Chapter 21 #4
At his prompting, I walk over to the piano and sit down in front of it, patting the bench beside me and inviting Amelia to join me. She moves smoothly, sitting with the grace of someone familiar with the instrument.
As she settles in, our eyes meet, and a quiet anticipation pulses through me. I’ve fantasized about this moment, sharing a piece of myself through music, hoping it might resonate with her as deeply as her music did with me.
When my fingers settle on the keys, there’s a slight tremor—a mix of nerves and excitement that I hope goes unnoticed.
Choosing “Invisible Beauty” by Frank Dang isn’t accidental.
As I begin to play, I steal a glance at Amelia.
Her reaction doesn’t disappoint—her expression softens, touched by recognition.
“This is the song Jamie played for us,” she whispers, a hint of wonder in her voice filling me with unexpected pride.
“It’s one of my favorites,” I admit, barely above a murmur, as my fingers continue to dance across the keys.
As the last note fades into a tender silence, I let my hands fall to my knees, feeling strangely vulnerable. Turning to face her, I’m met with a gaze that holds warmth and perhaps a glimmer of something deeper.
“Really?” Her voice is filled with a gentle curiosity that nudges my heart into a quicker pace. The way she looks at me at this moment suggests that she likes what she sees.
Well, I do too.
“It’s been a favorite for a while,” I respond, my hands subtly shaking as I brush them on my thighs to dispel the nervous energy.
“You know my favorite. “Comptine d’un autre été” by Yann Tiersen. You should play that one.” Grandpa comes to stand on my other side, leaning in to browse through the music sheets with trembling hands until he finds it, as demanding as always when I play for him.
I don’t do it often enough anymore.
I hesitate, the memories associated with that piece flooding back. I played it at a music school concert for him almost two decades ago, and I made so many mistakes. Because it was his favorite, and I always worried I wasn’t good enough.
Worry leads to mistakes.
Although Grandpa clapped so loudly for me, I never heard who didn’t.
“You know I don’t like to play it,” I murmur.
Not in front of her, for sure.
“Come on, I haven’t heard it in such a long time,” Grandpa presses, his voice gentle yet persistent.
Amelia’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, her eyes probing.
There’s a softness in her expression, a gentle curiosity that doesn’t push but waits patiently.
When I don’t say anything, she turns away from my hesitation, her fingers hovering over the keys for just a heartbeat before they descend gracefully.
The moment her fingertips touch the ivory keys, her eyes close as if shutting out the world.
And if I thought she was good playing on that pile of firewood in the park, then hearing her play on a Bosendorfer is an almost religious experience.
I watch, transfixed, as she loses herself in the music, her expression serene.
Playing the piece by heart, she doesn’t open her eyes once to look at the sheet music in front of us.
The sound is delicate yet powerful, warm yet poignant, weaving through the air like a vibrant thread sewing together moments of silent longing and tender melancholy. The room seems to breathe with the music.
Grandpa still stands next to me, a subtle smirk on his lips as he listens to her play. He nods at me approvingly as if to say, that’s the girl.
And she is.
But not for me.
As Amelia’s final notes linger in the air, a hush envelops the room.
With a breath, I slide my fingers on the lower octaves, hesitating only a moment before pressing down.
The deep, resonant chords blend with the silence until Amelia’s hands gracefully resume their dance across the higher notes, and together, we weave the melody back into existence.
Playing with her feels different, liberating. The usual weight of expectation lifts, and each note we play together fits perfectly as if the piece was always meant to be a duet.
As if I’ve just waited for her to play it with me.
When we’re done, Grandpa starts to clap, and Amelia finally opens her eyes to beam at me, making my heart skip a beat.
“Bravo! Amazing,” Grandpa gushes, and Amelia bites her lips to keep from smiling.
I don’t like that.
I want all of her smiles.
Grandpa leans forward, his eyes twinkling with interest as he watches her. “Amelia, dear, do you always play with your eyes closed?”
That’s what I want to know.
Amelia’s cheeks tint with a soft pink as she glances down at her hands intertwined in her lap.
“Yes,” she begins, her voice a little hesitant as she meets his gaze again.
“When I was younger, I had to play in front of others, and I… well, I’m not very comfortable with crowds.
Closing my eyes, it feels like I’m only playing for myself.
It’s just me and the music then and my heartbeat. It’s the only thing I hear.”
Grandpa nods thoughtfully, stroking his white mustache. “And what kind of piano do you have?”
“I had a Steinway back home,” Amelia replies, her voice holding a note of wistfulness as her finger glides over the polish of the side of the piano.
“Back home, meaning London, in her case,” I mutter, and Grandpa looks at me in surprise.
“Well, it’s not home anymore,” Amelia murmurs.
Yeah, thank fuck. Or I’d have to fly over there to get her back.
For her sake, of course.
“You don’t have one here?” Grandpa presses, his brow arching.
“No, not here.”
“So, where do you play if you don’t own a piano?”
I suppress a scoff.
Ivor E. Key.
Amelia smiles sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I sometimes play on a public piano at Denny Park.”
Grandpa’s expression shifts to one of concern. “The old, dirty one? Amelia, that’s not safe and hardly a fitting instrument for someone of your talent.”
Amelia laughs lightly. “Why would a piano need to be safe? It’s not like I can get a splinter from playing it. And I don’t need much, only to play from time to time.”
He shakes his head, his tone becoming serious. “It’s unsafe to let your guard down completely. When you’re so absorbed in your music that you lose awareness of your surroundings… that’s what worries me.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved.
Finally, someone sees reason.
Amelia frowns at me, probably puzzled about my strong opinion on something I just found out about.
Yeah, well, fuck.
“You might have a point. It never felt the same as playing at home on my piano, or like just now, but I just thought it was the state of the instrument,” Amelia relents.
Seeing an opportunity, Grandpa pulls out his business card from his shirt pocket, where he always has a few, no matter if he goes out or not, and hands it to her.
“Amelia, you’re welcome to come over and play here anytime.
Just shoot me a message, and I’ll make sure the door is open for you.
I won’t bother you. I know sometimes you just need to play music.
And if you ever want to chat, I’m always here for some good conversation and cake. ”
His offer is so genuine, and the warmth in his eyes is so comforting that it makes me appreciate him even more. Amelia looks touched, a soft smile playing on her lips as she accepts his card.
“Thank you. I would love that,” she responds warmly, slipping the card into the pocket of her jeans. “Now, I only need to know your favorite kind of cake.”
Grandpa lets out a hearty chuckle, his eyes twinkling with delight. “You’ll have to surprise me.”
I’m so glad she won’t have to play outside anymore. The thought of her out there alone makes me anxious. I would have found excuses to be nearby just to ensure she was safe.
But now, knowing she has access to this place—my safe space—it feels like everything is falling into place.