Joe was right. I used to live the what-ifs, not just wonder about them.
Not that I had a lot of what-ifs when I was eighteen, but it’s what drove me to the University of Texas when they offered me a full-ride academic scholarship. My major was undecided, and I was happy with that. I wanted the possibility.
And now I’m trying new things . . .
I turn to face Grant. “Does your offer still stand?”
“My offer?”
“I mean, it’s paint and a lot more work than sanding and staining some trim?—”
“I’m in,” he says swiftly.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Tomorrow after church?” he asks. “I’ll bring everything we need.”
I smile. “That’s perfect.”
12
SADIE
I sittall while my fingers press gently on the piano keys, the sheet music in front of me unnecessary to play “How Great Thou Art.” I’ve been practicing piano three times a week since I was eight, and when our church needed a pianist, I volunteered to fill in temporarily . . . four years ago.
My eyes slide over into my peripheral vision to view the congregation. The piano sits up on stage, so I can practically see everyone. Little girls in their Sunday dresses, young boys adjusting their ties, and parents placing their hands on shoulders to stop any fidgeting. But today, my attention catches on two men standing opposite each other across the center aisle as they sing along to the hymn. Grant. Milo.
My finger slips on a key, but I quickly cover it up, adding to the melody.
Once I finish playing today’s hymns, I slip quietly down the stairs to the second pew on the right to join my parents. My mom pats my knee and says, “Beautiful playing, Sadie.”
I turn toward her and nod with a well-practiced smile, then I turn the other way, using the opportunity to confirm that both men are sitting about sevenpews behind me.
After Pastor Jeff finishes his sermon and a final prayer is given, I hurry to the piano to collect my music.
“Still playing piano, I see—or should I say hear?” Milo’s voice is as hopeful as the last tune I played.
I nod without turning around. “The church needed a pianist.”
“I thought Patty played.”
I turn around, hugging the sheet music to my chest. “She does, but she fell ill a few years back and I filled in.”
“And she’s still sick?” His eyebrow quirks.
“Well, no, but she was relieved someone else took over,” I say.
“Isn’t Patty retired?”
“Yes,” I say, somewhat irritated at how he can pick up on my complacency when he’s only been back for two weeks.
“Seems she might have a little more time?—”
“I like playing.” I cut him off with the lie—one I’ve been using long before Milo asked the question.
He nods, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay. Well, you do play beautifully.”
I glance around him. At everyone hugging one another and laughing. At the way the light changes colors through the stained-glass windows. At . . . Grant. Grant, who is walking up behind Milo.
