Page 97 of Love Felt Like This

“Oh, wait wait wait.” She pulls out the recorder we’ve been using for our music sessions and starts it. “There. Perfect.”

I press a key, then drop my hand between my knees. “Well, what should I play?”

“What do you like to play?”

I tilt my head to the side and tap a single key. Then I repeat it. And again. It’s a familiar intro.

Beverly smiles. “I love ‘Bennie and the Jets.’ ”

“You recognize the song just from that?”

“Of course.”

This woman.

“Want to help me play?” I ask.

She twists her lips to the side. Always wearing her emotions on her face. But it’s not that worried one from earlier. It’s curiosity.

I scoot over so there’s spare room on the bench. She sits, but it’s a close fit. My knees bump Beverly’s, so I start to tuck them closer. Her thigh still hits mine, though, and her arm is nearly flush against my biceps. Clearing my throat, I tap the key again, then look at her, knocking my chin toward it. She gingerly replaces my finger with her own, our hands brushing past each other’s.

“Just keep doing that,” I instruct.

Beverly nods, watching as the song sprouts from my fingertips. My hands are plants newly watered, desperate for a sunny day, growing down the piano and stretching over keys. “Bennie and the Jets” was a song I used to play in Nashville with Dom after a few bourbons, when it was late and everyone, me included, was getting rowdy. When I no longer cared what the people liked, just that they were my captive audience and I was onstage with the music. Playing piano was hit or miss with crowds, but this song never flopped.

Beside me, Beverly starts to hum. I grin and sing the lyrics with her. For a moment, we’re in tune together, and my fingers are soaring over the keys, and I’m smiling because her singing voice is fine—not perfect—but the little wobbles give it character. Beverly is nothing if not filled with character.

When we get to the titular line, I hop to a different note, creating a perfect harmony and making Beverly jump up with surprise. My fingers, already occupied, can’t twitch out a new rhythm, so my feet do instead, itching for something to match that beaming smile.

We finish the chorus on a soft laugh from her, and she finally stops pressing that single key as I instructed earlier. But I keep playing, letting my fingers drift into something new. I don’t know what I’m playing anymore, and I don’t care.

“I like your voice,” I say absentmindedly.

She shakes her head. “I’m a terrible singer.”

“Didn’t say it was in tune. I just said I liked it.” I dip my chin, and she grins.

“Why aren’t you the piano guy? When did you switch to guitar?”

“When it started making me money,” I answer, gauging her fallen expression. “I know. Sellout, huh?”

“No,” she says. “No, you’re still making music you like. Just not this. But how did you know? That guitar was it?”

“The moment I stopped including piano, people took notice,” I say. “I got more streams online—then I got signed because a song went viral.”

“Do you like your guitar?”

“Of course. I love guitar,” I say. “But piano…” I run the back of my fingers over the keys in a rush of notes before landing them in a heap in my lap, drowning us in immediate silence. “It’s different to me. But people resonate with a guy playing guitar more.”

“Sir Elton John would say otherwise.”

“Except it’s 2025, isn’t it?” I counter with a weak smile. “Not the ’70s.”

“We could only be so lucky,” she jokes back.

“Is that right?” I tease. “What would be in the ’70s that isn’t here now?”

She blinks into space as if thinking before saying, “Puppetry was so alive. There were so many formative years with formative shows. I would’ve thrived back then. Plus, maybe I wouldn’t be out of a job, y’know? Or, I don’t know, maybe I would be.”