Page 35 of Encounter

As my gaze traveled up, I saw a familiar image—a photo of the two of us, from when we were maybe fifteen. My awkward expression there made me physically cringe.God, I haven’t changed much in those four years.I had that weird, pushed back hair, painfully stubborn acne covering my entire face, and about the same camera-shy smile.

“Remember that?” Zola leaned closer, looking fondly at the picture.

I narrowed my eyes. “It was... your sister’s birthday party, right?” Sometimes my memory was awful. Things others remembered—their childhoods and random events throughout their life—were hazy to me. In the picture, we were outside, surrounded by neatly trimmed bushes. “It was at that roof restaurant-jungle place?” Some details finally came to me.

Dad’s secretary dropped me off there. I think he was out of the country.

“Sandy had that huge, massive Death Star cake. Ugh,” she groaned, rolling her head to the side with a frown. “Istillhate her for taking the idea away from me!”

Laughing, I leaned on the table while trying to conjure the memory of that day. “I still think you can have the same cake,” I quipped while Zola pursed her lips in an exaggerated expression of childish anger.

“Well, this year, my birthday party’s going to be epic,” she announced proudly while I still stared at the picture, unintentionally zoning Zola out.

It was a nice celebration. We had fun, and I recall being more sociable than usual. I also recalled coming home afterwards and being alone, playing up the moment Zola’s entire perfect family stood around the huge cake while her sister cut into it. For some reason, those images burned into my mind... The way Mrs. Delano hugged Sandy after giving her a gift, and how widely she smiled when her husband fed her a piece of the cake. It was a habit they’d always had—birthdays were not only for the person being celebrated to receive a gift but also an opportunity to thank those around them.

I sat in the bath crying that night. Feeling sorry for myself. Missing things I could never have—a mother I never knew. Filled with a sense of injustice, jealousy, and rage.

It was definitely one of those times things got out of hand. Left a pretty messy scar...

“Galen?”

“Yeah?” I blinked, quickly turning to her, hoping I wasn’t ignoring her for too long. Briefly looking up to suppress the tears pooling behind my eyes, I smiled at her and hoped she wouldn't ask. This was supposed to be a fun night.

Zola was good at reading me and somehow knew when I didn’t want to talk. Instead of pushing, she energetically stood from the bed. “Let’s go and have a look at the piano!” She theatrically gestured with her straightened arms toward the door. “Come on, come on, come on!” Her voice kept picking up on more and more grandeur urgency. “You’ll love it, seriously.”

Appreciative of her attempt to draw me out of the weird mood, I followed her. As we passed through their main hall and into the decently large living room, it took me only a few seconds until I spotted the beauty.

“Oh wow,” I mouthed before getting close enough to see properly. “Fazioli.” Eager to touch the wood, I hurried up. It was only a baby grand—not a proper grand piano like I had at home—but that was pretty understanding considering their circumstances. Still... it was beautiful. The dark brown color, together with the silver pedals and other metal works of the details... “Tamo veneer, right?”

“Think so,” Zola smirked, clearly not as geeked-out by the piece of wood like I was. “I know Dad was pretty stoked about it. The little carvings on the cover were custom-made.”

I really hoped she didn’t find me too creepy, feeling her father’s piano like that. The clean lines, elegant proportions, and the newness of it... Altogether, it was so calming and perfect.

“Faziolis can be really responsive to touch if you’re not used to them.” I talked more or less to myself as I slowly sat down on the bench in front of it. Judging by her alert, excited look, Zola still paid attention. “It’ll probably sound quite loud. I would have to get used to playing with the sensitivity specially for this one, so—”

“It’s fine Galen. Play!” she urged me with a frown.

“If you get a noise complaint, it’s not on me,” I said jokingly, while genuine concern made my fingers nervously hover over the keys.

Interrupted by the clacking of Mrs. Delano’s heels, I turned to her, worried she wouldn’t want me touching her husband’s baby. “Oh, don’t worry darling.” She waved her hand with that calming face of hers and leaned onto the couch with her arms resting over her chest, excited for the performance. “Walls are mighty thick around here, thank God,” she added, laughing.

A bit shaky about the growing size of the audience, I looked back down on my hands and took a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine I was back home, in my music room.

Being a little more careful and controlled than usual, I eased into a familiar memory, one I jumbled together years ago, mixing bits and pieces of all sorts of compositions.

Ever since I was nine and finally persuaded Dad to stop forcing me into playing piano competitively, it was the only thing I enjoyed. Only thing that brought me peace. It was no longer something I had to do perfectly to please him, or anyone else in my family. This was only for me, my passion, my love... and it was the only piece of Mom I had.

Surrendering to the music, I closed my eyes and played.

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