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“Well, I have classes and clinic all week,” I said, feeling shifty and noncommittal. Jared was a perfectly nice, handsome guy. This didn’t have to be that complicated. “I’m not sure.”
“Friday night work for you?” he pressed, holding my hand just a bit tighter while he lingered.
I looked down at our joined hands. I just wanted to get out of the cold. And while I couldn’t have said why, something made me feel like Jared wasn't the kind of person who took rejection easily.
“Sure,” I relented. “That should work.”
“I’ll call you,” he said confidently and leaned in for another peck on the cheek. “See you later, Skylar.”
“Okay,” I said and turned to unlock the door to my building as he walked away.
* * *
Once upstairs,I changed into an infinitely more comfortable outfit of stretchy black pants and a gray flannel shirt and settled on the couch to finish reading for the weekend. After working steadily through the afternoon, I found myself with a rare free evening. Jane was out with a study group at the library until late, and I ambled about the apartment, uncharacteristically bored and with nothing to distract me from the one thing—or person, really—I had been trying not to think about. No matter what I tried over the last few days, I had not been able to get Kieran’s description of Brandon out of my head.
I hardly knew him. That was the reality. A poor kid from the south side who’d been neglected and abused by his drug-addicted parents. You didn’t need to be a psychologist to guess there would be some attachment issues there. No wonder he had tried so hard. People like that usually had a hard time accepting that others would like them just for who they were. Sometimes it turned the person into a manipulative, untrusting shit, but a lot of times it just came out with insecure actions that didn’t fit the social circumstance. So, which was Brandon?
The thought of all of our interactions together felt completely disorienting. We were doing everything backward. I had spent the night at his house before I’d barely known his first name. He’s treated me like an employee after I’d already quit working for him. We’d…well,hehad done things to me most people reserved for at least after they’d actually gone on a date together.
None of it made any sense. The more I thought about all of it, the more the world seemed to swim.
I shuffled to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea before sliding on my slippers and gray sweater and grabbing some sheet music from my desk. The building had a piano in the basement lounge, so I liked to play there sometimes when I had a spare moment or two. I hadn’t practiced in months and knew I’d feel a bit clumsy on the keys. But if music couldn’t distract me from what was going through my mind, nothing could.
* * *
My dad wasmy first teacher on the piano, but I started taking real lessons from one of our neighbors when I was about five. Somewhat ironically, it was my obvious talent that made my musical education the only thing about my upbringing my mother had a consistent interest in. As soon as it was determined that I had some promise as a pianist, her money secured the best instructors in New York, and Bubbe had dutifully schlepped me in and out of Manhattan twice a week until I was old enough to take the train myself. My ear for precision was applied toward classical training, and it was enough to earn me invitations to multiple conservatories when I graduated high school.
Unlike my dad, however, I had no desire to perform, no willingness to make my life as a starving (or trust-funded, as my mom offered to bankroll me) artist. Music was cathartic, but I wasn’t creative.
Aside from that, artist-types just bothered me. Through my dad, I had met one too many shiftless musicians, and their narcissistic relationships with “my music” were just plain annoying. It was their justification for leaving behind wives, children, jobs, and numerous other responsibilities. I thanked my lucky stars every day of my life that despite his complete and utter devotion to music, my dad, no matter his weaknesses, was the kind of man who was always there. There were a lot of other piano players who wouldn’t have stuck around.
Much like, of course, my mother. Janette Chambers was the definition of the flaky artist, although she had never had to forsake her comfort in favor of her art. Just her daughter. The fact that she, just like all of those other musical bums, deserted her family not once but multiple times in favor of her “art” just added fuel to my desire to be nothing like her.
However, since I did end up swallowing my pride enough to let her pay for college and save my dad a lot of debt, NYU proved to be a good compromise when I decided to study both music and business. In the end, I was grateful for it. The piano, with its mix of discipline and sublime beauty, would always offer solace no matter what I was doing.
The piano in the basement wasn’t tuned and probably hadn’t been dusted in years. But there was no one in the lounge at this time on a Sunday, so I had the freedom to lose myself for a bit. I pulled out one of the pieces of music and set it on the stand. After running through a few brief scales to warm up my fingers, I took a breath and began.
I played for more than two solid hours. I played old pieces and mustered my way through a few new ones. I played until the tendons in my hands ached from stretching over the keys. I played and played and played until finally, I looked at my watch and realized it was close to midnight.
My head was clear for the first time in weeks. With a quiet, exhausted sigh of contentment, I pushed back from the piano and collected my music from the stand. It wasn’t until I turned around that I realized I had company and probably had for a long time.
My jaw dropped as I beheld his lanky figure, long legs splayed and both arms stretched across the back of the sofa. A long, deep snore erupted from his lips. Brandon Sterling was sound asleep in my basement.
Seventeen
He was adorable. He couldn’t help it. Brandon’s head was tipped back, and his mouth was wide open as he slept, dark-blond hair mussed around his face. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes disappeared in his relaxation. A maroon Henley shirt hugged his chest and biceps, and a pair of dark jeans slouched around scuffed brown boots while his scarf, hat, and down jacket had slipped to the floor. Were it not for the expensive watch, he might have fit in with the students.
He looked so innocent. I started to wonder again if I had been too hasty leaving him on the tarmac. Another massive snore erupted from the back of his throat, causing me to break my silence with a giggle. Immediately, he woke, tossing his head around as if looking for someone.
“What, who now?” he blurted out, making me laugh again. When his sleepy gaze found me, it softened. “Hey, Red,” he said groggily as he sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.
I hid a smile at the nickname. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I liked it.
“Hey yourself,” I replied warily. “I’m sorry you had to wake up.”
Brandon gave a warm, sheepish smile that caused my insides to melt a little more. I wondered if he knew the effect his smile had on me. He had to. There was no way he didn’t.
“I forgot you wear glasses,” he said.
