Page 60 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
We understand each other in one small way.
“I didn’t bring you here for sympathy,” he says, smiling subtly. “I wanted to, um…” He gestures to the piano, his expression shifting into a bashful one.
I lift a brow. “You play?”
He nods.
“Oh, then I insist!” I maneuver to thepiano before he can argue, sitting off to one side of the bench. “Show me what you can do.”
He was the one to mention playing, but he sighs as he drops onto the bench next to me. Caldwell flexes his fingers, his eyes closing as if he’s summoning a spirit.
When his fingers glide across the keys, I wonder if he reached the spirit world, after all. The music swells through the room, soft at first and then increasing into a dramatic waltz. It feels alive.
My attention is stuck on him, but he pays me no mind. His eyes are shut, losing himself in the music, leaning in as the song builds to heights I couldn’t have imagined.
He plays without a single sheet of music in front of him, either by memory or a song of his creation. I don’t recognize the tune, but I’ve never listened to classical music. At the moment, I’m a fan.
Visions of him waltzing around a ballroom fill my mind, clad in a dark gray suit… and I’m on his arm.Thisis where he belongs, I realize, not in the sweaty nightclub.
I was right about him all along.
There are no words until the music fades away. He presses a few gentle, final keys.
“Caldwell…” I scoot closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “That was beautiful. I had no idea you could play like that.”
“I’m at Strode on a music scholarship,” he says as if to explain away his talent. “I know you assumed academic, but?—”
“If you’re studying, it is academic, in a way.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.” His eyes finally meet mine. A soft smile rests on his lips.
“Studying music instead of math or science doesn’t make you seem any less intelligent, if that’s what you thought…”
He shrugs sheepishly. “No, you’re right. I know that.”
“Thank you for sharing this place with me. I know this means something to you, and it does to me, too. The music, the stories about your mom… I get it.”
“It does.” He bites at the inside of his cheek. “After the club, I wanted to show you more of me. I worry I gave you the wrong impression that evening. I’m happy to go slow.”
“I know.” I smile softly, squeezing his shoulder. “I never doubted it.”
None of this is real, but these words are honest. Of everything I hate about Caldwell and everything wrong with him, he has never made me feel rushed. It’s likely because his interest in me is fake—but God, it feels so real right now.
“Now, for the grand finale…” He stands, offering me a hand. “I’ll show you my childhood bedroom.”
“Oh?” I lift a brow, taking his hand. “I thought we were going slow.”
“We are.” He leads me down the darkened hallway.
I should be afraid, but the fear is gone now. Where did it go?
“Keep your mind out of the gutter. There’s nothing special about my room,” he says.
When I enter, I decide he must be joking. The room is unlike anychildhood bedroomI can imagine. My own is littered with posters and old video games. There’s nothing like that in Caldwell’s room.
Instead, there’s handcrafted furniture, wooden but more rustic than anything to be found at Strode. There isn’t a poster in sight, or a console, or even an old PC.
Like the rooms downstairs, the walls are lined with books. There are piles of books on the floor as if the bookshop made its way up here. His bed is meticulously made. It’s covered in dark brown sheets anda handmade quilt.
