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He looked around and didn’t see a television in sight. He knew it could be a hidden wall mount, but there didn’t appear to be one anywhere. Who lives without a TV? What does she do to fill her time?
Looking at the piano, he knew one thing: that wouldn’t be a showpiece if it was in his home. It’d been a long time since he’d played. The last time he played was when he was on active duty. His team was at a bar after a mission, and there was an old, beat-up piano in the corner. Everyone had been drinking, so no one noticed how out of tune it was. He didn’t think this one would be out of tune at all.
His mother had insisted he learn an instrument when he was young. He’d tried the drums and trumpet. His mother told him the piano was more versatile. As he got older, he realized what she meant; it was less painful to her ears. In the years of taking lessons, he’d gained the ability to hear the music as he read it as if he were playing the piece without touching the piano.
Bennett knew only a few songs off the top of his head, though he could play almost any score he got his hands on. Sitting down he began to play the songs he remembered. He was rusty for sure, his fingers hitting the wrong keys and his rhythm way off. Maybe sheet music would help.
He got up and instinctively knew where to look. Lifting the bench seat he found several music books, more classical than anything else. That’d never been his style. As he fished through, he found a folder at the bottom of all the books. It was filled with pages of handwritten compositions.
Closing the bench cover, he sat down again and began looking through the folder. The music was somber, profound, and what he’d call sad. Although looking through it briefly, he didn’t see any compositions that’d been completed. Odd. Who compiles such work, never finishes it, and then hides it away? I wonder if Zoey even knows it’s here?
One piece caught his attention. It was a composition that started very slow. Looking at the notes, he could hear the pain of the composer. But toward the end, the artist leaned toward something different. As though a weight had been lifted, a door opened, before being slammed shut again. Now this is something I can relate to.
He began playing with the intention of keeping the noise to a minimum, but this piece was calling to him. It started legato, long sweeping notes, as though the somberness was all-encompassing and without hope. The piece brightened slowly, moving to an almost lyrical andante. From the darkness came what felt like a rising wind sent to blow away the clouds. Brightness, like a ray of sunshine, broke through the all-pervasive hopelessness in the form of a quick and moving staccato, the notes choppy and detached. The tempo quickened, an abrupt accelerando, to a lively allegro, flowing like water in a brook, babbling quietly before the crescendo. The brook became a river of building emotions struck down by dissonance awaiting its resolution.
But there was no resolution. The song ended in the middle of a phrase as if a question was posed, but the composer didn’t want to know the answer.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Zoey shouted at him as she entered the room.
He stopped playing immediately. Bennett had become lost in the music and had totally forgotten about Zoey sleeping upstairs.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Was that anger in her eyes?
She stomped her way over to the piano and grabbed the folder and sheet music from the piano. “Who do you think you are just... just fishing through my belongings? You have no right to go through my private things.”
He saw her hold the folder to her chest possessively. Bennett could understand her feeling of him overstepping, but all he did was play the piano. “I played your piano; I’m sorry. It’s not like I was fishing through your panty drawer.”
Bennett regretted the words once he said them because her eyes widened as though she was questioning if he’d done that too.
“Zoey. Seriously. Calm down. I meant no harm. It’s been a long time since I played and once I started, I got carried away. If you played the piano, you’d understand.”
She stared at him as though she wanted to yell, scream, tell him off, but nothing came out of her mouth.
“Holding it in isn’t healthy. If you want to say it, just say it,” Bennett told her.
She spoke but not what he wanted to hear. “I think you should leave.”
“Zoey. I touched your piano. That’s all. I don’t know why you’re so—”
“Now please,” Zoey said still holding the folder to her. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her eyes were darker than he’d ever seen. She looked angry, but she also looked... hurt. I have no idea what is happening here.
Bennett was about to argue with her when he remembered Doug’s warning. Pushing her too hard could make her shut down, pull away from him completely. That wasn’t what he was striving to achieve.
He got up from the bench, walked up to where she stood. Even though she wouldn’t meet his eyes, he bent and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry.” With those simple words, he walked past her and out the front door.
Don’t think this means I’m done. Because trust me, Zoey, I never quit on something I want.
And I want you.
Zoey couldn’t stop shaking. When she awoke hearing the music—her music being played—she thought her heart would stop. It was never meant for anyone to hear. When she entered the living room to find him not just playing, but adding to her composition, she felt so violated.
Uncontrollable anger had filled her, and she snapped. It was as though Bennett had opened her diary and was reading each word she’d written. This is mine. For me only. It’s my private... feelings. He had no right. None at all. How could he?
She couldn’t get the look in his eyes out of her mind. He was stunned by her reaction. Who could blame him? There was no way he could have known the music was hers. She’d made sure no one had even the slightest inclination that she’d mastered the piano at a young age. Hiding what she didn’t want people to know had become something she excelled at. Sometimes she wasn’t sure who the real Zoey was because she’d hid her away so well.
Even with Bennett gone, she couldn’t trust her legs to support her to put the folder away. It was too late. He’d not only found it but had looked through it. She may have only heard him play one piece, but it hadn’t been the one on top. She remembered the day she wrote it. It was the first day she’d met Bennett. Brice had hired him to protect the family. Bennett was so serious, informing her of what he expected of her to ensure her safety. She found him endearing. Hell, even cute. That night she composed that very same unfinished piece. Although they had only met briefly, he’d left a lasting impression. One that made me dream of seeing him again. And now, part of those dreams have come true. But at what price?
She walked over to the piano and placed the folder—the book that held the murmurs of her soul—back inside the bench. It was only a formality. What she’d kept secret all these years had been revealed. What would stop him from looking at them again? Nothing. If Bennett wants to find them, there won’t be a safe place.
