18. Mia
MIA
“Are you okay?” I whispered to Cody. We sat in the back of the dark theater, of course.
The last row, to be exact. I was beginning to think that Cody had never sat in the front row for anything.
But it wasn't a problem. It was nice being a couple of rows behind everyone else.
A lot of students had their phones out, either texting or taking notes for the extra credit assignment, but I liked watching shows when it was very dark.
Being up in the top last row also meant I could look straight out at the screen instead of looking down and seeing all their bright, distracting phone screens.
“Have you seen this before?” I whispered to Cody as it started.
He nodded.
I wished he were more comfortable, but he kept fidgeting.
I got a little uncomfortable too, as on screen two middle-aged people shared a very cringey intimate scene.
It hadn’t, in the end, turned out to be all that intimate, but it was still cringe.
I wasn’t used to sitting next to a guy while watching something like that.
There weren’t any sex scenes in American Adventures .
Cody’s fingers tapped nervously against the denim of his jeans, and I was tempted to reach out and take his hand, stilling them. But this was extra credit for chemistry class, not a date. I didn’t know if he dated.
When we’d first arrived, I’d actually been a little surprised that he sat right next to me. I’d half thought he’d sit one seat over. But I was glad he didn’t. The armrest was up, and our arms kept brushing against each other, which was kind of nice—if only he’d stop fidgeting.
Mindlessly, I stared at his fingers. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Oh.
I felt a little foolish when I realized that he wasn’t fidgeting… he was playing piano, with one hand on each thigh. Now that I’d seen it, I could almost feel the rhythm, and I wondered what piece he was playing. Too bad I couldn’t hear inside his head.
Smiling, I went back to watching the episode, but I couldn’t get into it.
Then the episode took a crazy turn, and it suddenly reminded me what this show was about. Not just the chemistry experiments we were supposed to critique, but drugs.
And my sister was in a rehab center at this very moment. Somehow, I hadn't made that connection until now.
I missed her, and I thought about her every day, but I tried very hard not to think about what she was going through because there was nothing I could do to help her.
The pain in her voice... it had killed me.
I’d fall apart if I focused on that. So, yeah, watching a show about making drugs was possibly not the best choice right now.
So I focused on Cody instead. He was still playing piano with one hand on either thigh. It was fascinating to watch. I knew so little about music, but it almost felt like I could hear him.
Which gave me an idea. I took out my phone, dimmed the brightness as much as I could, and pulled up his contact. Then I sent him a text.
You're playing too loudly.
His phone vibrated, and he fished it out of his pocket, read it quickly, and then shot a quick grin my way, holding up his hands as if in apology.
It was so rare to see him smile that I cherished that moment and kind of wanted to see it again. After another minute or two, his fingers started moving across his legs again. He had to be aware that I was staring at him now.
There was rhythm to what he was doing. Some notes were long, others quick. Sometimes his hands moved up and down as if playing low notes or high notes.
I shot a quick peek at his face. His eyes were distant, as if he were hearing the silent music he was playing.
I reached out with my index finger and, moving slowly, I deliberately touched a spot right next to the fingers of his left hand, playing a note.
He didn't respond, his fingers flying across the keys—or, well, his jeans.
I watched for another minute, and then I did it again.
This time, he lightly smacked my hand away, which made me laugh.
“Shh,” he said sternly. “You're interrupting my practice time.”
His voice was so low as he leaned in that it barely reached my ears, let alone anyone else's. Then he started playing again, and I got an idea. I leaned toward him, and this time I put both index fingers on his left thigh.
I pressed them down together several times, then moved my left hand farther away, still playing silent notes.
When I'd finished, he leaned in close.
“Chopsticks.”
“It's all I know how to play,” I whispered. “Except for that one note in that song the other day.”
“I can teach you more sometime.”
“How about now?”
“We're watching the show.”
“No we aren't,” I pointed out, still speaking softly.
“We're supposed to be,” he whispered back.
He had a point, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to think about drugs, or making drugs, or dealing drugs. Hell, I didn't even want to think about high school, which is what the lead character had started out as—a high school teacher.
