Chapter Seventeen Deeply. Desperately. Hopelessly.
Chapter Seventeen
Deeply. Desperately. Hopelessly.
Griffin
“Which coffee is that for today?” I ask.
“What?”
Beverly glances down at the foldout card table.
We’re in the garage apartment, like we have been all day.
Her laptop is propped open, notebooks are scattered, and colored pencils roll into each other at odd angles.
It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and yet between her palms is another steaming mug of coffee.
“The number. Your sixth, maybe?”
She gives me a pursed-lip smile. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“I’m always a jerk. I like this, though,” I say, flicking the orange floral bandanna folded back into a triangle over her blond hair. I can’t help myself. I feel like a kid, tugging the girls’ pigtails just to get their attention. I’m in my thirties, and I can’t stop finding ways to touch her.
Beverly shakes her head. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m being serious, B. It’s very you.”
I draw my eyes over her, taking in her wispy bangs, vintage Birds on the Block T-shirt, long flowing skirt, and pleather boots. I like her whole look. It’s as if her creative, classic-TV-show-loving brain influences every part of her, all the way down to her fashion.
The longer Beverly concentrates on her laptop, the more her eyebrows tilt in. She’s been dancing with that expression all day. She’s stressed about something. I wish I knew what it was. I wonder if I caused it by bringing up the Grammys.
Ever since I asked her, it’s all I think about. Her laughing with my bandmates. The dress she might wear. Would it fit her unique style too? I want to see it.
Piano keys suddenly plunk down in shrill notes. Beverly startles, pressing a hand to her chest. I turn and see Ava’s tiny hand smashing down the keys again as she says, “Piano!”
“Piano. That’s right. Very good.”
“Cake?” Ava asks next.
I snort. “No more pancakes today, munchkin.”
“She’s gonna turn into a pancake,” Beverly says, smiling.
Ava presses another piano key, probably more out of frustration that she can’t get what she wants.
“Hey, let’s be careful what we touch,” I say. “That’s not ours.”
“It’s okay,” Beverly says. “She can play around. That’s what this house is for.
There’s probably still a dent beside the TV where I threw a ball too hard one time.
” Beverly stands, gesturing for Ava to follow.
Ava walks over with pounding feet and shaky legs—both a toddler’s unsteady walk and a small temper tantrum.
Beverly points at a tiny crack in the plastered wall. “See?”
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. She’s so natural with Ava. I could watch them play all day long.
When Beverly’s eyes snap up to mine, she sees me staring and averts her gaze, as if she didn’t expect me to be looking in the first place. I could be embarrassed, but why should I feel shame for admiring her? When was the last time someone that wasn’t Beau paid attention to her?
Though I am looking more often than I should.
I turn back to the piano. I haven’t played it since our first day in the apartment.
It felt too tempting. Too easy. There’s no reason for me to practice when piano won’t be used on the studio album or Birds on the Block.
But sometimes I find myself drumming fingers against the wood, like I do now.
Not playing but feeling like I’m getting away with something anyway. Just like I do with Beverly.
When I turn around, Beverly is watching my fingers tap.
“You got some songs to show me?” Beverly asks.
“Oh. Yeah.” She’s right; better to move on. “I came up with something for episode four…”
I stand to walk toward the guitar case in the corner, but Beverly walks straight to the piano. A key is plunked, drawing my attention back.
“No, I wanna hear this,” she says. “You at the piano.”
“I’m the guitar guy, B.”
“Be the piano guy for a second,” she says. “I want to experience the magic.” I cross my arms over my chest as she raises her eyebrows and drops them cheekily. “Please?”
She’s cute.
Ava, now sitting on the floor with a car clutched to her chest, blinks up at me. She points. “Piano.”
I pull in a breath and grunt out, “All right, then, you two.”
Beverly pulls that bottom lip in between her teeth in excitement, stepping to the side so I can take a seat on the piano bench.
“Oh, wait wait wait.” She pulls out the recorder we’ve been using for our music sessions and starts it. “There. Perfect.”
I press a key, then drop my hand between my knees. “Well, what should I play?”
“What do you like to play?”
I tilt my head to the side and tap a single key. Then I repeat it. And again. It’s a familiar intro.
Beverly smiles. “I love ‘Bennie and the Jets.’ ”
“You recognize the song just from that?”
“Of course.”
This woman.
“Want to help me play?” I ask.
She twists her lips to the side. Always wearing her emotions on her face. But it’s not that worried one from earlier. It’s curiosity.
I scoot over so there’s spare room on the bench.
