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She snickered, her gaze drifting back to the keys before her. “I used to play for my dad. He actually taught me how.”
“And he taught you using Bruce Springsteen?”
She nodded. “Jersey, remember? So it was a lot of Springsteen and quite a bit of Bon Jovi,” she added with a chuckle.
“Yeah?” He took a step into the room, coming straight toward her. He slid onto the piano bench with her, his hip and thigh aligning with hers. “Let me hear some Jovi.”
She puffed a soft laugh, feeling abnormally self-conscious. But she rested her hands on the ivory again anyway.
He bumped her shoulder with his. “What you got in there, Baby Boss?”
She snorted but started to play “Thank You For Loving Me” anyway. “I played this at my dad’s wedding to my stepmom.”
She’d always loved this song. Though at the time she’d first learned it, she hadn’t understood it. Not in the way it was meant to be understood. She’d been a child and had no concept of romantic love. But again, the magic of the music was undeniable. Just because she hadn’t understood it, didn’t mean she couldn’t feel its weighty significance.
And now, as an adult, as someone who had loved and lost and loved again, she understood the gratitude that would come along with someone loving her as she was.
As she pounded through the chorus of the song, she wondered if that was even a real possibility anymore. Maybe she was simply meant to be the catalyst for other people finding love.
That was a noble accomplishment too, she supposed.
Her fingers flew over the keys, seemingly on their own. She barely had to think about the song, she’d played it so many times.
When it was over, she rested her hands in her lap again and let the silence have a moment.
“Wow,” Asa murmured by her side.
She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Your turn.”
“Uh, what?” He tried to play stupid.
“Just play something for me, Ace. Don’t overthink it.”
He hummed and his fingers tested the keys. He shifted on the bench and she moved down so he had more room. He slid right up beside her again, their bodies touching.
“How about somethingIgrew up on?” he asked, starting a song that sounded vaguely familiar. “This is Chicago’s ‘Hard to Say I’m Sorry.’ Though I’m not sure I can do it without singing. It’s a force of habit. So if my voice offends, just pretend like you can’t hear it.”
Goosebumps raced across her shoulder blades.
Asa’s voice was smooth and warm and soft. It grew in confidence as the song progressed and she couldn’t help but think he was singing this song to music itself. Making promises to make it up, to fix it, to come back because he wasn’t complete without it.
She swiped at the tear that had dropped onto her cheek and swallowed.
The hurt and pleading in his voice pierced her sternum and settled in a space between her breasts.
I knew it.
She knew that his avoiding music went deeper than the surface. For some reason he no longer felt deserving of the love and acceptance she’d always found in music.
More tears joined the first and she didn’t swipe them away for fear he’d notice her movement and stop. She let them run freely, feeling every chord, every note, every desperate plea he poured out into the piano and into the night.
All the times she’d sat in a room with Logan helping him work on a single or an album and she’d never been moved to tears. Which said a lot because she cried easily. She was a person who kept her emotions close to the surface where they were effortless to access and get overwhelmed by.
The song ended, and they sat in the silence for a beat. Asa took a deep breath and let it out.
She rested her head against his shoulder, lending her warmth to whatever brittleness he was battling inside.
“Why did you quit the piano bar?” she whispered.