I turned my attention to the screen for all of about twenty seconds. Why should I watch something that made me depressed when there was a cute, hot guy sitting next to me, so earnest with his music that it was like he was begging me to tease him?
And, if I were being honest with myself, I could use the distraction.
I leaned toward him, my hair falling on his shoulder.
“Your piano's out of tune,” I whispered.
He turned toward me, raising his eyebrow.
“Use mine.”
I swung my leg up and over his thigh, keeping it straight, providing a new keyboard for him. He froze as my leg came to rest on his. For a moment, I couldn’t predict his reaction. Would he get up and leave? Push my leg away? Start humping it? I had no damn clue.
Then, finally, he placed his hands along my leg—his left hand high on my thigh, and his right hand around my bare knee. Then his fingers began moving, and I swear I could practically hear the symphony.
His fingers flew over my leg, playing something fast and furious. His hand slid up and down, and it dawned on me how long a real piano keyboard was. It felt like his fingers were touching every part of my leg at once, and some of it tickled.
His thumb slipped and brushed past the side of my knee, and I squirmed, moving my leg slightly out of position.
With his right hand, he grasped my ankle and pulled my leg toward him, which made me gasp.
He was only trying to situate the piano in a better position, but in doing so, he’d spread my legs farther apart—and suddenly I wasn't thinking about music anymore.
But he was. He played harder now, his fingers tapping at my skin, moving up and down, and I couldn’t help wondering what else those fingers could do. They were strong, quick, nimble.
I squirmed again in my chair, my hips rolling slightly.
He leaned over, and his breath, warm and steady, caressed my ear. “You make a terrible piano.”
Whether it was the truth or him being playful, I didn't care. It was fun teasing him in the dark, having him touch me, and it was a hell of a lot better than thinking about the depressing things on screen.
I turned my head and whispered back, “I like it when you play the high notes.”
The fingers on his right hand tapped rapidly along my shin. Wait, I had it backward. “Oh. I guess it's the low notes I like.”
“Like this?”
Suddenly, the fingers of his left hand were tapping high on my thigh, pushing into me and moving back and forth.
“Yes,” I breathed.
Then inspiration struck.
“Do you know any songs that are lower?”
His fingers stilled, and I wondered if I’d pushed him too far. After a long moment, he asked, “What's gotten into you?”
To my relief, his voice sounded half curious, half amused, and half worried. And yes, that was three halves, but I wasn’t majoring in math.
“I'm just a huge fan of piano music.”
“You’ve heard me play for real.”
“Yes, but I’m enjoying the pretend version, too.”
He was silent for a long time, and then he said, “Me too.”
As his fingers continued to slide up and down my leg, I couldn’t help squirming, and it was embarrassing. Finally, I whispered up to him, “I'm tired of being a piano.”
He stopped, instantly withdrawing his hands, which wasn’t what I’d intended. I reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Can I be a different instrument?”
His eyes were on mine for a long moment, and then he nodded, my hand still clutching him.
I waited, watching him. Nobody could hold still like Cody. For a long minute, I got the sense he was thinking. Finally, he tipped his head toward mine.
“Want to be a guitar?” he whispered.
“Ever since I was a little girl,” I said.
He made a small sound that could have been a laugh. He angled his body toward me now, as if figuring out how to make me into a guitar.
I couldn't quite figure it out either, but I was eager to feel his hands on me again. Then his arms slid around my shoulder. I let go of him, now that I was certain he wasn't going to bolt.
This time, he captured my wrist on the far side.
Our bodies were touching as he tugged my arm out at an angle and placed his fingers over my pulse.
Suddenly, I got it. That was the neck of the guitar—or whatever you called it—the part where you pressed your fingers on the strings to get the right notes.
Or at least I thought that was how it worked.
God, I need to take music lessons or something if I was going to have a roommate like him.
So if that was the neck of the guitar, what was the part he'd strum?
That question was answered when I felt his other hand graze across my stomach.
He paused there, as if waiting for me to object. But what the hell kind of guitar would object to having his talented fingers stroking them?
And that's exactly what he did. His thumb and index finger started picking out a rhythm, moving up and down, back and forth across my stomach, while his fingers pressed imaginary strings against my wrist.