Page 23 of My Best Friend's Dad

Thank fuck the light finally changes, and we can walk across. We have to hustle to make it to the other side of the long intersection before cars start zooming around us in all directions. Distractions are a great thing.

But the clouds crowding together in the sky and turning an ominous grey, and the wind suddenly picking up? Not so great.

I crane my neck up to check out the gathering gloom. I did check the weather before I caught the bus, and there was nothing about a storm of any kind.

We reach the piano five minutes later. Normally, the sidewalks are lined with people leaning against the railings overlooking the river or ambling along the walking paths. But there’s hardly anyone out tonight. No wonder, with the wind whipping itself into a sudden fury.

The taco idea was a bust, and now we’re about to get some kind of apocalyptic drenching. Would it be better or worse if it came with a side serving of zombies? Probably better. At least the night would be more interesting. There’s nothing likerunning for your life that can prove to you just how much you valuebeingalive.

The piano is inside a little white gazebo. We duck under it just as the sky unleashes, dumping down a torrent of rain. The wind whistles through since the gazebo is open except for the railings, columns, and roof, blowing so hard that my sweater slides off my shoulders, and my hair turns into a messy hurricane around my face.

“I have to say, this is a great place to be trapped in the rain,” Rowleigh shouts in order to be heard over the roaring wind.

I can’t tell if he’s sarcastic or not. His face is perfectly expressionless. The wind turns his hair into a vortex, but instead of it being a tangled mess like mine, his dark tresses give new meaning to sexily windswept. I didn’t realize how humid it was, but now, the natural curl comes out, too, waving around his ears. It’s so freaking perfect that it doesn’t even get frizzy.

“By all means.” He gestures to the piano. “I’d still love to hear you play.” He doesn’t sound or look like he’s pulling my crank, but he has to be.

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? We’re not going to be going out until the rain stops. I think the acoustics would be wonderful.” The flat line of his mouth says he’s trying to make the best of a shit situation.

One I put him in.

I stumble to the bench, grasping my sweater by the front and wrapping it tightly around my body. As soon as I let go, it flings back out behind me like a cape. The piano is miraculously dry. It’s painted a myriad of colors, with a cheerful park, a river, and flowers flowing along the front. I’ve always known this was here, but I’ve never played it before. I half expect it to be out of tune, but the first few notes are crisp and clear. The wind is strong enough that it might carry the impromptu concert halfway across town.

The second my fingers caress the worn and chipped keys, I feel truly alive. It takes me less than a minute to lose myself in them. Rowleigh’s right. The howling wind and the rain driving down add a strange, almost haunting background to the music. I cycle through a few short classical pieces, add in a pop mixture, and then sneak in a jumble of my own creations. The notes flow out of me, telling a story through song. It’s not just my hands flying over the keys. It’s my soul that reaches out, pouring through my fingertips.

I have no idea how long it takes for me to come back to myself, but when I do, I’m immediately aware of being watched. Not by a crowd gathered around, but by one man. I don’t have to turn around to know that his eyes are blazing. They’re scalding a hole in my back. The wind is still whipping through the gazebo, bringing a smattering of mist with it. I’m cold and wet, but that’s not why my hair stands up on the back of my neck.

I stop abruptly, gathering the folds of my sweater and securing it around me with my arms clutched tight in a self-hug.

Raindrops spatter against the gazebo’s roof and slide down, ending in a cascade of mini waterfalls flowing off the edges.

It’s impossible this little building, open on all sides with great venting, can feel stuffy, but it feels like someone sucked all the oxygen out of it and rammed it full of hot air, trying to make baked potatoes out of both of us.

I leap off the bench but freeze right by it.

Rowleigh doesn’t try to hide the fact that he was staring at me while I was playing the piano. He’s still staring.Boldly. The fire in his eyes scares me, but not because he’d ever do anything about it. He lost control once, for a few minutes, and then returned to being a perfect gentleman. I was the one who asked him for all of it. I was the one who wanted him. I was the moth, and he was the flame. I was the magnet, and he was the metal. I was the gasoline, and he was the match.

I’m all of those right here, right now.

We stare at each other without moving, without breathing. The air isn’t just stifling. It’s charged. It’s storming between us, jagged lightning pulsing from our bodies to electrify the tiny building with tension.

All it takes is one shuddering, heaving breath from him, and I’m out of that gazebo before I make a very stupid mistake and rush at him, leap the final foot, and climb him like I’m a porcupine, and he’s made up of some very delicious bark. I think they eat bark? Or is it beavers? Maybe both?

Either way, the only thing that’s going to accomplish is me detaching my quills all over the place, and no one will like that. They’re dangerous. They can pierce through the skin, digging in deeper and deeper and leaving their victim irrevocably changed.

I know this for a fact. Doctor for a mother, remember?

It would be safer to brave the rain.

Both of us have walls for a reason.

He barely has his arms around me before I pull back, get my feet under me, and scramble out of the gazebo. I fly down the steps, probably looking like a stumbling bumbler as I charge straight into the wind and rain. I thought the gazebo wasn’t doing much to shield us, but I was wrong. The full force of the storm hits me, nearly knocking me over.

“What are you doing? The wind’s strong enough to break the trees around us or start flinging trash in the air. Do you want to get killed by a branch or smacked in the face by a flip-flop?” Rowleigh’s right behind me.

Rain pelts down on me, stinging my face and drumming off my head with such angry intensity that I almost believe he’s right.