“I believe so, yes.”
He brightened a little. “Oh, good. Would you like to come inside?”
“Sure…” I glanced down the hill at the house. “Where is your aunt?”
“At her boyfriend’s house. I don’t see her at night unless Iwalk down there. We stay out of each other’s way. I pay rent and sometimes take care of the dogs, and she lets me live here. Cut and dry. Come on in,” he encouraged, unhooking Frida’s leash from her harness to hang it up on a hook by the door while letting her loose inside the barn.
I followed them inside, and a pang of worry tightened my stomach when he shut the door behind us. I still had Eddie on my mind, as well as my run-in with Mad Dog. I wasn’t entirely sure I should be here.
Then again, it was a barn. That felt wholesome, in some weird way.
To be fair, it was less a barn and more like a big workshop or garage, with tables and metal storage units on the walls, a few pieces of lawn equipment in one corner, and a refrigerator in another.
And a massive piano in the middle.
Baby grand. Black.
Near the piano, utility lights hung from beams where some recording equipment was set up around a threadbare rug. Keyboards. A desk. Sheets of music with penciled-in notes. Boxes of preprinted sheet music. Books. Stereo equipment.
Oh my God.
The awards in his room.
An enamel piano pin on his shirt at work, the day I first came into town.
His Mozart shirt.
“You play piano?” I said dumbly as Frida sniffed around the room.
He nodded slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Piano hands!” I said, pointing.
His laugh was low. “Yeah. Kids used to make fun of me because they stretch in weird ways. Alien fingers. They’re good on the keys.”
Then it hit me like a blow to my chest.
Jasmine, standing in the empty apartment.
Wouldn’t a piano look nice right here?
“You okay?” he asked, bending his head down to catch my gaze. “I should’ve told you, huh? I wanted to. It’s a definite sore spot for me, because it’s been such a big part of my life, and my”—he cleared his throat—“father thinks it’s a waste of time. Because it’s classical, and why can’t I just be like Eddie and be interested in cramming more suckers through the festival gates?”
“Your father is a shit,” I said.
“Gasp. How dare you talk about Serj Sarafian,” he joked wearily. “He’s important.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “For what you have to deal with, you know, father-wise.”
He shrugged. “It’s fine. I can manage.” Dark eyes hesitantly peered at mine under a fan of lashes. “How are you? I’m guessing that hearing the news about Eddie can’t have been easy.”
Tough question. I wasn’t sure how to answer.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said softly. “I’d rather hear the truth from you. Even now. If you came here to tell me that hearing about Eddie made you change your feelings about us, then I’m ready to hear that.”
This took me aback. “I didn’t come here to say that.”
“No?”
