Page 66 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
I laugh, then pat Byron’s forearm to show my appreciation for his friendly offer, even if it was a joke. “And what happens when you get tired of me mooching off you?” I tease.
“Won’t happen.” He puts a hand over mine. “I’ll never get tired of you, Rizzy.”
I stretch my legs and look at him with affection. He’s so adorable and charming. He’s been an amazing friend since we met in Hong Kong two years ago when I went there to visit with his younger sister.
And speaking of Julie…“You sure you’re going to be okay with me staying at your place until I find an apartment? Julie said I could stay at hers instead. She’s out of the country until next month.”
He waves it away. “The penthouse is huge. Five freakin’ bedrooms and eight baths. Stay as long as you want. Besides, you won’t like her place. Not only is it small, but it’s messy. Pains me to say it, but the sad fact is my baby sister’s a pig.”
I search his face. Julie is convinced he only offered out of some misguided sense of politeness. According to her, he’s very private and hates to share. He’s never let a girlfriend move in, claiming he doesn’t want another person’s mess in his space. He also spent a lot of money to soundproof his home because he hates other people’s noise. But nothing on his face makes me think he’s being polite. His blue eyes are too warm to be fake.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “I promise to be the neatest and quietest roommate ever.”
“No, no. It’s a cliché, but mi casa es tu casa. For real.” He glances to our right. “But…are you sure you don’t want anything from the store? That Steinway baby grand sounded great when you were playing it.”
It did, but the one I really wanted to try was the Bösendorfer baby grand. Unfortunately, the Butcher of Liszt was sitting at it. “There’s no way I’m letting you buy me a Steinway. It’s crazy.”
“Hey, Julie will play it, too.”
Except it feels too much like he’s buying it for me, not for his sister. “The Yamaha upright at your place is fine.” It’s Julie’s, who’s an accomplished pianist. We actually met at a piano store in Austria five years ago. She was playing the “Black Key” étude by Chopin on a Kawai but kept messing up certain notes. I told her if she tried different fingering, maybe it’d be easier, Her hands are on the small side.
She tried, played it perfectly, and shook her fists at the ceiling of the store. “I’ve been struggling for so long! My dickhead teacher told me I had to do it that way.”
“Eh, ‘rules.’ You should do whatever’s most effective for you.”
“You’re American too, aren’t you? If you don’t already have plans, I’d love to get a drink together.”
And we discovered over a crisp Blaufränkisch that we had a lot in common—a love of classical music, the cities we’d been to, our favorite performers. We kept in touch, then started to visit cities at the same time to hang out together. She’s been such a friendly, lovely constant in my life since I woke up.
Byron scowls. “Julie’s piano could use an upgrade.”
“A piano is a piano. And the Yamaha sounds great. Better than the digital one I usually practice on.” I travel with a digital piano because it’s easier to ship than an acoustic. But when I want to feel real hammer action under my fingers, I go to a piano store to play on one of the display units. Most store owners don’t mind once they realize I can play well.
Part of my plan is no longer hiding my talent. I know Sam’s going to hate it, saying I’m just showing off or drawing unwanted attention (his usual response to my playing where people might hear), but it isn’t like that. If I hadn’t lost my memory, would I be hiding my talent, mainly using digital pianos with headsets or with the sound set so low I can barely hear what I’m playing? Of course not. So I’m going to live my life like I somehow still have all my memories intact.
And I’m going to pray that eventually a few good people from my past will find me and try to reconnect. Hopefully seeing them will trigger something in my brain. You never know.
I wrap my hands around my cappuccino, now cooled enough that I won’t get burned. I look out the window at the people and cars, my eyes slowly defocusing.
As much as I’m blessed to have survived the accident and have a couple of close new friends, there’s a hollow spot in my chest I can’t ignore. At first I thought it was from the loss of my parents, whose absence I feel keenly at times—on Mother’s and Father’s Days, on their birthdays and mine, holidays…or just because. Even though I’ve lost huge chunks of memory, I feel warm acceptance and love every time I think of them. Sometimes I feel like we had some conflicts too—again, over something I no longer remember—but what kid has nothing but rainbows and unicorns with their parents for eighteen years?
But then I slowly realize the hollowness goes deeper than that, because even when I’m not thinking of my parents, my heart throbs with emptiness. It’s like I’m missing something so vital, so critical, that I can’t feel normal even though I have no idea what it is that’s gone from my life. Nobody does, not even Sam.
When I woke up eight years ago, my memory was a chaotic mess. It took a while before I started to recall events and people—not always accurately. It was horrifying when Sam had to set the record straight.
Then one day I discovered I could still play the piano. I remembered wanting to be a concert pianist, but after the coma, I wasn’t certain I could manage it. The realization that I could play compositions and advanced techniques was heady. I could swear I’d never, ever practiced them at tempo…but clearly I had.
It made me realize not being able to consciously recall whether I’ve played something doesn’t mean it’s gone from my deep, subconscious memory. So I’ve been practicing relentlessly. Discovering new music or drills I can play effortlessly gives me hope that one day I might find all the missing parts of my other memory too, even though right now it’s like a million-piece puzzle with all the bits in the center missing.
“Rizzy?” Byron’s hand waving in front of my face pulls me back to the present. He’s staring at me, eyes searching. “More deep thoughts?”
“Sorry. Spaced out for a moment.” I give him a smile because I’ve learned that it’s the best way to stop people from probing too hard or asking questions I don’t have the answers to.
“Want to get going?”
“Sure.”
His phone rings. He glances at it, then sighs with mild irritation. “I have to take this.”
“Why don’t I stretch my legs a little while you do that?” I squeeze his shoulder and step outside.
The sunlight feels nice, warming my skin. I stroll in the direction of Hammers and Strings. The Bösendorfer baby grand I saw there keeps calling my name. I don’t know why I have such a weird urge to try out that particular piano…or to own it. Maybe I can find out how much it costs and figure out how I can afford it. A girl can dream, right?
