Page 84 of Liar Byrd
I smile at her, liking her view of the world. “It is.”
As if she feels my attention on her, she glances at me, sees my smile, and her cheeks flush a soft pink. “What?”
Shaking my head, I refocus on the sheet music. “I like the way you look at things.”
“Really?” Her voice is soft with surprise.
I play B flat major, complementing the G minor she played before. “Really.”
Her head drops, and she focuses on the piano keys.
I watch her fingers when she lifts them. There’s no reluctance in her motion. Shewantsto play—lovesto play—more than I ever did.
“The way I look at things is wrong.”
When I turn to face her, I feel her hesitation, so I shift my gaze to the piano, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She doesn’t play Debussy, Beethoven, Bach, or Chopin.
She makes magic.
The tension leaves her shoulders as she fills the room with a violent storm. Harsh. Resonant. Fierce.
And so beautiful, my heart clenches, and I can’t look away.
I learned to play with perfect technical skill from great piano masters.
She plays from the heart—from her soul—and she would blow every single one of my piano masters away with her raw talent.
I don’t realize I’m staring until she peers over at me and freezes.
Shaking my head, I look away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. You’re brilliant.”
Her eyes drift to the fingers she’s resting on the keys. Long, slender piano fingers. As if created for the keys. “I just play for me.”
I smile slightly. “Maybe that’s why.”
She lifts her head, her brow furrowing in confusion.
“I had piano masters from Italy come teach me after my mom died,” I explain.
The furrows deepen. “Why from Italy?”
“Only the best for Nash Gabriel,” I say quietly.Bitterly. “The poor little rich boy with two first names.”
I play theMinuet in G Major, andI feel her looking at me.
She adds color to it. Passion. Life.
So I keep playing when I had intended to stop.
Her colorful notes weave around me, filling in the blankness.
She has her eyes closed. My head is tilted, watching her as I play the music by muscle memory. I learned how to play the music, but I didn’t learn how to feel it or feel my way through it the way she does. I stop playing, and she keeps on.
When she finally stops, she’s smiling slightly with her eyes closed. “That was fun.” She slowly opens them, turns to find me watching her, and blushes. “Sorry. I just took over…”
I shake my head, and her voice trails off. “I stopped because I wanted to hear you.”
