Page 18 of The Gamma's Second Chance

I back away from the piano and the flowers, taking another bite of my yogurt, the metal spoon dinging against the ceramic tan and white bowl.

An acoustic guitar sits on a stand in the corner behind the piano. Sheet music and blank staff paper are scattered across the piano, handwritten notes in the margins and above the staves, confirming my suspicions that Nolan does in fact play the piano. And I guess the guitar too.

The blank staff music gives me an idea, and I dart from the room, once again bumping into that table.

“Damn it,” I say, limping for a few steps on my way back to the kitchen, my nostrils flaring.

Stupid table. Why does he have it in that spot? I can’t possibly be the only one who runs into it.

I wash my bowl and spoon in record time, then grab the gold glitter gel pen Luna Haven gave me with my other “personal assistant” supplies yesterday and head back into the living room.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I slam into that table yet again, too caught up in my mind to make sure I avoided it.

I kick at it and put my hands on my hips, staring down at it and licking my lips in thought. The couch and the loveseat sit at a right angle to each other, with nothing in the rectangular space between them. I gnaw on my lip and glance between that spot and the table. “Fuck it.”

I lift the table with a growl, moving it to its new home in between the two sofas, where it will no longer sneak up on me when I’m least expecting it.

Or anyone else.

Satisfied with my rearranging of the furniture, I head back over to the piano and grab a piece of the staff paper, uncapping my pen. My hand flies over the paper, a laugh threatening to spill from my mouth as I jot down the words.

“Agreement number one: don’t be a dickhead,” I murmur as I write. “Agreement number two: no daisies in Nolan’s room.”

He probably won’t find it funny. But I do.

I replace the cap with a smile, then cross my arms and lean against the piano, staring out the window next to it. The lake isn’t visible from here, but the mountains and the trees are, stretching beyond the borders of their pack and into the distance, disappearing into the horizon. It’s endless, as endless as the silence between Nolan and me last night, and I feel exposed and insignificant in the shadow of those towering mountains and innumerable trees.

My home for the foreseeable future. However long that ends up being.

My fingers itch as my eyes move from the window to the keys of the instrument I lean on. They’re clean and sparkling. They glitter in the sun streaming in, teasing me and taunting me, goading me to let my fingers dance across their surface.

I press my palms against the shiny black piano, then walk around it to the bench, my fingers trailing around the edge of it until I sit in front of the keys. I play a quick scale, checking the tuning, and I sigh and close my eyes at the perfect pitch of the instrument.

My fingers dabble with the keys, both hands moving in tandem, plucking out random drips and snippets of various themes while I loosen my neck. Assorted pieces of music pop into my mind, but I shove each of them away, searching for the one that feels right, not settling on a melody until I find it.

It doesn’t take long.Un Sospiroflows from my brain, down my arms, and out my fingertips, and before I know it, I’m lost in the notes, in the emotions of the piece, sighing and breathing along with the arpeggios, my hands crossing and uncrossing as the music calls for it. I pour everything into the piece, leaning into it and moving with the music. The notes float around theroom, spiraling and filling it, skipping across every surface like little drops of water and burrowing into every nook and cranny, leaving nothing untouched by their magical sounds.

I play the final chord, and my fingers linger on the keys before I let them fall to my lap, and my eyes open and meet Nolan’s. Their unique, light hazel color is almost completely hidden from view, covered by his wide, dark pupils. That ever-present tension is evident in his body, in the pulsing veins of his bulging biceps and forearms, and the tick in his jaw. He stands in the entry, staring at me, arms crossed over his white T-shirt.

I jump from the bench and back away from the piano, wiping my palms on my dress, keeping eye contact with him the entire time. How long has he been there? Is he mad?

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should have asked you first.”

He swallows, and his eyes dart to the piano and then back to me. But he doesn’t acknowledge my apology or assuage my guilt.

“Haven’s waiting for us,” he says after several seconds pass, his voice as tight as the sleeves around his arms.

“Right.”

I leave the room, pausing on the threshold, my shoulder almost brushing his upper arm. His eyes are back on the piano, his focus inward and introspective, unfazed by how close I stand to him. His fingers dig into his skin, and my fingers twitch at my side. I have the urge to reach for him, to take his hand in mine and soothe the tension away.

But I don’t. Instead, I walk away, leaving him alone to stare at the piano.

Chapter 6

CASSANDRA

One week. I’ve beenat Crescent Lake for almost one week.

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