She sits, but it’s a close fit. My knees bump Beverly’s, so I start to tuck them closer.
Her thigh still hits mine, though, and her arm is nearly flush against my biceps.
Clearing my throat, I tap the key again, then look at her, knocking my chin toward it.
She gingerly replaces my finger with her own, our hands brushing past each other’s.
“Just keep doing that,” I instruct.
Beverly nods, watching as the song sprouts from my fingertips.
My hands are plants newly watered, desperate for a sunny day, growing down the piano and stretching over keys.
“Bennie and the Jets” was a song I used to play in Nashville with Dom after a few bourbons, when it was late and everyone, me included, was getting rowdy.
When I no longer cared what the people liked, just that they were my captive audience and I was onstage with the music.
Playing piano was hit or miss with crowds, but this song never flopped.
Beside me, Beverly starts to hum. I grin and sing the lyrics with her.
For a moment, we’re in tune together, and my fingers are soaring over the keys, and I’m smiling because her singing voice is fine—not perfect—but the little wobbles give it character.
Beverly is nothing if not filled with character.
When we get to the titular line, I hop to a different note, creating a perfect harmony and making Beverly jump up with surprise. My fingers, already occupied, can’t twitch out a new rhythm, so my feet do instead, itching for something to match that beaming smile.
We finish the chorus on a soft laugh from her, and she finally stops pressing that single key as I instructed earlier. But I keep playing, letting my fingers drift into something new. I don’t know what I’m playing anymore, and I don’t care.
“I like your voice,” I say absentmindedly.
She shakes her head. “I’m a terrible singer.”
“Didn’t say it was in tune. I just said I liked it.” I dip my chin, and she grins.
“Why aren’t you the piano guy? When did you switch to guitar?”
“When it started making me money,” I answer, gauging her fallen expression. “I know. Sellout, huh?”
“No,” she says. “No, you’re still making music you like. Just not this. But how did you know? That guitar was it?”
“The moment I stopped including piano, people took notice,” I say. “I got more streams online—then I got signed because a song went viral.”
“Do you like your guitar?”
“Of course. I love guitar,” I say. “But piano…” I run the back of my fingers over the keys in a rush of notes before landing them in a heap in my lap, drowning us in immediate silence. “It’s different to me. But people resonate with a guy playing guitar more.”
“Sir Elton John would say otherwise.”
“Except it’s 2025, isn’t it?” I counter with a weak smile. “Not the ’70s.”
“We could only be so lucky,” she jokes back.
“Is that right?” I tease. “What would be in the ’70s that isn’t here now?”
She blinks into space as if thinking before saying, “Puppetry was so alive. There were so many formative years with formative shows. I would’ve thrived back then. Plus, maybe I wouldn’t be out of a job, y’know? Or, I don’t know, maybe I would be.”
“You’d have figured this out one way or another,” I say. “You are figuring it out.”
“That’s a lot of confidence in me.”
“I’ve got a little, sure.”
“Hmm. Misplaced,” she says, plunking an awkward key on the piano.
Beverly is so confident when she’s performing Bernie Bird, shamelessly adopting voices and gestures that would make most adults fidgety afterward.
Nobody else I know has that unbridled sense of self, not questioning her actions but driven on instinct.
And yet it’s like she forgets her talent the moment the fabric is off her arm.
The fun voices in her head shift to critical ones.
Ava tugs at my pant leg, jerking my attention to her. “Play.”
I bend to scoop her up into my arms. “Yeah, get on up here.” I sit Ava in my lap, sliding her between me and the piano. Only a couple of keys are awkwardly pressed on the way down.
“Can you play?” Beverly asks Ava sweetly. Ava scrunches her nose, like Beverly asked whether she can fly a plane too. “Yeah, silly question,” she murmurs to herself.
I chuckle. Ava presses a key, then turns around to look at me for approval.
“You’re a great help,” I say, pressing the same one. Ava giggles, pressing it again. I tap a different one. She follows, jamming her finger down. “But be gentle with the piano.”
“I hate your reputation,” Beverly says.
Startled, I look at her. She’s locked on to me with heavy eyes.
“What?” I press another key for Ava, which she chases with her own small index finger.
“Everyone thinks you’re this big assh—” She flicks her eyes to Ava, then continues, “—butt.”
“I am a big butt,” I say.
“No. That’s not who you are. Not with her. Not with me.”
My chest clenches. I run a palm over Ava’s feathery bangs, kissing the top of her head. It’s familiar. Comforting.
Beverly follows the motion with her beautiful green eyes.