Ah, there it is—Marigold gives me a sardonic look. “Oh, sorry, I forgot I was supposed to bring my partner along with me for every practice.”
“What’s this for, anyway?”
“I’m doing a performance for a charity thing in a couple months. Nothing major—it’s a favor for my dad, really.”
I should drop it and leave her be, let her carry on playing half a duet, alone in this massive room with this expensive antique piano.
But instead I find myself saying: “Well, good thing I’m here.”
Her head jerks back up. I always love it when I can earn that expression on Marigold’s face: sheer shock, her brown eyes gone huge and round. “Wait. What? Really?”
“Sure.”
She wets her lips. And if my gaze dips down for a brief second to watch the course of her tongue sweeping over that lush pink mouth, it’s entirely against my will.
“Haha,” she says. “Funny one.”
“I’m serious. Scoot over.”
I watch the debate play out on her face as clearly as if she were narrating it for me. But at last, she pushes herself down toward the bass end of the piano, making room.
The standard piano bench isn’t built for two. Sometimes they’ll bring in a special duet bench for performances like this, but here, at Marigold’s house, it’s just the usual thirty inches.
Her hip fits against mine, her thigh a hot pressure against my leg. This close, I can smell her perfume: something woodsy, like fresh-turned earth.
“Ready?” My voice comes out sounding low. Husky, like I’ve been smoking or drinking whiskey.
Her hands are already on the keys. Mine join hers, and draped against the ivory, my hands look massive in comparison. I imagine I could completely consume one of her hands in mine, obscuring it totally from view.
“Three breaths,” she says.
I close my eyes as we breathe in silence, the soft sound of Marigold’s exhale somehow warm even if I can’t feel it.
And then we play.
Whatever issues either of us might have—Marigold’s mistakes or my heartlessness—they disappear when we play together. It’s like we cover for each other, almost. Marigold gives the piece heart. And me, I don’t even notice her mistakes. Maybe I’m just too distracted by the closeness of her, my gaze drifting from the sheet music occasionally to fixate on her hands, her teeth chewing on her lower lip the way she does when she’s extra focused. I forget to turn the pages, and so she has to, leaning across my body to snag the corner of the score. The fall of her saffron hair grazes the end of my nose.
Our hands cross each other’s, my wrist brushing her knuckles, her fingers dancing past mine. It’s good I have the piece mostly memorized. Otherwise, I’m not sure I could finish at all.
We close out the first movement, and Marigold lifts her hands from the piano, letting out a slow breath. I know how she feels. It’s like I just ran a race or went ten rounds with Shrishti in the ring. My heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest.
I swallow several times against the dry knot in my throat. Thesilence stretches out too long and thick; I can feel the memory of our last notes reverberating even if my ears hear nothing. At last, I manage to get out a few rough words: “That sounded good.”
“Really?” Marigold says, twisting around to look at me properly. “You think so?”
Of course, now our faces are far too close. She isn’t wearing makeup, but there’s a black smudge under one eye from where she rinsed off her mascara last night.
“Sorry,” my mouth says despite all my better instincts, “just, you have a thing—”
And my hand rises, my thumb swiping that mark away. Her skin is warm and alive against mine, and so, so soft.
Marigold’s wide eyes stare back at mine, her lips parted and her entire being gone perfectly still. I don’t think she’s even breathing.
“Sorry,” I say again, finally ripping my gaze away from hers to stare back at the score. “It was bugging me.”
We both look at the sheet music for several long moments. The black notes swim before my eyes.
“Anyway. You good? Did that help?”
