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I stareat the man standing with one hand in his pocket while his other one is smoothing out his shirt. He's trying to give off the vibe that he's okay with me going in the room, but his tense body language says the opposite.
I stop in front of him, grab his free hand, and caress it with my thumb. "Hey, whatever is behind this door, it won't change how I feel about you, Cole Walker. Do you hear me? And if you aren't sure of wanting me in there, I won't go."
A long deep sigh leaves his lips, and his eyes dart sideways, morosely contemplating my words. My heart skyrockets when he places my hand on the doorknob and says, "Please, go in."
Right as I open the door, spots in the ceiling light up the room. Stunned by what my eyes perceive, I stop on the threshold. From all the things I imagine being behind this door, this wasn't on my list. My mind is a blurred mess, trying to connect what I see to the man I know.
"Not what you expected?" he whispers.
When I glance over my shoulder, I find him studying my reaction. I shift my attention back to the room in front of me and enter. The space is light, and it has the same wooden floor as the rest of the house. The walls are a beige color—quite sober to be frank—and in the right corner, there's a glass showcase with what appears to be trophies. But my attention goes back to the first thing that I saw when the door opened. The shiny, eye-catching black colossus standing in the middle of the room. My eyes travel over the golden painted name on this side: Bösendorfer.
A piano?A tsunami of thoughts overflows my brain.Whose is this? Why is it behind a closed door? What does this have to do with his demons?Cole hasn't said a word, but I can sense his eyes burning in my back, following my every step. I come closer to the instrument to see whose picture is in the silver frame sitting on the smooth black top. My fingers touch my lips to stop the squeal of surprise that wants to come out.Oh, good lord.
I investigate the young Cole, presumably around the age of six or seven, sitting in front of a piano. He looks adorable, missing one of his upper teeth as he smiles straight into the camera. He's wearing a t-shirt with the text,Life is like a piano. What you get out of it depends on how you play it.
God, even then, he had that enigmatic grin.
The man sitting next to him is clearly his father. He has shortish, blond hair and is tall. But compared to Cole now, slimmer build and clean-shaven. His mother was right about the eyes. Samantha’s eye color is identical to her grandfather’s; they're both a fraction lighter than Cole's, but the intensity in them is the same.
I grab the photo and take a seat on the piano bench, without looking at him. "This beats the sex room I had in mind."
His slight snort cuts the tension for a second.
"Whose piano is this?"
"Mine," he mumbles while shuffling over the threshold.
"Yours?" I let his words sink before another question appears. "So, youstillplay?"
"I used to." The discomfort in his voice makes me swallow.
"You don’t love it anymore?"
He brushes his hand through his hair repeatedly. Then he walks towards me and takes a seat next to me. The moment he sits, he grabs one of my hands and intertwines our fingers. His palm is sweaty, and my heart rate increases as I wonder what question is best asked first.
I place the picture back and face the tormented man beside me. I start with what I hope are easy questions. "How old were you when you started playing?"
He stares at the photo and tugs at his open shirt as his breathing becomes irregular. After swallowing a few times and tightening the grip on my hand, he speaks. "I was five. And from day one it was clear; I had the same gift."
"Your parents must have been proud."
His lips slightly curl. "Yeah, they were. Especially my father. He was a master player, playing at concert halls and many places around the world. This similarity made our already powerful bond stronger. From that day on, we played every day. And he taught me everything. Until..."
He gets a pained stare and swallows.
"What happened?" I whisper.
"Disaster struck. My father slipped and fell during a bike ride and broke his right wrist in three places. He endured two operations but ended up with severe nerve damage—making it impossible for him to play longer than a few minutes."
I squeeze his hand. "God, that must have been a nightmare."
Cole nods. "It changed everything. Particularly, the relationship I had with my parents. Since my father wasn't able to perform anymore, he started writing piano parts, and they focused their full attention on my music career. Being so young, I didn't mind and spent every second I was free playing. I won a lot of competitions, and my mom and dad were happy. They smiled when I played. But in my teens, it felt all they cared about and saw was Cole, the gifted musician. Not Cole, their son."
My lip trembles at hearing his heart-wrenching words, and my heart hurts for the young boy. To think your parents only love you for your talent must be awful. My fingers rub over the back of his hand. "Is that why you stopped playing?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I quit because I don't deserve to play ever again."
"Huh… I don't understand?"
