Page 127 of Petrify

“Youletme run?”

I reach up to wind a strand of her hair around my finger, but it is too short now. I cup her cheek instead. “This life in the city, this is what you want. Right?”

She nods.

“Then let’s do it together. Let me in.” Her skin is so soft beneath my palm. I can’t stop touching her, afraid if I let go I’ll wake up. “I’ll keep writing you music. You know we work so well together.”

Her lashes flutter. “And you want me to give youmy nights?”

“I want you to give me everything.”

“What will you do if I say no?”

“I won’t go far. Without you, I am nothing.”

Chapter 55

The Pianist

The lounge is full.Every seat at the bar is taken. Dozens of people, sipping on spirits and wine, their hushed conversations floating across the space.

The walls are a deep red, almost the color of blood. It gives everything within a crimson tinge, the exposed-bulb lights emitting a soft yellow, the furniture all leather and velvet. A mirror spans the entire wall behind the bar, reflecting the patrons’ vices back at them.

This is one of those rooms I could have only dreamed of getting into a few months ago. These people wouldn’t have given me a second glance.

But now, it is nearly ten o’clock in the evening, and they are all waiting for me.

When the time comes, I step up onto the raised platform. The grand piano here isn’t quite as high-end, but it’s still better than anything I performed on during university. The murmuring goes quiet.

I've played here before. But this time, I know he is here.

He sits toward the back, alone at a table with two fingers of whiskey. It’s still a shock to see his face out in the open and not the white mask. He’s wearing a suit without a tie, the open shirtunderneath exposing his neck. Our eyes meet. I can feel the heat of his stare even when there are so many people between us. None of those people matter, not when he is here.

The past few months, I’d assumed the familiar sensation of being watched was all in my head, especially at these things, when there were dozens of people staring at me anyway.

Baz told me he’d been here all along, waiting until I was ready.

When the crowd is almost silent, I take my deep breath, stretch my fingers across the keys.

And play.

This time, a jazzier tune, something more fitting for a club with a hefty membership fee. Energetic enough not to put them to sleep, but subdued enough the conversation can continue.

His stare never wavers. All through the thirty minutes, I never feel his attention wander once. My music fills the room, twisting through key changes and accidentals. He has to know I’m playing forhim. I wouldn’t be here if not for him. In the end, I suppose he did fulfill his promise.

If I’d relied only on the Beauchene name to give me a leg up, it could have taken months, if not years, for people to notice. Or care. Especially if I stayed employed as Henri’s tutor long term—I could have easily gotten stuck in that position with little room to grow.

Maybe it’s agoodthing Baz was there.

Because now I’m here, playing for dozens of people who’ve probably never lived off bodega takeout. Violet told me the manager of the club wanted me to play weekly. That check alone would’ve paid for my student loans, the utilities, our groceries. I don’t need the money now. And being able to play for music’s sake, because Ilikeit, and not have to worry about the bills…

It’s all because of Baz.

When the thirty minutes is up, there’s a whispering of applause. I get a fifteen minute break before they’ll expect me to play again.

Baz doesn’t wait for me to make my way over. I stand from the bench, and he’s there, offering me a hand. “These people aren’t appreciative enough.”

“It’s a different audience,” I say. “They’re not here forme.”