Page 48 of Contingently Yours
I got caught up in the sentimental vibe of it and stroked my thumb over the soft hair on his forearm. “Good morning,” I whispered when I felt him stir.
He went tense, and I bit my lip, waiting for him to melt back into me. I thought maybe he’d had time to process everything, to get comfortable with the idea of…me.
“Morning,” he grunted, taking his arm back and climbing out of bed.
I’m so confused. Confused over why he’s pretending nothing happened. Confused over why I want so badly for something more to happen. Confused over the jealousy I felt when I heard him talking to a woman on the phone last night before I realized it was his mother. I’m even confused over the pity I felt for him from what I picked up from their conversation. It was so businesslike, nowhere near as easy and open as the way my chats are with Mom and the girls. I’m starting to see the root of his sarcasm. It’s like a shield he carries to protect himself.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back on the couch and focus on a wind-whipped tree outside. I stare at it until my lids begin to droop and the dozens of questions in my brain downshift from incessant to murmurs. A loud crack of thunder has me bolting awake much later, judging by the absence of light in the room. The rain is still pouring, albeit with a bit less force. There’s not a light on in the house, and it sounds void of life, except for…moaningcoming from down the hall. Great.
I hear footsteps a moment later and turn to see Andrew padding into the kitchen, looking like he was just rudely awoken, too. Small graces.
Wonderful—I’m becoming as negative as him, if I’m wishing him unpleasantness.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and see that it’s been three hours since our meeting of the minds earlier. I have no signal, which doesn’t really matter. Mom and the girls are still at work, so I have no one I can call.
There’s commotion in the kitchen, and then Andrew saunters through the doorway to the living room with an open bottle of wine in his hand. Glancing down the hallway in the opposite direction of our room, he takes a draw straight from the bottle.
“What are you doing?” I ask, forgetting we’ve taken a vow of silence.
“Checking out the rest of the house.”
“With wine?”
“You heard them—lazy day.” He shrugs and starts down the hall, disappearing from my view. I see a dome of illumination on the wall and hear a door open that I suspect is the hallway closet. It closes, and his footsteps move on.
I don’t care what he’s doing or that he’s still avoiding me, but a hundred bucks says he’s trying to find fault with the house, since it’s one I picked out. There’s nothing wrong with it. As I listen to the rain coming down, I hear more doors opening and closing. Try as I might to ignore it, I can practically feel his judgment from here.
Grinding my teeth, I push off the couch and head to the kitchen, retrieving a beer from the fridge. If he’s got criticism, I’d rather hear it now to give myself time to cool down before we have to interact with the Hepperlys again.
Hedging my way down the hall, I listen for sounds to locate him. The pantry, home office, and laundry room doors areclosed. A dim pool of light is spilling out onto the floor at the end of the hallway, where I hear music. Did he walk all the way down here to listen to his phone just to make sure I saw that he wanted to get away from me? And, go figure,hehas a signal, but I don’t.
Pushing open the door to the sunroom, the sound of a piano surrounds me. I never would’ve expected what I’m looking at.
Sitting in the corner of the room is an old piano I’d forgotten was here when I did my pre-checks a few days ago. Sitting at the piano, fingers flying effortlessly over the keys, the bottle of wine on top of it, is Andrew. It sounds like ‘The Day I Tried To Live’ by Soundgarden, but it’s exceptionally beautiful and haunting in this classic-sounding rendition. I stare in disbelief, half-expecting it to be one of those pianos that plays by itself.
Andrew’s gaze flicks up, a moment of surprise in his features. It shutters, though, shifting back to indifference and questioning, like he wants to know why I’m here.
“You play the piano?” I ask rhetorically, still in awe.
“No. I’m tuning it.” He doesn’t miss a note, his body still moving with the ebb and flow of the song. “Why? Any requests?”
Averting my gaze, I walk to the windows, trying not to let his complete lack of sincerity ruffle me. “I just can’t imagine you taking piano lessons.”
“Nothing but the finest for Jacob and Loretta’s baby boy,” he quips, ending the song. “Just one of her and my father’s many attempts to make a gentleman out of me.” Toasting the air with his wine bottle, he adds before taking a gulp, “As you can see, they wasted their money.”
It’s surreal to me that someone who’s bragged to me so much isn’t making every effort to capitalize on his obvious talent. “It’s a skill not everyone has,” I say off-handedly. “You should be proud of it.”
“Maybe I’d be proud of it if they’d asked me my opinion about taking lessons.” He fingers a few notes of a dark melody,which sound a lot like the basement music in the Mario Brothers video game, then adds, “Or which degree I should get.” More basement music notes. “Or whether I want to work in publishing.” The dark notes resound again, painting a mood to his narrative. “Or get married and have five babies.”
He ends it with the merry tune that’s played when Mario starts above ground. It completely solidifies my theory about his sarcasm. The wound I scratched must be deep. I never figured he had any expectations placed on him.
“Is that why you work for Lou? Because it pisses them off?”
“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”
“No. You just seem like someone who does whatever he wants.”
Snorting, he picks up his bottle and takes a healthy drink. Studying the label, he lets out a tired stream of breath. “Not without a price.”
