Chapter 19 Lovesick
Lovesick
WALKER
After dessert, Dad pushes back from the table and announces he's taking Sadie and Jonah down to see the horses before it gets dark.
The sun is barely hanging on outside, at war with the moon and the first evening stars. It's past eight and the sky is caught on that long amber burn that refuses to quit, painting everything gold and rust.
I hang back on the porch with my brothers, beer in hand, watching Dad lead Sadie and Jonah toward the paddock. Jonah has his hand in Sadie's again.
Slade settles on my left. Tanner takes up my right.
The silence lasts about four seconds.
“You are so fucked,” Tanner says, and has the temerity to laugh about it. “You haven't taken your eyes off her all night.”
I don't take my eyes off her now either. “She's a lot nicer to look at than your ugly mugs.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “So was Isabella. And I never once saw you moon over your ex-wife like a lovesick fool.”
I cut him a look.
“Don't worry though,” he adds, almost gentle underneath the teasing. “Sadie’s got the same look on her face when she watches you. Just a prettier version of it.”
“She does?”
“Mm-hm.”
There's no way that's true. I've been paying attention. I would have noticed.
“She's smart enough to save it for when she knows you're not looking,” Tanner says, grinning now.
I look back toward the paddock. Sadie is reaching out to let one of the mares nibble an apple from her hand, and Dad is chattering her ear off, and Jonah is pressed against the fence rail vibrating with happiness.
The last of the sun catches her hair and turns the copper to pure fire.
Slade says, “How long you plan to carry on like this? Pretending you're not already gone on her?”
I don't bother denying it. There's no point with these two.
“Until the end of summer,” I say. “That's when she leaves. New job in New York. New life.” I take a pull of my beer. “So that's how long I plan to carry on.”
They exchange one of their looks over my head. I ignore it.
Sadie comes back up to me then, cheeks gone pink in the summer evening heat. “Where’s the restroom?” she asks me.
“Follow me,” I say. “I’ll show you.”
I lead her down the hallway and wait in the living room for her. But my footsteps end up leading me to another room off the side. The music room. The baby grand piano I grew up playing is still there, walnut wood lovingly polished to a high shine.
As if waiting for someone to play.
A hand touches my shoulder. The scent of her, warm and sweet like sun-ripened strawberries, reaches me before I turn.
I turn to find Sadie’s too-perceptive blue eyes examining me.
“It’s a beautiful piano,” she says.
“It’s the one I learned to play on. My mother taught me.”
“You have her eyes,” she says.
I turn to her, surprised.
Her cheeks color as she explains, “Jonah showed me some family photo albums. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m surprised he likes to look at those old pictures. He never got to meet her.”
“He’s curious. He says your dad tells him lots of stories about her. Marianne, right?”
“That’s right,” I say, voice a little husky.
Her elbow brushes mine as she leans in further to get a better look at the piano. “Will you teach Jonah to play?”
“I tried. He’s not interested yet. I don’t want to force it.”
“Does anyone play this one?”
“Not anymore.” My throat feels oddly tight as I say, “Once upon a time this house was filled with noise. With kids and music and craziness. And now… I think Dad gets lonely in this big house all alone. It’s why he likes to have Jonah over every weekend.
Why he pushes these family dinners at every chance. ”
Her hand lands on my arm again. Just as softly as before, but this time it stays.
“Y’all are lucky to have each other,” she says.
There’s so much longing in the way she says it. When I look at her face, it’s mirrored there too.
I think of what she’s told me of her family life. Only child. Her mother’s only caregiver. A good-for-nothing father, rotting away on one of those riverboat casinos instead of basking in the light of his luminous, lovely daughter.
I feel a sudden rush of intense gladness that I brought her here tonight. A sudden desire to give her everything I can, in every way I'm able. In every way I'm allowed.
It's a short list, the things I'm allowed. But it's not empty.
I take her gently by the elbow and steer her toward the piano bench.
“Sit,” I say.
There’s an eyebrow raise at the command.
“Sit with me, Sadie,” I try, softer. “Please.”
She does.
I settle beside her, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her.
“You ever play?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“All right.” I reach over and take her hands. Turn them palm-up for just a moment, looking at them. Delicate hands, not calloused like mine but still just as capable. The kind that are always doing something for someone else.
I set them gently on the keys. “Curve your fingers a little.”
She adjusts. My palms cover her hands.
“This is middle C.” I press her finger down with mine. The note rings out, familiar as my own voice. “Everything starts here. Every song I've ever written started from something this simple.”
“Are you writing a song now?”
“Haven't written a song for a while now. A long while.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks.
She's looking down at our hands on the keys, not at me, which makes it easier to answer honestly.
“Every day,” I tell her.
I'm close enough that I can smell her hair and I want to bury my nose in it. Her shoulder is an inch from mine. Maybe less.
“Play it again,” she says,
So I press her finger down again. C. Then I guide her through the notes, one at a time. Not chords yet. Just the melody, single notes, one after the other. My hand over hers, her finger finding each note, the melody building bar by bar.
Just like that, there's a song.
Not one of mine. Those are still locked up somewhere I don't have the key to.
She makes a small sound of delighted surprise. I’d compose a whole symphony if I could, just to get that reaction out of her again.
I think about all the times I've played to tens of thousands of people and felt nothing. Now I’m playing a couple of chords for one woman, and feeling things I’ve never felt before.
“That's beautiful,” she whispers.
She turns her head to look at me then, and she must not have realized how close we are, because her breath catches. Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second. Maybe not even a second.
But I catch it all the same.
My hands are still over hers on the keys. I don't press another note. I'm not sure I remember how.
Then the door bangs open and Jonah comes skidding in on socked feet, all elbows and energy, sliding the last three feet on the hardwood.
“Are you playing piano? Can I learn? Dad, can I learn?”
Sadie pulls her hands back from the keys and tucks them into her lap. I lean back and clear my throat, grateful and very much not, in equal measure.
“I thought you weren't interested,” I say.
“I changed my mind.” He's already wedging himself toward the bench, completely without concern or awareness of the tension he just shattered. “Scoot over.”
“There's not enough room, kiddo. Come sit on my lap.”
He stops. Draws himself up to his full four foot tall height with enormous dignity. “Dad. I'm too old for that.”
“You're five.”
“I'm almost six.”
“You're never too old to sit on someone's lap,” Sadie says, easy and light and teasing.
“Then you do it!” He grins like he knows he successfully turned her logic against her.
I let the corner of my mouth pull up in a silent challenge. Go on then.
She rises. Then sits herself right back down on my lap like she's settling into a perfectly ordinary chair.
My arms come to either side of her waist as I settle my hands on the keys. She smells like heaven and feels like it too, all soft curves and warmth.
Fuck, does that feel perfect.
“See?” she says to Jonah, breezy as anything. The only evidence against her is the color creeping up her cheeks. “Never too old.”
Jonah gives me his gap-toothed grin. “Okay,” he says, already reaching for the keys. “Now teach me.”