Page 14 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

And maybe a few hundred cups of coffee.

Five

CHLOE

During my free period the next afternoon, I head down to the drama department to look through the play archive. My Story Arts teacher assigned a group project already, and I need to find a play to analyze. Anita and Charlotte entrusted me to select something because they can’t agree. Charlotte wants classic; Anita wants contemporary.

Honestly, I don’t care either way, but they voted me the tiebreaker, so here I am, trekking down to the music and drama wing instead of catching up on my economics homework.

I don’t venture to this part of the school often, and it takes me a few wrong turns before I finally end up in the right place. The student aide—a short brunette with orange plastic glasses—points me toward a bookcase taller than me, overflowing with scripts.

“Has Cardinal Ridge put on all these?” I ask.

“No,” the girl says. “But the drama teachers keep a big stock to use in classes. I’m going to lunch now. Just sign out whichever one you take on the computer and lock the door behind you. I have a key.”

“Right. Will do, thanks.” I search the shelves for something vaguely familiar, finally just selecting a few at random, hoping they’ll at least be interesting. I shut the door behind me when the faint tinkling of piano reaches my ears. Normally, I would ignore it, but something about the music intrigues me.

I still have twenty minutes left in the period. I follow the sound. It’s quiet in the empty hallway, other than the piano keys.

My sneakers squeak too loudly on the waxed floor. It feels like talking in a library, like violating some sacred space meant only for whispers.

A practice room door stands slightly ajar. Behind the frosted glass, a tall figure leans over an upright piano. I pause, listening. Goosebumps freckle my arms. I’ve never really listened to classical music before. Now, I wonder why.

The smooth melody carries me like a leaf on the wind. I feel airy, all my stress forgotten thanks to this stranger.

When the music stops and silence reigns once again, it takes me a moment to come back to myself. I rub my shoulder, surprised to find the tension has dissolved. Weird. And then comes the shuffling of paper—sheet music, probably—and the sound of a backpack zipping.

I turn to leave when the practice room door squeaks open.

“Baker?”

Busted. I don’t know who I expect to be behind the door, but it certainly isn’t Rhoads Simpson.

“Heyyyy.” I pivot, guilt written all over my features.

“Whatcha doing?” He smirks.

“Oh, nothing. I just heard music, so...”

“You followed it down the rabbit hole?”

I shrug, sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Guess my secret’s out now. Honestly, it’s like I want people to know. I did leave the door partially open.” He grins, shutting the door behind him and stepping closer to me.

“Secret’s safe with me.” I draw an invisible ‘X’ over my heart with my index finger.

“Thanks. I wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”

“Well, you’re really good. At the piano, I mean. At least from the teeny-tiny, littlest bit I heard.”

“Thanks.” Is he blushing? “I’ve been playing since I could reach the keys. Want to know another secret?” He picks up his headphones and places them over my ears. That woodsy orange scent filters into my nose. He pushes a button on his phone and music fills my head.

He mouths something and points to his ears, but I shake my head. Five stars to the noise-canceling headphones for doing their job. He mouths again, slower this time, exaggerating his movements so I can read his lips.

His lips. I’m staring at his lips, and I am absolutely not thinking about what he’s saying. I’m thinking about how they’d feel against mine.

Whoa, where did that come from?