Page 28

An old upright, a Story & Clark from the look of the cabinet, with brass pedals that had tarnished to a dull brown and a music rack that was slightly crooked. It was beautiful. It stood there in the moonlight like a dormant beast, solid and imposing.

I touched the wood of the cheek block. It was cool and smooth, clearly refinished with care, though a thin layer of dust had settled on the surface. I hesitated. I hadn’t touched an instrument since the crash. I hadn’t played just for the sake of playing in years. Music had become work. It was hours in a windowless studio with Nash criticizing my phrasing, or days spent rehearsing choreography until my feet bled, or nights performing the same twenty songs for screaming crowds until the lyrics lost all meaning.

But looking at those keys, a pang pulled in my chest, a hunger that had nothing to do with charts or sales.

I sat down on the bench. It gave a protest—a sharp creak. I froze, glancing toward the hallway that led to Ben’s bedroom, but the silence remained unbroken. The piano was near the hall that led to my room, far away from his. I didn’t want to disturb him, but the urge to keep going was irresistible.

I gently lifted the fallboard. The keys gleamed in the moonlight, a perfect row of ivory and ebony grinning up at me. I placed my fingers on them without pressing down, noting the familiar width and the resistance of the action waiting to be triggered. This was muscle memory. This was the only language I spoke fluently.

I played a single chord. C major. I pressed the keys down softly, barely engaging the hammers, afraid to wake Ben. The sound was muffled, warm, and rich. The piano was out of tune—the honky-tonk charm of a tool that lived in humidity—but the tone was deep and resonant.

The sound of a beautiful instrument exhaling.

I let my hands find a rhythm. I didn’t think about what I was playing. I just let the chords tumble out in a progression I knew without having to think. A minor, F, C, G. The bones of my biggest hit, “Neon Heart."

On the radio, "Neon Heart" was a monster. It was a synth-heavy, one-hundred-and-twenty-beats-per-minute anthem about dancing through a breakup. It had four producers, a guest verse from a rapper I had never met, and a drop that was scientifically engineered to make people jump in unison. It was glossy, loud, and completely impersonal.

But here in the dark, stripped of the production and the auto-tune, it was a sad song about being lonely in a room full of people. I slowed the tempo to a crawl. I rolled the chords, letting the notes bleed into each other, turning the club banger into a waltz. My left hand found a bass line that grounded the melody, while my right hand improvised around the vocal line, adding trills and grace notes that Nash would have cut for being too busy.

I sang.

My voice was a soft murmur, barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator.

"Lights go down, the city screams my name...

I’m burning out, a moth inside the flame..."

The words tasted different tonight. Usually, I sang them with a sneer, a fierce projection of power. Tonight, they sounded fragile. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, reclaiming the song from the brand. This wasn’t Sutton Vale performing. This was the girl who used to write songs on her bedroom floor because she had too many feelings and nowhere to put them.

I leaned into the keys, the music swelling slightly as I reached the bridge. I forgot about Ben sleeping down the hall. I forgot about the burner phone. I forgot about the ankle brace and the borrowed clothes. I changed the lyrics. I didn’t plan it. The new words just slipped out, replacing the polished, focus-grouped bridge with something raw and bleeding.

"I built a house of glass and locked the door,

Don’t know who I am or who I’m for,

Just a ghost inside a couture dress,

Trading my soul for a beautiful mess..."

The final chord hung in the air, vibrating against the wooden ribs of the cottage. I let my hands rest on the keys, feeling the last tremors of the sound fade into the darkness. I kept my eyes closed, breathing hard as I struggled to contain a strange mixture of exhaustion and elation. I had ripped the song open and found the heartbeat inside it again.

Then, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

I wasn’t alone. The realization hit me with a surge of adrenaline. I snapped my eyes open and spun around on the bench.

Ben stood in the hallway entrance. He was partially obscured by the shadows, but the outline of his shoulders showed in the pale gray of his T-shirt. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, perfectly still.

I froze. Panic flooded my system. How long had he been there? Had he heard the new verse? Was he angry that I had touched his things? Or worse—was he calculating how much this private performance was worth?

"I’m sorry," I blurted out, my voice cracking. "I didn’t mean to wake you. I... discovered the piano and I couldn’t sleep and I..."

I trailed off, waiting for him to speak. Waiting for the critique. Waiting for him to tell me it was too loud, or too slow, or that I should stick to the radio version.

Ben pushed off the doorframe and ambled into the living room. Moving with that quiet, deliberate grace that always surprised me for a man of his size, he didn’t turn on a light. He just walked over to the piano and leaned his hip against the side of the instrument. His face was unreadable in the shadows, but his eyes were soft. There was no anger there. No calculation. Just a heavy, quiet intensity that made my breath catch.

"I didn’t know you played," he said. His voice was rough with sleep, a low rumble that harmonized with the lingering notes in the room. “I’ve only seen you singing.”

"I... yes." I pulled my hands into my lap, suddenly self-conscious. "I haven’t played in a long time. Not like that."