Page 97 of When Stars Collide
He held out his flute and I clinked my glass against his. “It would seem the stars aligned themselves perfectly for me tonight.”
“I’ll say they did. I’m actually kind of surprised that you didn’t tell me to take a hike so you could bring Kira Capucci back here with you.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?” he snorted.
“Because she has a thing for you. She wouldn’t shut up about you at the premiere.”
“Yeah, I know. She made her intentions crystal clear while Esther was being interviewed.”
“Wait? Kira Capucci solicited you at the premiere, and you’re here, why?”
He shrugged. “She’s not my type.”
“Not your type?” I asked, incredulously. “Kira Capucci is everyone’s type. Hell, after a couple drinks in me, she very well could be my type, too.”
“Well, if you want, I can call Kira on her private cell phone number that she tucked none-too-discreetly inside of my pocket, leave the bottle of champagne sitting on the island, and give you two some time alone.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with Kira’s ten coveted digits scribbled on it, crumpled it up, and tossed it in a small wastebasket in his living room.
“Nice shot. It seems as though you have some practice disposing of women’s telephone numbers.”
“Just useless scraps of paper.” He looked up, noticing me inspecting the grand piano in the corner of the room. “Ah, yes, I acquired that two months ago. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play and figured now’s a good a time as any.”
“So, you bought an instrument that costs as much as a starter home in the Midwest on a whim?”
“When you put it that way, it makes me seem frivolous.”
“I suppose there’s worse things you could be spending your money on while thousands of homeless people sleep on the streets at night.”
“Are you done?”
I smirked. “For now. Seriously though, Phin, she’s a beauty, and as much as I’d like to rag on you, I can’t fault you for wanting to bring music into your home. Better than a gaggle of strippers, I guess.”
“My thoughts exactly. Although, I would liken a group of strippers to be more of a caravan than a gaggle.”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s that grin for?”
“You called me Phin. I just … it grew on me, and then you stopped. I like hearing it again.”
My cheeks flushed, forcing me to turn my head so that he wouldn’t notice.
“Why don’t you play something?” He nodded at the piano.
“Because I haven’t played anything since I was a child. I’m not certain whether I would even know how to play anymore.”
“Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget.”
“You’re highly overestimating my cycling skills.” I scanned the piano, appreciatively. Frankly, I probably could play it; and honestly, I kind of wanted to.
“All right. I’ll give it the old college try.” I handed him my champagne flute and walked over to the piano, taking a seat on the bench in front of me as I recalled the lessons my piano tutor had taught me twenty or so years ago. There were a few songs I could play by memory, the first one coming to mind being “Für Elise”. Exhaling, I placed my fingers on the keys and began channeling Beethoven’s undying classic. To my surprise, I took to it nearly as quickly as I had when I was younger. Maybe it really was like riding a bicycle, after all.
By the time I got halfway through the piece, I had hit my stride, living and breathing the music like I used to. Why I’d stopped playing, I didn’t know. Most likely, it had something to do with my childish desire to stick it to Marilyn, only hurting myself in the long run.
I became acutely aware of Phineas’s presence behind me. He was close, so close that if I were to lean back, the back of my head would brush against him. Concentrating on the keys in front of me, I attempted to shrug off my rapidly increasing pulse and continue playing. But that became all for naught when his breath caressed the back of my neck. Flustered, I missed a note, quickly composed myself, and resumed playing once more. As though taking that as a challenge, Phineas proceeded to sit down on the bench next to me, amused when I struggled to find the right keys.
“If you want me to play, you’re going to have to move away from the piano.”
“Why? Am I distracting you?” he asked in an annoyingly knowing tone.
“No,” I lied, “it’s just hard to move my arm with you sitting so close.” I placed my fingers on the keys and began playing again to make my point, but was met with his hand on top of mine. “I’m confused.” I looked up from the piano to his face looking down at me. “I thought you wanted to keep things professional?”
