It’s what I should want. For all of them to leave me alone. It isn’t what I want, though, and that scares the hell out of me.
“It’d be better on the Steinway downstairs, but my mom should be home soon. She and Paige are still arguing about whatever, and it’s a bit of a minefield when those two go at it. They have one big blowout a year, and we’re in the thick of it.”
Finn wrinkles his nose.“Trust me, I know. I caught the end of a leftovers argument last night. Paige ate the last of the carrot cake. It was getting pretty brutal.”
I snort a laugh. “You should have seen it last year. I thought a turkey was going to go flying.”
Finn grins. He joins me at the piano bench, and I scooch to the side. The bench is small, small enough it barely fits one person, let alone two. It shouldn’t matter, considering he’s made of air, but it makes my skin itch.
I hold my breath as he sits beside me.
“Your sister plays, too,” Finn says.“And I’ve seen Jasper messing around on the instruments around the house. But not your mom or Paige.”
The question is unspoken.
I nod. “My dad.”
Finn watches me expectantly, and I avert my gaze before continuing.
“He grew up in my grandparents’ dive bar,” I say. “Learned to play from all the musicians that came through. By the time he met my mom, he was playing gigs all over the city. He started teaching music at school when I came along.” A smile pulls on my lips. “I can’t remember a time someone in the house wasn’t playing. We’d spend hours on the piano or with our guitars.”
“He taught you,” Finn says.
“Margot too.” I reach out to flip the keyboard on, fingers drifting over the plastic keys. Nothing beats the piano downstairs. The open top and bottom let the tone ring through the entireroom—the entire house. Like the music becomes air for a few minutes, and I’m breathing in notes.
I push off the bench and make my way to my closet, popping open the door and bending down to find the box of sheet music I’ve left untouched since we moved in. I peel the tape off the box and crack it open.
The smell of our old house—of the music room, my dad’s music room—wafts into my nose, triggering memories of nights in that room, an instrument in my, Margot’s, and my dad’s hands, my mother holding Jasper and bouncing him to the beat.
I sift through the papers for a specific song and pull it out, returning to Finn at the bench. I settle beside him, and I can’t be sure, but I think he shifts my way. I think I might shift his way, too.
“If you start playing ‘Hot Cross Buns,’ I swear to god…” Finn says.
I lean over to bump my shoulder with his. I nearly fall off the bench, which makes him laugh.
“Being nonmaterial has its pros, you know,” Finn says.
I roll my eyes and spread the sheet music open atop the piano. “The Beatles. That good for you?”
Finn nods.
“I’m guessing you can read this?” I ask.
Finn gives me an offended look, and I lift my hands in surrender.
“Hey, I’m just checking,” I say. “Otherwise, you’d be shit out of luck.”
“Hilarious.”
I turn my attention back to the music. I can feel Finn’s gaze burning into the side of my face, and I clear my throat. “The melody is up here,” I say.
“Is it?” Finn asks, in a way that makes every nerve ending spark to life.
“All right, Casper, focus.” I tap the music. “We’re starting with a C.” I make a slow show of the chord and then repeat it.
For all his informality, the moment I begin to play, Finn watches my hands with an intensity that pokes at something deep inside me. Not a love for the music but an obsession. Like an essential nutrient you’ve gone without for years.
Finn tries next, his hands hovering over the keys. On his first attempt, his fingers pass through the plastic, and he curses softly. I wait, and he tries again, managing to make noise this time. It is far from a C, but with a few more attempts and constant concentration on his part, he finds it.
