Page 39 of Three Months Yesterday

Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I let my eyes fall to the journals on the coffee table. I want to disagree with him, but I can’t. How does he know me so well after nine days?

It’s not that we don’t see and talk to each other—he lives right next door and is in my house everyday playing the piano—but it’s a few minutes here or there, not deep hour long conversations.

“Hey.” Beckett’s hand reaches into my line of sight but pulls away before he can touch me. “I don’t mean anything by that. I know what it’s like to be dedicated to your work. There’s no judgement.”

My gaze lifts to meet his and the urge to look him up strikes again. I don’t know how long it takes to release an album all the way from inception to release, but I imagine fourteen in twenty years is not the norm.

“Do you love it?” The words are so soft I’m surprised he hears them, but the way his body jerks tells me he heard them as if I shouted them.

Beckett glances at the piano and studies it for so long I wonder if I should take the question back. “That’s a loaded question,” he releases on a deep sigh, turning to meet my eyes.

“You don’t have to answer that,” I rush to say. “I honestly don’t know why I asked. It’s far too personal,” I add as I bend to the coffee table, closing the journals I was reading before he came in.

“Madison.” Beckett bends, gently grabbing my hand and stopping me before I can continue. “That’s not what I meant,” he whispers, standing to his full height, pulling me with him. “I just meant it’s not a simple yes or no for me, and I don’t know where to start.”

“Exactly. You should just ignore me.” I move to focus on the journals again, but Becket’s grip on my hand stops me with a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond and gently pulls me onto the couch with him, his body angled toward mine as he starts. “I think music has always been a part of my soul. I know that sounds crazy but some of the stories my parents have told prove how true that is. They actually put me in piano lessons when I was four after I made a scene at a school recital for one of their friend’s kids.”

“What’d you do?” I ask, leaning back into the cushions.

Beckett’s quiet for a moment, the tension on his face lifting slightly at whatever he’s thinking about. “Nothing crazy, but at the end of the recital, after all the kids had joined their families, I somehow ended up at the piano on the side of the stage and started playing.” He chuckles, his eyes lighting with joy at the thought. “It wasn’t good, but it was better than a four-year-old without any experience should be.”

“It was good enough for your parents to put you in lessons.” I chuckle and can’t help but wonder if it’s something he remembers or something he’s been told about so many times it’s ingrained in him that way instead.

“I guess that’s true,” Beckett concedes.

Silence falls around us, and Beckett’s gaze moves back to the piano. He shifts in his seat, opening and closing his mouth a couple times but nothing comes out.

I have no idea where he wants to go with this, but I know piano isn’t the only instrument he plays.

“When did you pick up guitar?”

“When I was about nine, but I also started drum lessons when I was six.”

I’ve seen him with his guitar and have imagined him at my piano on more than one occasion. The idea of this man playing the drums? I’m not sure I’m ready to admit how tight my thighs clench at the thought.

“How many instruments do you play?” I ask in bewilderment.

“Well, that depends on what you mean by play.” I can only imagine the look on my face at the laugh that escapes Beckett. “When it comes to my concerts and recording, I only play the piano, guitar, and banjo, but when I’m writing, I work the drums, harmonica, and fiddle as well.”

“Six seems like a lot.”

“That’s not counting the ukulele or tin whistle. And I recently started learning the bagpipes.” The way he throws those in like it’s not a big deal he plays so many instruments amazes me.

“I guess that answers the question of if you love it,” I murmur, my eyes moving toward the window.

There isn’t anything for me to see, the sun having set a couple hours ago, but I know what exists outside that window better than I know myself. But what’s been driving me to learn this land and business? And do I truly love it like I thought I did?

“I don’t know. I could argue it’s more of an obsession built on avoidance and control over anything else.” The sound of Beckett’s deep voice pulls my attention back to him, and the pain in his eyes is like nothing I’ve seen before.

“Beckett…” My words trail off. I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond to that. I want to ask what he’s avoiding, but I don’t know if I have the right to ask something like that.

“When I started making music, it was my favorite thing.” His words are void of emotion, and I wonder where his thoughts have gone, his tone not matching the things he’s saying. “I loved it with every fiber of my being, and when I found my agent and signed on with a record label at eighteen, I was over the moon.” His gaze falls to his lap and the next words are said so softly I wonder if I was supposed to hear them. “But nothing stays the same forever.”

The what-if game is the worst game to play, at least the way the majority of the population plays it. It’s never what if this amazing thing happens to me, but always what if this crappy thing happens? Or what if I made this different choice? Or what if my actions cause someone else harm?