What if I didn’t destroy his life?
What if he doesn’t, though? And what if I did?
I plunge my hand into my pocket, the flash drive I always carry with me suddenly heavier, like a lead weight. It’s too much, this emotion. I need itout.
Hoping Winona and Wade will forgive me, I make a beeline for the barn.
It’s time to get my hands on that piano.
When I sit down at the bench, I hold my breath in awe. The Bechstein is a beast of precision, a masterpiece of dynamics and sustain.
And I go full Beethoven on the thing.
When my fingers hit the keys, it’s with a pounding determination. It’s been—what—two and a half weeks since I last played? In piano terms, that’s an eternity. If I keep playing for too much longer, my hands and wrists will cramp quickly.
But it’s such a stunning machine. The piano we have in the bar is a Boston baby grand—suitable for a bar, but it lacks the richness, depth, and resonance of a truly exceptional instrument. And now, after playing this classic Bechstein, I doubt I’ll ever be satisfied with the responsiveness of another piano.
I don’t run through a single song but rather bits of everything that comes to mind—reflections of the emotions I’ve been suppressing. Not just since Lou walked into the bar, but since before my mom split. Since the accident. And maybe even before that.
I don’t cry, not because I don’t feel, but because that’s not how I show emotion.
This is.
My fingers dance over the keys like a storm, each note a drop of regret. The chords slam down like fists, pounding out guilt in the hollow of my ribs. Shame weaves through the melody, creating a flaxen cord that strengthens with every refrain. Itweighs me down, slowing my fingers and making my head droop closer and closer to the keys.
But then sunlight peeks through the skylight, casting golden beams that fall on my hands, burning through the cords and letting them drop to the ground. And now, my fingers move freely again, but they don’t fly or dance. They pull the music out of me, tug at a longing in my heart that’s too stubborn to come out without a fight.
My hands are persistent, though, and the longer I play, the more something inside me splits open, and the yearning pours out in a slow, aching reverberation—a cry so soft, yet so earnest, it could make the heavens themselves weep.
“Patty,” Lou whispers behind me.
My hands fly off the keyboard like it’s on fire, slamming into my thighs so hard I half expect scorch marks on my jeans. I could kick myself for leaving my heart wide open like that, so raw and unguarded, for anyone walking by to see. Tohear.
Reluctantly, I turn my head.
“I had no idea.” Her whisper almost makes me flinch.
I’m too raw to school my features, so I feel the way my forehead screws up and my eyebrows pull together in worry. “What?”
She comes over to the piano, and I scoot to the side to make room for her on the bench. She looks at me, not with judgment.
But withawe.
“It’s in your soul, too. The music.”
Her words sink deep. But it’s the word “too” that reaches to my core. “You knew I went to music school.”
“You dropped out. I assumed it was because you didn’t care.”
“I cared too much. I had too many thoughts and aspirations and too little humility.”
She gives a quiet laugh, looking at my fingers as I return them to the keyboard like she can’t believe what they’re capable of. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t gratifying.
“Who could teach you anything?”
I exhale a laugh. “A lot of people could’ve taught me something if I’d been willing to listen.”
I start playing Rachmaninoff’sRhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.
