Page 79 of The Devil and His Sparrow

Until suddenly, it stopped, not even three minutes in. I was getting sick of him stopping. I turned my glare on him, and, once again, I found him watching me.

“What?” I demanded.

“Why do you close your eyes while you listen?”

“Oh.” The annoyance inside me slipped away, and a softness replaced it. “It’s something my dad always did. He … He played the piano. It was what he wanted to do with his life, what he got a full-ride to university for. Anyway, he would have me close my eyes while he played or while we listened to one of our records, because it was one less sense to take away from the music. With your eyes closed, all you can focus on is the sound of the instrument telling you their story through the notes and melodies. You can feel the song better that way.”

Zagan stared at me thoughtfully, his eyes softening. “Your dad sounds nice.”

Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I blinked them away. “Yeah. He was.”

Silence fell over us, and Zagan didn’t make an effort to break it. It was like he wanted me to have a moment to exist in my dad’s memory. It was something I didn’t do often—think about him. Like music, I kept him tucked away in my mind, hidden in a box for safety where nothing Mom said or did could tarnish the man he was in life.

A musician, who played with the beautiful touch resembling composers of old.

A husband, who did everything from simple to grand gestures just to make his wife smile.

A father, who loved his daughters more than life itself.

He was warm, selfless, and he was mine—my hero, my best friend. My dad.

“I miss him,” I whispered, a tear finally rolling down my cheek.

Zagan reached over to gently wipe the tear with his thumb. His hand lingered, and I leaned my cheek into it, letting his touch soothe the ache now searing a hole into my chest. His strong palm acted like a beacon of light as I navigated the turbulent sea of years old grief, and with it, the pain slowly rolled back into the cracks of my heart like the receding tide. I sniffled as I looked down at my lap.

Zagan nudged me lightly, and in seemingly an effort to distract me, said, “Your turn. Play something for me.”

My gaze bounced between him and the piano and back again. The mere suggestion had my heart pounding and my nerves scattering. I quickly waved my hands dismissively. “No, no. I don’t know how to play.”

His eyes narrowed with skepticism. “Liar. You were just doing the fingering for the piece.”

I wanted to hang my head like a child who’d just been discovered breaking the rules. There was no denying that I knew how to play, not when he’d seen me.

“Fine,” I gritted out, not meeting his gaze. “I won’t play.”

“Why not?” Zagan questioned as he turned toward me fully. “I know piano means something to you. So why won’t you play?”

“Because!” I snapped, my eyes finally searing into his. He didn’t back down at my outburst, which only spurred on the rush of an answer. “Because playing will make me want it too badly, and that’s something I can’t want.”

His jaw worked, and his shoulders pulled back in defiance. “Says who? Your mom? She doesn’t control you, Iyla. Not anymore.”

I heard him. I knew what he was saying, but I couldn’t be sure I believed him. Sure, I lived in this new place with new things that existed outside of Valerie Winters, but I’d never be free of her. She’d always be there.

Her voice in the back of my mind, scolding me when I tried to eat something fattening.

Her sharp eyes watching my every move and how I behaved around boys.

Her disappointed scowl staring back at me as I tried to embrace myself and what I wanted.

The thunder cloud of her memory would always loom above me, ready to strike me with lightning and rain down feelings of inadequacy, discomfort, and self-doubt.

Could I live with that? Could I live with feeling like a failure of a daughter, all because I wanted to live my way and reach for my dreams?

I wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to shoulder those feelings.

And that scared me enough to hesitate, even when freedom was fingertips away.

I should feel confident in who I was and what I wanted, but that confidence had been stolen long ago. Even without a direct tie to Mom, I still felt chained to her, and I wasn’t sure how to break free of that.

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