“Mm hmm. I’ll text you in the morning.”
Unable to resist, I move in for one final kiss and practically sprint back inside.
When I get home laterthat evening, my parents are not home again, so I don’t rush to bring my bags inside and hide them. But when I do take everything out of the bags, I’m shocked. I expected something simple—not two outfits, shoes, gloves, and a hat. I contemplate whether to text him to thank him or scold him, but I figure I’ll thank him tomorrow.
My parents had a healthy marriage as far as I’m concerned. They raised Liam and me with the knowledge that money can get you far. And for as long as I can remember, we had to work for what we wanted and were told that nothing in life was free. But along the way, their tune started to change. I think it happened around the time when Liam was in his third year of college. My dad would always boast to anyone who would listen that his son was the major league’s next best thing. Then they started talking about all the travel they would do when he got drafted, and they were taking elaborate pre-drafted trips, hoping that they’d pay off. Unfortunately, when Liam graduated with no agent andno call from a team—I think my parents felt silly. Weirdly, they had so much riding on him to make them famous adjacent. Like all the time spent taking him to practices and games would finally pay off.
But in the years before Liam passed, my parents got carried away with their purchases, with the hope that when he got called up, they could pay it off. It was selfish, actually. Putting all their monetary hopes and dreams on him. Yet, when my brother never got the call and had moved out, I was stuck listening to their muted arguments behind closed doors about late credit card bills or wondering how they’d pay the mortgage with dwindling savings. I don’t know how close we came to the bank taking back the house. But when Liam died, it’s like all the fight over money and baseball stopped existing. Eventually, they had to give up their dream of a lavish lifestyle, and slowly, the arguments stopped. I won’t lie when I say I miss their arguing. Or the noise in general. Because for the last two years, this house has been quiet.
Without texting Brandon, I take a quick shower to wash off the workday, then pull on black sweatpants and an oversized shirt that swallows my body. Snagging my phone from the charger, I head back downstairs to fix something to eat and then head into the front room with the intention to play the piano. But something, or should I say someone, parked on the street catches my attention. I make my way to the front door and motion for him to come in. I watch him get out of his car and pocket his keys, leaving his hands firmly pushed into the pockets of the jeans I didn’t think he owned as he makes his way up the driveway quickly.
Seeing him in something other than khakis and a button-down shirt is refreshing. As he walks closer, I swallow my tongue as I note the way the worn dark denimhugs his thighs, and the white shirt with the olive green button-down that’s left open makes him look much younger than his thirty-one years.
“Are you stalking me, Mr. Hayes?” I ask with a tilt to my head as he hops up the porch steps.
“It’s only stalking if I follow you,” he greets and pushes me inside with his arms around my waist, kicking the front door closed with his foot.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble and drop my hands to his chest. Our steps mirror each other as we walk back into the front room where my piano rests. “So how did you know I was home?”
“Um…I was in the neighborhood?”
I tap him on the nose like he’s my own Pinocchio. “Nice try, stalker. Really, what are you doing here? You do know I still live with my parents and that they could have been home.”
“I guess you could say I’ve been getting lucky.”
I shake my head and revel in the feel of him being here. However, the emptiness in my stomach is a reminder of what I was about to do. “Did you eat? I was about to make something, but I can double it.”
He nods. “I did eat. I went home before deciding to venture out this way. So just make enough for you.”
Nodding, I have him guide us toward the kitchen so I can make my dinner. “Tell me about your day.”
Brandon tells me all about the process of designing his game, where the idea stemmed from, and where he sees it going. It’s a long process, and the steps he tells me blow my mind. But I like seeing him so passionate about creating a game.
When I’m done eating, I clean up and come over to stand next to where he’s seated at the bar. With him seatedhere, we’re almost at eye-level. I’m not short by any means, but any chance I get to look into those hazel eyes is a view I won’t refuse.
“Were you about to play?” he asks and pushes a lock of hair off my shoulder.
Swallowing, I nod. I’m not shy about playing in front of people. Hell, I’d make my family sit while I performed one-woman shows when I was little. And performing at recitals in front of hundreds of people never frightened me. In fact, I thrived off that attention. But playing in front of Brandon is something new. It’s…intimate. I mean, I always assumed I would play in front of the person I’m seeing, but Brandon makes me feel all sorts of things—nervous being one of them. And that’s something I never associated with when it came to playing the piano.
“Can I stay and watch?” he asks tentatively and moves us back toward the living room.
“Okay.” I untangle myself from his grasp and move over to the bench. I hear him take a seat on the couch behind me and warm up my fingers with some scales. When I’ve run through my warmup twice, I start on a cover ofArcadebyDuncan Laurence. Without stopping, I loop into the original piece I’ve been working on for the last few months, to some classical pieces, and then aFlorence & the Machinesong. As the last note fades, I see movement out of the corner of my eye and scoot over on the bench to allow Brandon some room. I keep my fingers on the keys, playing a simple melody, and turn to him.
“Wow,” he says while watching my fingers move along the ivory and black keys.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I knew you were good, but this…wow.”
I giggle, which is so unlike me, at his speechlessness. “I like when you can’t get your words out.”
His eyes flicker up to me and the lack of space would bother me with anyone else, but with him, I like it. “Why?”
“Because it proves you’re human like the rest of us. Getting flustered around pretty things.”
Brandon snorts and hesitates to place his fingers on the keys. I stop playing and help him position his fingers on his right hand to a simple A major chord. I instruct him to keep doing that while I start a cover ofLet It BebyThe Beatles.
“How do you do that?” he asks, bewildered when the song ends.
