Page 53 of Royally Arranged

“Sure, but here? Now?” Fuck, my heart was thumping wildly. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the piano.

Gently but firmly, Nova put her hands on my shoulders. With her guidance I settled on the bench. Her fingers linked with mine, tightening pleasantly. “Do it,” she whispered, “for me. Please.”

Swallowing the mountain that had made a home in my throat, I reached for the white keys. There was sheet music on the piano, but I didn’t need it. The thudding in my ears got louder. Through it I noticed the other players had stopped. Without their music there should have been audible chatter. There was none. The room had gone mute.

I turned my head enough to see Nova. She was smiling. Waiting. Believing in me.

I’m going to make a fool out of myself.

Well. So what? If it made her happy ... then ...

My fingers glided over the keys, muscle memory coercing forth music.

Without raising my head, I knew people were watching me perform. The room was transfixed. I imagined that Larchmont was hoping I’d make a mistake and embarrass myself. With Nova at my side, her presence a constant strength ... I realized I couldn’t fail.

The last note hung in the air. It went on and on, sinking into my blood, my teeth. Seconds after it ended, the applause began; soft, polite, then finally enthusiastic. Spinning on the bench, I scanned the ballroom. My siblings were cheering, my mother clapping hardest of them all.

The Valentines had grouped together. Each of them applauded, none of it genuine. But I’d expected that out of them. They didn’t matter to me. I kept searching until I found who I was after.

There: my father’s lips were a crooked line. He sucked away every ounce of joy in the air, replacing it with a severe heaviness I couldn’t understand. Was he angry? Had I let him down somehow? I couldn’t see how—the whole damn room wasexplodingfor me.

Nova touched my wrist. “That was wonderful,” she hushed. The centers of her eyes were expanding. I sank into them, eager for the comfort her delight brought me. Let my father sulk. He was the only one.

“I can’t believe I did that,” I said.

“You were amazing.”

“I was only okay. No one here seems to be a music critic. Lucky me.”

“Thorne!” Francesca gushed, slamming into me on the bench. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! Wow!”

Laughing, I scooted over so she had room to sit. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that Nova had receded into the crowd.

Kain swaggered up, his arms crossed, his smirk in full force. “I haven’t heard you play in years. I’m surprised you didn’t forget how to do it.”

“Like riding a bike.” Clapping him on the shoulder, I got up so he could sit beside Fran. “Go ahead. I can tell you’re dying to show off.”

He snorted, but when he whispered in Fran’s ear, I knew I was right. In a synchronization born inherently to twins, the two of them began to play the piano in perfect harmony. It was a tune with lots of mistakes—a cringeworthy wrong key here and there—yet no one cared. Especially not Kain and Fran, who laughed heartily in the face of imperfection.

Backing away, I started to look for Nova. Before I could find her, someone blocked my escape. “Son,” my father said, looming over me. In his pale gray suit, his eyes appeared lighter. “That was a risky stunt.”

“It wasn’t a stunt.” I kept my eyes on his, not blinking. “It was something I’d always wanted to do. Now excuse me—but there’s a prettier face I’d like to spend the evening looking at.”

As I started around him, I thought he’d stop me. He didn’t.

Closing in on Nova, I reached out to put my arm around her middle. She twisted into my touch, grinning up at me. The chandeliers created a thousand gold diamonds beneath the surface of her dark pools.

She looked beyond me, her smile fading. “What did your dad say to you? Was he happy with your music?”

“That man is never happy about anything.” I kissed her quickly on her forehead. “Let’s dance.”

Nova continued to stare over my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said, cupping her chin. “It’s fine. Do I look like it matters to me?”

“You’re right.” Holding my forearms, she pulled me to the center of the room. “Who cares what he thinks?”

As I spun her around the glossy floor to the broken music my siblings created, I saw my father watching me again. He reminded me of a sponge that, long ago, had been full ... but was now parched and waiting for more water. An empty man. Briefly I was struck by a twinge of sympathy.

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