Page 28 of Blindsided By You

When the piano player finishes his last piece, an achingly beautiful melody, I raise my hands to applaud, then let them fall noiselessly with sudden awareness I’m the only one about to offer appreciation of his talent. In this room full of couples, focused on each other, his music simply sets the mood for a romantic rendezvous. The piano bar is a refuge for those intent on each other rather than the rugby that is the centre of my world. Sitting there, a lone woman amid all these loved-up pairs, only magnifies my sadness.

The pianist gathers his things and is gone, leaving the bar quickly, as if not wishing to linger for a second longer than he’s been paid for. Without thinking, I clamber from the high stool and head for the vacant piano.

As a child, the instrument intrigued me. My mother’s love for it was with me from my earliest conscious memories. The sound ofher playing (always beautiful) and that of her students (a mixture of pleasure and pain to our ears) was the backdrop for my life until I left home for university at eighteen. Somehow, I thought I would always have her music to come home to. I took it for granted that whenever I returned, it would be there, waiting for me—that she’d always be there, waiting for me. I was wrong.

Seated on the stool, I rest tentative hands on the keys while my brain searches for inspiration. I learned a little over the years. Like many children, I wanted to emulate my parents, but I chose to follow my father’s obsession with sport rather than my mother’s passion for the piano. In between the rough and tumble of the girl’s rugby team, buried in the thick of practices and games, Mum passed on her love of music to me, but not the practical skill.

I fumble through a few bars of ‘Fur Elise’, every beginner’s go-to tune. My lack of innate talent is yet another reminder of how much I’m more like Dad. My mother’s clever hands drew music effortlessly from the keys. Even those odd times, where I persevered for a few months to please her, accepting her gentle teaching and studiously practising every day, I still sucked. The piano didn’t come naturally to me.

A hand brushes my shoulder, and I falter, turning ready to bark a warning at whatever stray man has dared to touch me. The harsh words die on my lips as Geordie slips onto the seat beside me.

“So, here you are,” he says. “I saw that guy in the All Blacks jersey bothering you. And then you disappeared. I was worried.”

Safe warmth washes through me. A decent man actually sought me out; someone who cared about where I was and how I was feeling. It is a night for surprises.

“Should have guessed you might be here.” He runs a thumb softly across the keys. I shiver, imagining it grazing my lips—or other places.

“You still play?” I ask, trying to stabilise myself with conversation. “I know Rachel doesn’t.”

Her father’s insistence his children learn piano is just one of many things she rebelled against the moment she left home.

He leans into me, his golden curls brushing my hair, his proximity stirring something deep in my centre.

“Now and then. I didn’t always love it when I was a kid. I mean, who wants to do anything just because your father says so. But it’s something I’m glad I learned. Besides, I wasn’t totally awful.” He lets out a low chuckle. “According to your mum, anyway. I don’t think she was just being nice. Anyway, go on; don’t let me stop you.”

I restart, my notes even more stilted under his scrutiny, until I hit the inevitable wrong key. I shrug in defeat and draw back my hands with a frustrated sigh, letting my fingers hang limp in my lap.

“Here, follow me.” He moves his long fingers to rest easily on the keys. “I remember she did this on my first lesson with her. I was only about six.”

It was a little trick Mum used with her smallest students. She’d let them ‘play’ with her, let them feel what it was like to pull music from those keys, and then she’d teach them how to do it for themselves.

“Yeah, she used to do the same with me.” My smile is bittersweet at the precious memory.

I lay my hands lightly across his. They’re warm but not soft—working hands, slightly roughened. A jolt of heat spreads through my core as I imagine them exploring my body. I’ve watched those hands at work, and from the way he so deftlyhandles the tools of his trade, I sense he’d be good at any use he applied them to. I also like the steady feel of them under mine, dependable, trustworthy.

Geordie begins to play. I let him carry me along as the music ripples effortlessly beneath us. There’s intimacy in our connection. I close my eyes, swaying with the gentle ebb and flow, the liquid notes flowing through him into me. We’re in a private world, a place only the two of us can go. We are as unaware of the rest of the people in this room as they are of us. This simple tune, banged out by many wannabe pianists, becomes a thing of beauty, swirling around us and through us, and ending way too soon.

I smile up at him, our eyes mirroring mutual satisfaction. No one else shows their appreciation, but we don’t need it. We’re lost in each other’s gaze, the moment and the memories entwining us in who we are and who we were.

It may be unexpected, but Geordie and I, we fit together with perfect ease. This knowledge cuts through the bullshit of earlier, the jerk in the bar, and Kyle. I let it go, and all that remains is the thrilling possibility that the boy I knew has grown into the man I need. The intensity of this revelation is overwhelming and I break away, already unsure and second-guessing myself.

“Can I buy the piano player a drink?” I steer the situation back into the realms of friendship while I try to process what’s going on inside of me.

“You could probably persuade me.” His slow grin unleashes small dimples. “If they’ve got a bottle of that poison Nathan concocts up at MacFarlane’s. Don’t tell him I said it—can’t have him getting big-headed—but it’s the best.”

“Sure,” I say, sliding off the piano stool, reluctant to abandon the nearness of him, but understanding it would be helpful to look atwhat’s going on here when not tucked in against his hard body and magnetic warmth.

That resolve doesn’t last. Soon we’re huddled together in one of the booths, embraced in the hug of old leather and the happy glow of whisky. By unspoken agreement, we avoid the events of our reconnection this past week and reject the traditional rehash of tonight’s game. Instead, we dive back into our shared past; summers by the loch and winter bonfires; carolling in the village, and first-footing at Hogmanay.

“Do you remember the year they put up that enormous nativity scene at St Brigid’s?” he asks, his mouth tipping up in a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, the Catholics went all out trying to outdo the crib at St Andrew’s. And then there was a big fuss when someone stole Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus and left garden gnomes in their place…”

His eyes sparkle with boyish mischief.

“It was me,” he confesses.

“Seriously? Gnomegate was you? Oh my god Geordie, you nearly started a religious war between the two parishes.” We dissolve into cackles, and cop a glare from the guy at the next table whose thin-lipped wife rolls her eyes at us.

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