Page 71 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
I laugh awkwardly. “Thanks, but, um, no. I was just messing around.”
“Liar. You looked like you were about to play a solo concert at Carnegie Hall.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t say anything.
“How long have you played?” he asks, walking toward me with a confidence I don’t think I’ve ever felt in my entire life. “You’re obviously not a beginner.”
“Since I was six,” I tell him honestly. “My dad used to play. He taught me.”
“Heusedto play?”
“I mean maybe he still does. Probably. Wherever he is.”
I shrug and look out at the Strip. Now that I’m not playing, the noise filters in. Muted, because we’re so high up, but still noticeable without the piano. The worries in my head start to grow louder, too. My bones heavier. It was a nice respite, though.
“Ah. I see. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was relieved when he finally left for good. He taught me how to play, so I’m grateful for that. But that was really the only good thing he did.”
Torren nods in my periphery. “I can relate to that. I mean, my dad didn’t teach me much of anything, but I was relieved when he was finally gone.”
I fold my lips between my teeth. I know all about his dad. How he died of liver failure when Torren was sixteen. Cirrhosis. Torren said in an interview once that his dad was an alcoholic, but he didn’t go into detail. I inferred, though. His father wasn’t a great person, and Torren didn’t mourn him.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, and I mean it. “Let’s just tell ourselves we’re better off.”
“We are.”
The silence creeps back up between us. A warm breeze tousles my hair, tickling the back of my neck, and I move to put my hair in a ponytail using the elastic on my wrist. I feel Torren’s eyes on me as I do, and I’m thankful he can’t see the way I blush in the dim light.
The longer he stares at me, though, studying me, the more I think I see a flicker of a memory in his eyes. Like he’s so close to grasping it, but it keeps slipping through his fingers. It’s as frightening as it is thrilling.
It feels a bit like an invasion, how much I know about him when he doesn’t remember me. I’m embarrassed of my former obsession, and I’ll admit that I’ve been hiding like a coward behind his ignorance. As much as it hurts knowing he’s discarded me, I can’t deny that it makes me feel less exposed. I don’t have to own up to my past hero worship. I don’t have to be ashamed of my naiveté.
“Have you ever played in front of an audience?”
His question—the way it almost sounds leading, searching—makes my heart thunder in my head. I won’t lie, so I give him the barest of truths.
“I was in a band.”
He hums, brow furrowing slightly before he gives me a small smile.
“That’s cool.”
“Sav and Mabel didn’t tell you?”
“No,theydidn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me that Sav knew. She likes to keep her finger on the music scene.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she does.
“Yeah, so my dad was a jazz pianist,” I continue, “but when I started to play better than he could teach me, my mom got me lessons. I was in a youth music program for years. Played some solo recitals at Barnum Hall in Santa Monica. I loved it, and I was good, but I wasn’t amazing or anything like that. Not a child prodigy. So, when I realized I wasn’t going to be a famous classical pianist, I joined a rock band and played keyboard. But classical...that’s where my heart is.”
Torren laughs, eyes alight with humor. “Sounds like a natural progression of events, honestly.”
I feel such warmth from his laughter, from a hint of his approval, that I almost tell him. I almost unleash the whole fucking thing—the memory, the anger. I want to shake him and scream REMEMBER ME, but I don’t. I punk out because I’m a coward and because I’m ashamed.
And because it fucking hurts still, his rejection.
“Well, I should go...”
