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My cheeks were already turning red. I had counted on going incognito until the end of the set, rather than what usually happened when I was spotted in the middle.
“Sorry about this,” I mumbled. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“What?”
Before I could explain, Dad spoke into the microphone. “We’ve got a little surprise for you, folks. My daughter, the very beautiful and talented Skylar Crosby, is visiting us from up north. Let’s see if we can get her up here to sing us a little song. Hey, Valentine’s Day’s in just a few weeks, ain’t it?”
That was my cue. As the few people in the bar gave a couple of lackluster claps along with loud hoots from Nick, the owner, I stood up. Brandon’s mouth hung open while I sidled through the tables and chairs and took a seat at the piano.
“Hey, Pippi,” Dad greeted me with my childhood nickname and a brief peck on the cheek. “Nice lookin’ date over there with you. Should we make a dedication to someone special?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s just a friend, Dad. Let’s get this embarrassment over with.”
We launched into the familiar riffs of “My Funny Valentine,” playing it Chet Baker-style in the arrangement Dad had written for us when I was little. Doug and Amos chimed in with their parts, having done this many times before. When the drummer finally caught up with us, Dad nodded at me.
I wasn’t a great singer, but the song fit the naturally low timbre of my voice, and Dad chimed, like we had done countless times. I let my fingers remember the familiar movements of my solo. I never had a talent for improvisation; Dad had the good ear.
I found myself avoiding the table where I was sitting before, instead focusing squarely on the keys. I wasn’t normally shy about performing with my dad. It was easy to pass our little act off as a cute father-daughter thing when I messed up, and when I didn’t, people seemed to like it anyway. This time I felt unaccountably nervous.
We crooned into the mic together at the end, and I waited as Dad added a few final flourishes in tandem with Amos’s buttery brass notes. The song ended, and everyone clapped, enthusiastically this time. There was even one couple in the back who had been inspired to slow dance, so I figured it wasn’t the worst version we’d ever done.
“Thanks, Pips.” Dad’s eyes already half shut as he toyed around with the keys. Doug tuned his bass while Amos and the drummer made some crass jokes to the crowd. “You guys going to stay until the end of the set? We’ve got another hour left, but I know the guys would love to say hello.”
“Not tonight, sorry,” I said. “We’ll finish our drinks, and then I’m heading home. I’m beat. Will you tell the guys I’ll stay next time?”
He nodded, starting a riff for the next song. “Sure, sweetheart. Love you, kid.”
I kissed him on the cheek and walked off the stage. I sat down and fiddled with my glass. Brandon hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d left, and now he was practically staring a hole through my forehead. I drained the rest of my whiskey.
“Most people do that before they get up on stage, not after,” Brandon remarked. “But then again, it usually makes them fuck up. Nice pipes, by the way. And you lied when you said you suck on the piano.” A note of awe hinted beneath his nonchalance.
“I didn’t say I suck.” I turned back toward the quartet, which was now covering “So What.” “I said I’m not as good as he is.”
“Well, I guess that’s what happens when you major in music at NYU, huh?”
I shrugged. “Mostly I studied classical. I’m too much of a square for jazz.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Look at that.” I nodded at my dad, whose eyes were completely closed again while he hunched over the keys, moving to his own rhythm while he played. I smiled. Try as I might, I could never quite lose myself the way he could. “Does that seem like disciplined to you?”
“So, you like discipline, huh?”
I pursed my lips, pondering the question. “I like control. Or, at least I like to know what’s coming. Jazz is all about improvisation, all about the moment, whereas with a classical piece, I always play it the way I want, the same way, every time.” I shrugged. “I guess I’m a stiff.”
Brandon smiled, but this smile was calmer, less blinding, and nakedly appreciative. It was slow and gradual across his face, and I watched one dimple, then two appear. He leaned over the table and circled the edge of his glass with his finger.
“Skylar.” His blue eyes were wide and magnetic. “I don’t know much about you, but I know you are definitely not a stiff.”
I snorted. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” Brandon conceded. “You made every single person in this place feel every word you were singing, every note you were playing. Anyone who can do that is no stiff.”
We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes. If this was a game he was playing, I had to admit: it was a damn good one.
“Skylar, honey?”
A familiar, gravelly voice broke our standoff. Nick stood over our table, polishing a glass with a worn bar cloth while he glared at Brandon.
