When You Were Mine (23 page)

He interlaces his fingers and spins his thumbs, like he’s considering it. “Yes,” he says, “but only if you’ll play something for me first.”

“I’m not the one who just got into Juilliard.”

“Actually,” he says, “I got in last year. So it’s been a while.”

“Funny.”

“Come on,” he says. “I think you’ll find you remember more than you think.”

I take a deep breath and lift up the fallboard. Then I place my hands on the keys. I try to remember a piece I used to love,
Fleur de Lis
. The first few notes and measures sound rusty—like the spokes on an ungreased wheel. But as I go, I start to loosen up a bit. It’s harder than I remember, and I get out of breath in just a few seconds, but it also feels wonderful. Like finally moving my legs after a really long airplane ride.

I stop after about a minute, and I realize I’m nearly panting.

“Not bad,” Len says. “You need to start playing again.”

I do. I’d forgotten how alive piano used to make me feel. The music sends my cells spinning, like the adrenaline high you get after a long run.

Len slides in next to me and runs his hands over the keys, and I notice it again—that birthmark on his thumb. It’s red, a deep burgundy, and when I follow it, I see it runs up the length of his arm, or at least up to where he has his shirt sleeves rolled up. It looks like a map, the way it spans and dips and runs like continents and countries and rivers across his skin. It’s actually beautiful, not gross at all, and now that I see it, I can’t believe I missed it all these years.

Len’s breathing slows next to me and his eyes slip closed, and I realize I’m holding my breath too, that the whole room
is. It feels like the moment before a rainstorm, the sky heavy and dense, the moisture so thick you can already feel it. And then the first droplets fall, cool and precise and quiet. They build slowly until the moment when the heavens open up and it pours.

I recognize the tune immediately. It’s by Frédéric Chopin and it’s called, if you’d believe it,
Raindrops
. Famke used to play it for me. Sometimes if I was being stubborn or tired or just off, she would sit me down at the edge of the bench and let me listen to her for a change. If it’s possible, Len plays it even better than she did. His fingers glide over the keys like the wind dancing on the beach. Pulling up the sand, twirling it, asking it to play. I tear my eyes away from his hands and look up at his face. His eyes are no longer closed, but they’re still, calm, focused. Like the counterpart to the motion of his fingers: steadfast and unmoving.

He stops, and the room falls silent. But the silence is pulled tight, stretched, as if the room itself—the sofa and chairs and even the curtains on the windows—is restraining itself from breaking into applause.

Len lifts his fingers off the keys, slowly, and returns them to his lap. Then he looks at me, and it’s kind of like I’ve never seen him before. Because this person next to me isn’t the guy from school who gives teachers lip. He’s not sarcastic, but funny; and
he’s not rude, but witty; and his hair isn’t messy, it’s, well, kind of sexy.

He runs a hand through it and smiles down at the keys. Then he reaches to close the fallboard and so do I, and for a moment our fingers touch, midair. Immediately something shocks me, and I pull back.

“Static electricity,” Len says, pointing to his T-shirt.

I shake my head to say no big deal, but there’s something besides the electric shock lingering in my fingertips. And it makes me look away, because I’m pretty sure my cheeks are starting to speak for me.

Instead I focus on that mark on his thumb.

“It’s called a port-wine stain,” he says. He’s not looking at his hand, but at me.

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says, holding up his arm. “I’ve had it since I was born.” He pushes up his sleeves farther, and I see that the birthmark runs all the way up to his shoulder, even farther than I thought before. Instinctively I reach out and touch it, tracing the outline, and when I do, he smiles. His skin is warm and soft.

“It’s beautiful,” I say before I even realize I’m speaking. “I’ve never noticed how cool it is before.”

“It’s always been there; you just weren’t looking,” he says, letting me turn over his arm.

“Is that why you always wear long-sleeved shirts?”

He laughs, and I internally kick myself. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t mind.” He takes his arm away and pulls down his sleeve. “In the beginning, when I was a kid, I guess, yeah, I was a little self-conscious about it. But not anymore. Now I kind of like it. It’s different.” He shrugs. “I guess that’s the thing about getting older. You realize your differences can be good things. Not just bad ones. But the long sleeves kind of stuck around.”

The room is still humming in the wake of his music.

“So if you got into Juilliard last year, why didn’t you go already?” I ask.

I look up at him, and he’s staring at me with a mixture of calm and confusion. Like he’s trying to figure out what to say but is not too concerned about how long it’s going to take him to get there.

“I guess I just wasn’t finished here yet,” he says.

“With San Bellaro?”

He keeps looking at me. It feels like it did in the wings of the auditorium. Like he can see right through me.

“High school isn’t as bad as you think,” he says.

“I guess, but it doesn’t really seem like your scene. Plus, it’s Juilliard.” I let my fingers wander to the keys. They’re cool, light,
so soft. When I press one down, it barely makes a sound.

“Juilliard will be there next year,” he says. “Some things are worth waiting for.” I can feel his gaze on me, and it’s hot, somehow, strong, like the microscope lens that can light a piece of paper on fire just by focusing on it.

Len stands and runs his hand over the family pictures that are propped up in frames on the ledge of the piano. One photo of my parents and me on the beach on Maui during winter break of freshman year. I have a pink flower in my hair, and we’re standing behind a waterfall. I remember getting so many bug bites that day that I had to bathe in a thin layer of calamine lotion when we got back to the hotel.

