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Retreating to my room, I removed my cello and bow from her stand, and settling on my desk chair, I played “Air on the G String.” It was a piece I’d played while my dad accompanied me on the piano. He loved it, and I played it over and over, hearing his part in my head. Hearing his voice as he hummed along—watching him squint through his glasses at the sheet music.
I missed him. I missed him too.
“Enough already!”
I jumped.
Tristan was standing beside me.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. I turned to find him grinning as if he’d made a joke, but then his smile faded. He squatted down beside me and examined my face through long, dark lashes. “What’s up, Beauchamp?” he asked gently. “You look like shit again.”
That had to be the rudest thing anyone had ever said to me, and it made me smile.
“That’s better,” he whispered. “Rough night?”
“Rough morning. Bereavement counselor.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Yep. And I couldn’t tell him about you.”
“You kept our secret?”
I nodded.
“Good. Probably best. No one would believe you.”
I laid my cello down in front of me. “True. So, you’re still speaking to me after our last encounter?”
“I told you, I can’t stay away.”
I felt the warmth spread across my face, pleased and embarrassed at once, and he changed the subject.
“There was a time I could have played the accompaniment for you.”
“You play? Um, played?”
“Piano. Yes. And guitar. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed music until I heard you.”
“Dylan plays.”
“Sure, and the miserable fucker’s quite good—”
“Tristan, he’s not miserable or a—a—fucker!”
His eyes darkened and he stood. “So, the counselor,” he said, changing the subject again. “You’re not going to do anything stupid again, are you?”
“No!” I was disconcerted by his sudden change of mood.
“I can check, you know!” he snapped.
“What do you mean?” I stood up so he didn’t tower over me.
He stepped back, surprised by my ferocity.
“You know what I mean.” His voice was quieter.
My scalp prickled as I realized the significance of what he was saying.
