Page 109 of Sing For Me

Daltrey follows my gaze and grins at me. “You play?”

I blush as I nod. “It’s been a while.”

Wyatt hops off the piano bench, gesturing at the keys. “Give it a go.”

“Are you sure? You probably wanted—”

He waves me off, heading to the gleaming guitars. “I play piano thirty-five hours a week. I could use a break.”

“You could use some practice on a real instrument, you mean,” Cash says. “Your guitar skills are subpar.”

Wyatt flips off his dad and I can’t help laugh at the easy banter they all share.

“Come on,” Daltrey urges, gesturing to the piano. “You know you want to.”

All the noise in the room, the teasing and the back and forth between the guys, dulls as soon as my fingers touch the smooth ivory keys. I flex my hands, a thousand memories flooding through me, and take a deep breath, trying to breathe in the familiar smell of the wood that only a grand piano seems to have.

Before I can think much about it, my hands start moving across the keys, Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Major coming back to me without need of sheet music. I always said I could play this piece in my sleep, and, apparently, that hasn’t changed much in the last year and a half.

I don’t realize that they’ve all gone silent for a long moment. I finally look up to see every eye on me and I gulp, embarrassed, cutting off in the middle of a chord.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Wyatt says, grinning at me broadly. “You sound great.”

I can feel the fire on my cheeks and I duck my head. “It’s just been awhile,” I repeat.

“You can come down here to play any time,” Cash tells me, and there’s more understanding in his voice than I can wrap my mind around.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“Okay,” Reed says, thankfully directing the attention away from me. “Let’s get this started.”

They start by playing a few of their old songs and I have no problem picking them up, adding a couple little jazzy embellishments in certain parts and making Daltrey groan.

“You’re popifying my piano solo, young lady,” he says, and I laugh, more at ease than when I first came in here.

Then they start working on Lennon’s song, which so far seems to consist of only a few chords and a handful of notes for the chorus. I don’t contribute a whole lot to start, content to watch them. Hell, watching them isfascinating. The way they build off each other, adding layers and ideas. The way they practically seem to be able to read each other’s minds.

“There’s no sense in talking to them when they get like this,” Wyatt tells me. “They’re in their own little world.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell him honestly. Then I get an idea. They’re working through the bridge and it sounds too monotonous, almost flat. “What if you took it up here?” I ask, taking the chords up a step and a half. “That might give you more texture.”

“I like that,” Reed says. “Play it again.”

So I do and, to my shock, they keep it that way. None of them stop to make a big deal out of it beyond a casual “good idea,” from Lennon, and somehow, that’s even better than a bunch of compliments. Using my idea means they’ve accepted me, just like that. And how crazy is that?

My soaring spirits crash to the ground the second Will comes banging into the room, his face a mask of rage. For a split second, I think he’s come to yell at me, but his eyes flick over me without hardly registering. Instead, all of his anger is directed at the men in the room.

“What. The.Fuck.”

“Hey,” his dad begins, standing. Wyatt and Daltrey both shoot me worried looks and I have no idea what’s going on.

“Someone want to tell me why I just overheard my brother talking about going on tour?” Will grinds out, his face red and his hands visibly shaking.

A chill seems to settle over the room. “It’s not like what you’re thinking,” Reed says, setting down his sticks.

“Did you or did you not tell your kids they could go on tour this summer?”