Len picks up the next photo. It’s Rob’s and my prom picture from last year. It’s the only one I haven’t been able to bring myself to take down, mostly because my parents would realize it was missing. In it he’s dipping me like we’re dancing, and I have one leg extended up toward the ceiling. I’m gazing up at him with this look of adoration. The same way my mom is looking at me in all those pictures of me as a baby. He’s looking at the camera with this goofy grin on his face.

I reach up and grab the picture. “That shouldn’t even be out,” I say.

Len nods. “Sometimes old habits are hard to break.” He gestures toward his T-shirt.

He takes the photo out of my hands and sets it down. His fingertips brush mine, and even without the static electricity I still feel a charge between us. He’s looking at me, and that little curl has fallen down onto his forehead. I want to touch it, brush it away. Not pull it, just sweep it to the side.

“Tell me something,” he says softly. He’s leaning so close to me, I can smell his cologne. It’s intoxicating. The electricity isn’t just in my fingertips now but in my entire body. It zips up from my toes through my spine and into my head, where it lingers, making me dizzy.

“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “What do you want to know?”

“Would you ever want to hang out without the excuse of a study session?” He looks at me, point-blank, and my stomach turns over so fast, I swear I hear it thud. My hands feel numb and my heart is racing. He’s making me totally nervous. And he’s still so close, our foreheads are almost touching.

“Like a date?” I whisper.

“Something like that,” he says, pulling back just a bit.

He’s looking at me again with that same intense expression that makes me feel terrified but alive all at the same time. Like he’s seeing something in me that maybe wasn’t there before. And all at once I want to say yes. The prospect of spending an entire night alone with Len is intriguing. I want to be close to him, for
him to keep leaning toward me in the same way he is now, and for him to brush my fingertips and maybe even—

But I don’t say anything. I just run my big toe back and forth across the carpet underneath the piano, because all of a sudden all I can think about is Rob’s mother outside. It feels like a betrayal somehow, being here with Len, agreeing to this.

“No go?” he says. “Did I botch the landing?”

“It’s not you,” I say.

“So what is it?” he says. He sits down again but this time straddles the bench, facing me.

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Which part?”

“What?”

“Which part don’t you know?”

I shake my head slowly. “I just don’t.”

I’m nervous about explaining this to him, but I also want to. I
need
to. There’s something about Len that makes me feel understood. Like he really sees me. Not just as Rosie the girl next door but as something else, too. Something more. It feels like whatever I would say he’d be able to handle. Sitting next to him right now, I feel like I could say anything and he wouldn’t judge me. He wouldn’t even blink.

“It’s just been a complicated semester, is all. And I’m not sure I’d be the best date right now.”

“I understand,” Len says. “You guys were friends for a long time.” He nods to the photo of Rob and me.

“It’s not only that,” I say. I want to explain to him that I’ve never really thought about being with someone else, that it never occurred to me there could
be
anyone else. I want to tell him that when I’m close to him, I feel things that I never did with Rob and that it scares me. That it feels like I’m somehow betraying the course of my life just by being here with him. I want to, but I’m just not ready to say those things out loud.

“I think I just need a little bit more time,” I say.

He looks amused and raises his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“What were you expecting?”

“It’s just that, you know, patience is one of my best qualities. This one is a breeze for me.” He interlaces his fingers and pushes them out in front of him. He yawns too, although I suspect it’s just for effect.

“You seem to have a lot of good qualities,” I say, gesturing to the piano.

“Funny,” he says, smiling at me, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.” I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink again. It’s so frustrating to be someone who blushes easily. It’s like everything I’m thinking and feeling gets projected right onto my face. No privacy.

“Study time.” I clap my hands together.

“Already?” he says. “Fine, but I need my Twizzlers.” He smiles that lopsided smile of his.

“I thought they were for me.”

“These?” he says. He pulls one out of his pocket, dangling it out like he’s baiting me. “No way.” Then he leans close to me, so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “I forgot to tell you,” he whispers, his words dancing on my neck. “They’re my favorite too.”

After I walk Len out, I find my mom in the kitchen
, sipping tea out of a red mug with
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CUP
written on it. The logo has never made much sense to me, but she loves it. She bought it in Portland on a trip we took the summer before I started high school. Whenever she’s not feeling well, my dad will make her a cup of hot chocolate in what he calls her “curiosity cup.” It always makes her smile.

“How did it go?” she says when she sees me. She sets down her mug, and I flop my elbows onto the counter.

“Good,” I say. As soon as the word is out, my mouth turns up into a smile. This ridiculous grin that I’m sure makes me look like I’m psychotic or something.

My mom, however, is smiling right along with me.

“What?” I say, trying hard to turn the corners of my mouth back down.

“Nothing,” she says, taking a sip but keeping her eyes on me. “You just sounded pretty good playing that thing, that’s all.”

“Oh, yeah.” I straighten up and run a hand through my hair. “I’m glad we kept it.”

“Me too.”

I have to ask her about the article, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to do it, but I just don’t think there’s ever a good time to ask your mom if your dad’s a traitor, so here goes. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Her eyebrows knit together.

“I read something at school today.” I wiggle my lips side to side, trying to figure out the best way to move forward. “And I need to know the real story.”

“Okay,” she says. “Want to ask me?”

I take a deep breath and place my hands on the countertop. “What happened with Uncle Richard? With their family, I mean. Why did Dad choose the Montegs?”

My mom sighs and folds her hands around her mug. “I knew this would all get stirred up once they got back. I told your father—”