his brows and his lips tighten. And then, in an uncharacteristically hesitant, low voice, “I haven’t played a real piano in thirteen years. Since I was nine.”
Over the last two evenings, Tristan’s lack of conversation about himself and his past had already caught my notice. Now, his thoughtful look shifts again, replaced by a moment’s startled expression as his eyebrows crash together and his lips part, like he’s startled that he just spoke his thought aloud. It’s no surprise therefore when he turns back toward the piano,dropping his fingers to the keys, stroking a few soft notes from them.
Part of me wants to ask him to go on, to try to draw him out like he’s done for me. I don’t though, moved by a louder, stronger sense of caution that keeps my mouth firmly shut.
Tristan stares down at the keys, eyebrows low again, lips pressed firm in thought, as the melodic, slowly building beauty of the notes he’s coaxing from the piano fill the space between us. And then, when I’m sure he’s not going to say more, my indecision and silence are rewarded.
“I got put in foster care when I was seven.” He doesn’t look away from the keyboard, doesn’t stop his playing, but his still unusually hesitant, quiet voice radiates tension and discomfort.
All I want to do, more than ever, is to step forward and wrap my arms around his tense, rigid shoulders. To tell him that he doesn’t have to tell me any of this if he doesn’t want to, but that if he does, I want nothing more than to listen.
Instead I freeze, unconsciously even holding my breath like I’m afraid any movement, no matter how small, will scare him off forever.
“My first foster family was this sweet older couple. Mindy and Neal. They were exactly the sort of people you believe you’re going to get when you’re a kid and some smiling lady with clean hair and pretty clothes tells you that you’re going to stay with some nice family where everything’s gonna be okay.” He laughs that broken, sad laugh, shaking his head as the notes of his playing darken.
“Their house was pretty small, but they had this huge piano that took up most of their living room. Mindy had been a concert pianist before her arthritis got too bad for her to playmuch. And from the moment I saw that thing, I felt it calling to me. Like I justhadto touch it. All I could think about was what it would sound like if I did.
“The second day I was there, I thought I’d gotten my chance. They were outside, doing something in their garden, and I was sure they wouldn’t hear. Mindy came back in and caught me playing around on it though.”
He smiles softly, and I join him, the bittersweet image of him as a curious, eager, terrified, sad little boy so vividly clear in my mind.
“I was scared shitless, totally sure she’d be so pissed I was messing with her piano. That maybe she’d just straight up kick me out. Instead, she told me she’d teach me to play, if I wanted.”
The tightness in his voice hints at so much more, and yet I force myself not to ask the dozen questions filling my mind. To instead just wait as he falls back into silence.
“I was with them for almost two years,” he says after a long pause. “And I sorta thought they wanted to keep me permanently, you know? Then my mom made it through a full session in rehab and stayed sober long enough that a judge said she could have me back. It was stupid, but I’d actually worried they’d be upset. Mindy and Neal, I mean. Like I felt bad. But they told me they were glad she could take me back, so at least I didn’t have to worry about that.”
I can tell from the way his face falls that he hadn’t really believed them. Jesus,Idon’t believe them just hearing his story. It’s probably true that they’d been happy that his mom could be a parent to him again, but it still had to have broken their hearts to let him go.
“My mom was done with Dallas, she said, so we moved toHouston, and that was the last I saw of them. Before I left though, they gave me that keyboard I have next door so I could keep playing.”
Between the lines of what he’s just said, I can hear the words he’s left out. How badly he’d wanted to stay with Mindy and Neal. That the fact that they’d let him go hurt him, even though he’s got to know now that they didn’t have a choice. That things weren’t okay when he went back to his mom, and that that stay in foster care wasn’t his only one. That whatever came next didn’t match that picture painted by the social worker who placed him the first time.
He doesn’t say anything more, and, as his music grows in complexity, his hands starting to fly over the keys and the tension fading from his face, I dare to edge a bit closer.
I feel like I should say something in response to what he’s shared with me, only nothing I can think of feels right. From my own life, I know all too well how small pity can make you feel, and that’s not what I want to give him. Nor is it what I feel, even with the sorrow pressing so heavily in my chest for what he went through that each breath aches.
I don’t pity Tristan.
I’m in awe of him; of his ability and the obvious independence and dedication it’s taken him to develop the beautiful talent he has today, of his ability to laugh and smile and let his inner brightness shine through whatever darkness he carries with him.
At the same time though, more clearly than ever, I can see the weight life has cast over him, and it makes me want to take him in my arms and erase every bit of loneliness and self-doubt I can feel pouring off him as vividly as I can hear the genius of his music.
When Tristan’s hands finally still and lift from the piano, I let myself step beside him, releasing a breath of relief when he leans his head into my touch as I run my fingers through his hair.
“I’m glad they gave you that keyboard so you could keep playing,” I whisper against his ear, my heart leaping as he gives a barely perceptible shiver at the brush of my lips over his skin. “You’re incredible.”
He laughs and shakes his head. It’s not that painful, heartbreaking laugh but a real, bright Tristan laugh that lights my face with a smile of my own.
“Seriously, Tris.” In a small fit of courage, I press a kiss to his temple, letting my lips linger as he hums out a soft sound of approval at the touch. My stomach swoops and warmth blooms in my chest. “I’ve never heard anything like it, and now that I have, nothing can compare.”
I can feel the lift of his cheek as his smile spreads, shifting into a grin, and I make an instant mental note to tell him, as often as I can, the many ways he takes away my breath. Something tells me that isn’t the sort of thing he’s heard nearly enough.
“You want some more?”
Given the flow of our conversation, his words may be talking about his music, but neither his tone nor his body are as he drops his voice to a soft rasp, arching his back to press himself against me teasingly as he tilts his head to the side to look up at me through his thick, long lashes.
