Page 40 of House of Hearts
He glances appraisingly at me and breaks out into a wicked grin at long last. “Hardly. You’re more like a winter’s night with a frostbite advisory.”
I take an experimental step forward, and his Adam’s apple bobs strangely in his throat, his grin faltering alongside it.
“Oh, really? And here I was about to nurse your wounded ego and tell you your song actually sounded pretty good.”
“ ‘Pretty good,’ ” he echoes, “is precisely the problem.”
“Would you rather it sound bad?”
Any trace of humor vanishes. “Anything less than excellent is bad. The acceptance rate for Curtis is abysmal. I’m not just going up against the classically trained—I’m going against six-year-old prodigal reincarnations of Frédéric Chopin. Oh, and if that weren’t bad enough, my mother keeps reminding me how perfect Percy’s recital was. Because God forbid I forget I suck for even a half second.”
“Who cares if you’re the next Chopin?” I take a step forward and bury my hands in my pockets. “The man’s not exactly who I’d pick to be. He died before he hit forty, and they pickled his heart in a cognac jar. I’d rather be pretty good and relatively happy than a majorly depressed prodigy.”
Calvin lifts a brow. “Do you think Anastasia’s heart is in a pickle jar somewhere, too?”
“Frankly, I’m surprised your sister didn’t slosh it around at me on initiation night.”
“She would’ve if she had it.” He runs a tongue over his broken lip. I need to stop thinking about what his mouth looks like kiss-bitten and bruised. How it might feel to tug his lower lip between my teeth.
He surprises me by scooting over and gesturing for me to join him on the bench. The black and white keys remind me of the chessboard floor beneath our feet, the innate feeling of being a pawn in a much larger game.
“Your mom seems…”
“Terrible?” he offers. “That’s because she expects us all to fall in line with her carefully orchestrated life plans. She had big dreams for Percy, erm, post-sacrifice, and now all those dreams are being thrust onto me.”
I settle my weight beside him and try not to notice his closeness. “And your dad…Where is he in all of this? Sadie said he was a Card member when they met.”
“Well, for three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, you can find him on the golf course, but then he magically swoops in on Christmas to leave us gifts and get into a drunken screaming match with Mom in the hallway. Typical Hallmark holiday.” His attention drifts my way with a curious arch of his brow. “What about your parents? Perfect and hopelessly in love?”
“Parent,” I amend. “And far from it. My father dipped before I was born. He probably fled the scene when Mom showed him two pink lines.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” It’s an old wound. I prod at it occasionally to see if it will manifest into anything, but usually it lies dormant. “My mom took it hard, but hey, what’s new? When she’s not falling in love, she’s falling apart, and when she’s falling apart, it’s my job to piece her back together again.” I don’t mean to sound like some wistful Grecian heroine, but I’m afraid that’s exactly how it comes off.
“Guess the guys she picks aren’t real winners?” he asks carefully.
“Understatement.” I do my damnedest to sound nonchalant about it. “She’s got a type, and it’s called ‘deadbeat assholes.’ ”
I force out a strained laugh, and I’m thrilled that Calvin doesn’t push it. He gracefully changes the subject with a press of his fingers against the keys. “Can you play?”
“What, the piano? No. I’m awful.”
I feel the warmth of his hands before I register him standing up and draping his fingers over mine. His chest presses into the planes of my back, and I shudder at the rush of his breath, sticky and hot against my neck.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
He guides my fingers over the keys. “Helping you. You don’t need therapy if you have a piano. I would know.”
“Is that so?”
“Believe me.” His breath ghosts against my skin, his chin settling in the junction between my shoulder and my throat. “I wrote the playbook on familial trauma.”
“Oh, did you?” Our fingers glide together as he begins to play a song from muscle memory. “Hell, I might’ve co-written it.”
His chuckle tickles the back of my head. “That depends, do you have siblings?”
“Only child.”
