Page 128 of Till The Sun Dies (Checkmate 2)

I imagine sittingonthe piano, perhaps lying down while he plays me just as skillfully as the instrument.

Stop it!

His eyes come up. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” A blush burns my face and forces me down from the tile platform before I make a fool of myself. I hurriedly move across the room and busy myself looking in empty drawers and peeking into the stocked fridge.

Beer, wine, chocolate. Loads of overpriced stuff that sounds amazing late at night when there are no other options to fix a sudden hunger. Bags of chips and pretzels are displayed on top of the counter, and a corkscrew beside that.

To keep myself from staring at Ang, I study everything intently, like it’s important I remember every inch of this room, but when the soft strains of something beautiful winds its way through the room, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my lungs freeze mid-breath.

“Oh my God.”

He plays the song by memory; he needs no sheet music or a clip on the internet. I turn to watch him play, and am amazed and weirdly satisfied to find he doesn’t even need to look at the keys. “Smile.” My lips quiver. “You’re playing Smile?”

He lifts his chin in invitation. “Charlie Chaplin might have written the most heartbreaking song in the history of the world. It’s both healing and devastating.” When I’m close enough, he misses notes to grab my wrist and pulls me down so we touch from knee to shoulder. “It speaks of smiling, even when everything sucks. Smiling, even when everything hurts. It speaks of bravery and love.” His eyes come to mine without releasing my hand. “I think of you a lot when I hear this song. When I play it.”

I push my anxiety away and simply lean into his strong body. Friends can lean against friends. It doesn’t have to be weird.

“Do you play it often?”

He resumes playing, and though I’m tempted to close my eyes and float away with the music, I’d rather watch his skilled hands.

Broad.

Strong.

Ropey muscles that stretch along his forearm, and leather bands on his right wrist.

“Yeah.” He slides his hands along the ivory keys and bumps his arm against my side. “I seem to play it every day lately. I play for the band; that’s work, they’re songs we write for the club or whatever. The crowds want something to dance to, and though you can dance to this, it’s not what they’re asking for. They want hot and fast, so most of the good stuff we write stays at home.” He looks down through long lashes. “It’s a shame, because we can write some really beautiful stuff. Some record companies buy our music… they bought the song Scotch wrote for Lily.”

“That one was nice and slow.”

Nodding, he inches his way up the keys. “That was a good song. It’s nice to hear the quality stuff on the radio, because it gets a little dull playing the same old shit at the club.”

“You still like it, right?” Frowning, I think back on my life. “I don’t have a single childhood memory that didn’t include the band. I don’t just mean you, or Luc, or Marc, or Scotch. But I mean all four of you, together, the band. It would be weird if you broke up.”

He grins. “We wouldn’t break up. Jesus, there’s just no way that would happen. We’re family for life, and that’s completely separate to the band. But maybe we’ll slow down on the Club 188 gigs.” His shrugging shoulders bump against mine. “Life is different now; we’re not in high school anymore. Scotch has a wife and family. Marc’s getting hitched someday soon, and they’ve got a baby taking up their time. Luc can only practice every second week because of work, and when he’s off, I bet he’d rather hang with Kari. Things are just different now, ya know?”

He speaks of the rest of his friends settling down, and yet, he’s single. Childless. He has no attachments that take up his time.

I’ve taken up an awful lot of his time lately…

“Anyway.” A soft smile plays over his face. “I have to play a certain set for work, and though I enjoy it, I don’t love it like I used to. But at home, I play for me, and when it’s just me… this is the song that keeps coming up.”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.“I really like this song. It reminds me of me a little bit, too.”

“Yeah?” The soft strains come a little louder as he reaches the higher notes. “How do you mean?”

“Well… Sonia, my…” My pulse thrums. “My therapist.” I turn away. “I know, I’m a crazy person who needs a therapist. But she’s really–”

“Hey.” The music stops so his hand can drag my jaw around. “Nobody ever said you were crazy, least of all me. I’m Ang, remember? I’m safe. I don’t judge you.”

I swallow the tears that want to come to the surface. I haven’t cried in a few days, and I really don’t want to start now while I sit in an opulent hotel with a nice guy and a beautiful piano.

“Okay. Sonia’s actually really cool. She’s old and looks a little too nice, you know? Like maybe she could be pushed around. But the second she speaks, you realize you’re wrong. Nobody pushes her around, and I kinda love that about her.” When he’s sure I won’t run again, his hand leaves my jaw and goes back to playing my song. “Around my fourth or fifth session, she suggested something she dubbedsmile therapy. It’s so obvious, it’s dumb, but she was saying how no one ever thinks of it.”

“Smile therapy?”

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