Page 76 of Liar Byrd
A ghost of a smile passes across his face. “Vonn said you were bored.”
They talk about me. What else do they say? Has Vonn told Nash that Jessica Bradley isn’t my real name?
I look around. “Is he here?”
I haven’t seen him since our far-too-brief kiss in the kitchen last night. Part of me is glad about that. I’m not sure if I’m ready to see him so soon after doing something I never thought I’d want to do with anyone. A part of me wants to see him, if only to reassure myself that he doesn’t regret it, and that he did like me.
“He was out late with Makhi.”
“Doing what?” I ask, curious.
He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”
We study each other for a beat.
“How are you after…” His gaze drifts to my wrist.
I have a faint bruise now from Kit grabbing me. It's too faint for Nash to have seen it from across the room, but Vonn and Makhi must have told him. I guess they would have to if Vonn killed Kit and probably buried his body in Nash’s garden.
Nance still hasn’t mentioned Kit, so maybe Nash told her that Kit had quit.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him.
“Good.” He nods and turns back to the piano.
I turn to leave. He won’t play, and I can't understand why it bothers me so much to watch him sit there, fingers hovering over the keys but not actually pressing them.
A flurry of keys produces a melody that immediately captivates me.
I abandon escape, twisting to face him instead of slipping out through the glass patio doors into the garden. “You play?”
From his profile, he’s smiling, if only slightly. “A little.”
He’s lying.
I’m almost positive I spoke out loud when he glances at me and says, “Well, maybe a little more than that.”
“But you don’t anymore?” I’ve never heard anyone play a single key since I’ve been under this roof. The door is almost always open, even if no one ever plays.
“Not for a while. Who taught you?”
Uncomfortable talking about something I don’t share with anyone, I shift from foot to foot. “I taught myself.”
I used to carry around a small plastic keyboard, really just a toy, that Mom bought me when I was seven. I wanted a realpiano someday, but Mom was always so shit with money that what little we had went toward rent, bills, and food.
I didn’t have much before we went to Jeremiah. That keyboard was one of the few precious things that meant anything to me. But Jeremiah values the spiritual over the material, Mom kept telling me. That meant there was no more room in our lives for photos or the toy keyboard I loved.
The keyboard ended up in the trash, just like the photographs of my dad. If Mom were still alive, I might never forgive her for breaking my heart like that.
“You’re talented.”
I shake off his praise. “I can’t read music.”
He stares at me. “You taught yourselfClair de Lunewithout knowing how to read sheet music?”
I try to read his expression. “Would the sheet music have made it easier?”
I don’t know if he’s struggling not to laugh or cry.
