Page 67 of Petrify

The Pianist

By the timeI hand Henri off to Ms. Byrne for dinner, I am exhausted. I pushed him during our lessons today, per Leo and Mariane’s request. I’ve learned his boundaries these last weeks, the limit to which I can push him, before his eyes get glassy and his lip begins to curl, before the frustration grows too large for his heart to bear.

I skip the meal, my stomach too uneasy to even think of eating, and wait for Bastien at the piano. Watching the clock tick past seven, wondering where he is. Always thinking of him, remembering the rough edge of his voice, the gentle brutality of his hands. The tenderness in his eyes when he laid down with me the other night.

“How was your lesson with Henri?”

I turn around. He’s standing by the window, an easy set to his shoulders, his true face hidden by that white mask. “Are you asking me how my day went?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I just—you haven’t asked me before.”

I think he scowls under his mask, irritated that it’s true. “A mistake I’m fixing right now.” He steps closer, reaching up and curling a strand of my hair around his finger. “Tell me.”

“It went—fine.” I don’t know if I should go on, if he wants details, or if he’s just trying to be nice. He seemed confident enough in Henri the other night. Shouldn’t he know, anyway? Doesn’t he hear everything? “He’s taking an interest in the piece on his own.”

“See, didn’t I tell you?”

My face heats. I turn away, shuffling the sheets of music on the stand, giving my hands something to do. “It doesn’t mean we’ll be ready in time. We have less than two weeks.”

His arms suddenly appear on either side of me, grabbing the music and putting it down. “Sit.”

A small part of me wants to be defiant, tell himNo. That there’s so much I want to say to him, so much I want to ask, that I can think of nothing else.

I sit, moving over so he has room next to me. Our thighs touch. He’s still a head taller than me. He spreads his hands out on the keys, and I’m captivated, studying the valleys between his knuckles, the pale skin of his fingers. I know how his hands feel. I know how our bodies fit together.

He begins playing, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s not reading the music in front of us. He’s playing the Prelude.

The song spills out of him like it’s his own creation. He commands the melody, stretching it thin and flying through the notes, moving across the keyboard without a second thought. I’m still mesmerized by his hands, but now for an entirely different reason.

It would take me a few weeks at the very least to match his confidence in the piece. And Henri…

He holds the notes, stopping only part way through the tune, letting them ring.

“You’re… very good,” I say.

Of course he is. I’ve heard the stories. This is what Leo and Mariane want—the son who plays with the effortless ease of amaster. Is he showing off? Is he goading me, rubbing it in that Henri can’t do, that I might not be able to do this either?

I go to stand, but he grabs my wrist. It’s gentle, but I still I pull away quickly, jerking from his grasp.

“Why do you do that?” he asks. Then he stands too, so we’re face to face.

“Do what?”

“You keep pushing me away.”

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to just let you touch me whenever you want?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “I thought we agreed.”

“We agreed that you’d help me with the music.”

“You know it’s more than that.” He shakes his head. “You know thatweare more than that now.”

I laugh, a sad sound. “And what areweother than two lonely people who fuck?”

The vulgarity of saying it out loud makes me flinch.