Chapter Five Second Date #2
“Uh. No. My mother didn’t cook.” I blink away images of raw cuts of meat, fresh kills, blood dripping over the table, my mother devouring everything with savage anger, and my father picking at his meal.
He eventually convinced her to try meat from the store.
She still didn’t want it cooked. She still found the idea of serving food ridiculous. Un-troll-like.
“Your mother never... Or father?” Andrea puts the flowers in the vase with a horrified look.
“No. She... She was into the raw diet,” I bend the truth. “There was always food, don’t get me wrong. It just wasn’t made with any kind of love. Or heat.”
“Well, I hope this is good. It’s a good kind of spice, but I wouldn’t call it too hot, though,” Andrea says, gesturing to a covered ceramic casserole dish in the center of her small table.
It looks so pretty. She put so much effort into this. For me. I don’t understand why, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe for an hour, I can just pretend it’s okay to like this little bit of softness, this little taste of friendship.
“You have a piano. A big one,” I say, sitting down, then standing up like I’m spring-loaded, remembering that a lady sits first.
“I know... It’s why I’m too broke to go on another vacation.
” She puts the vase on the table, stopping to smell the flowers, her eyes closed.
“I bought a piano, a good one, as good as I could anyway. It’s used, but has a beautiful tone.
” She moves to the piano, which is near the dining room table in this rather small apartment, and runs her fingers over the keys, her feather-light touches pulling out a snatch of music that I heard today.
“Chopin’s Nocturne. I don’t know which one, though,” I say, pleased I know something of her craft and her favorite composer.
Andrea looks at me, frozen in place, hand on the edge of the piano. “Yeah. It is. In E-Flat Major.”
“I like that one. I like his mazurkas, too.”
“You know Chopin?” she asks, slowly sinking into a chair.
“I do after today. I, uh, listened to a lot of piano playlists while I was prepping paperwork for the 4th of July event at the high school.”
“That’s... That’s a huge bunch of brownie points,” she murmurs, lifting the lid off the casserole dish and letting heavenly steam escape.
“Forget the brownies, I want that,” I almost groan at the sweet, spicy smell of savory goodness tickling my nostrils, making my tusks itch.
Andrea springs into action, serving me a plate, even though I could easily do it myself.
She heaps it with rice, then chicken, a spoonful of the sauce, two fluffy rolls, and a scoop of greens and red onions.
“You can have that and dessert. Although, it’s not brownies, it’s just cookies and ice cream. ”
“That’s perfect.” I nod.
“I meant you got bonus points with me, impressing me by knowing about Chopin and anything musical.”
“I like piano,” I say, and it’s true. Now.
I didn’t care two cents about it last week.
Now, it’s got a special spot in my heart—or at least my ears.
“We didn’t have music growing up. I like what I heard today.
Soothing. And exciting. Lots of emotions.
” I cough myself to a stop, because I shouldn’t be talking so much.
She’s going to think I’m weird. No home-cooked meals, no family, no music...
“Exactly! Some people say the violin and string instruments are more expressive, but I think the piano is king. And honestly, there’s a lot more music written for piano, and for a wide range of abilities.
I was thinking I’d have the piano here so I could advertise on like, supermarket noticeboards or something, and give lessons here.
At least in the summer. But then summer came, and I felt burnt out.
I pinned way too many hopes on a cheap cruise and casual sex,” she groans—and then looks mortified. “Oh. No!”
“What?” I blink. Something is wrong, but I’m not sure which part is wrong. I think it’s the sex part.
“I don’t believe in casual sex. Um. Normally. Um. I’m— Here, this is called pandesal, do you want more?” She suddenly rises, thrusts the basket of little fluffy rolls at me, hits the table, and pelts me with half of the contents of the basket.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, and gather the four rolls from my lap and tuck two of them easily into my mouth.
“Mmm!” I make appropriate noises of delight, both out of an attempt at manners and because I’d have to be under a vow of silence not to make a noise.
They’re so... light. And warm. And I want to bury my head in the basket.
Andrea blushes and sits. “Sorry.”
“I’ve had worse things thrown at me,” I grunt after swallowing. “You can do that anytime.”
“Thank you. Also, sorry about the casual comment. I meant... I meant that I had the idea that I’d have a whirlwind romance on my cruise.
And now that I think about it, now that I’ve talked to my cousin on board the ship today, I realize that was probably a stupid idea.
Because how well do you know someone after a week in a false setting?
Like a cruise ship is an idealized floating village where everyone can just party and be irresponsible.
” She sighs wistfully. “That part sounds good. But relationships wouldn’t survive the same way in the real world, would they? ”
“I don’t think so. But you can have a few days off from your busy life in other ways, right? Like... Camping. Camping can be freeing. You do what you want. You’re in nature.”
“I’ve never camped before in my life.”
“I’ve never played piano. Or heard anyone play it. In person.” I stuff another one of the rolls from heaven in my mouth. They’re like slightly sweet pillows, with this divine, sandy texture on top that makes them crunch, then melt.
“I could play for you. Maybe even give you a couple of lessons? You could teach me how to camp?” Andrea offers, still blushing.
I think the blush is different this time.
“I can’t play. My hands are too big.” I squash the vague dream of Andrea and me sharing the piano bench. She’d be on my lap, or we’d never fit.
Her. On my lap. Guiding my hands. Making those beautiful sounds emerge from that intimidating instrument.
God damn it, I’m going to have to find out which doctors in town are supernaturally conversant, because I have chest pains again. There are no troll cardiologists, as far as I know. Maybe I just ate too many rolls, too fast.
Andrea takes a bite of her chicken with a reproachful noise. “Anyone can play! The bigger your hands are, the better. You have, here, hold up your hand—” she holds up her own, palm out.
I mimic her, lightning dancing over my skin when she places her small palm flat to mine, our fingers spreading wide, not lacing.
“Dude! You would have an octave and a half reach, easily. I’d say two octaves, but that’s nuts.”
“Oh.”
“That’s good! Pianists dream of that kind of range,” she encourages with a wide smile. “Now, yes, that can mean that you’d have trouble with hitting multiple keys at once sometimes, but that’s okay. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Words—and crumbs—burst from my mouth. “You’re a good teacher!”
Andrea looks startled and sits back in her chair. Maybe she’s just trying not to get pelted by crumbs. “Thank you. You’ve never—”
“I know. You made me feel like I’d be good at something, and you warned me about what would be hard, but in a good way.” I frown, words tangling in my throat, unused to working free. “You would never make a child feel bad or stupid. Or like they would fail. That’s very important.”
Andrea looks at me for a long time without speaking. She’s not chewing, either. “Did you have a teacher like that?” she asks softly.
I don’t tell her it was my mother, reinforcing my father’s brief, harried “how to survive” lessons with sharp cuffs on my head, and angry hisses and screams as I did it wrong. “Yes.”
Her hand is on mine again, but this time, she’s not checking the size. She’s hugging my knuckles under her palm. “Now you have to have at least one lesson. Please?”
I nod jerkily, suddenly very aware that I cannot refuse Andrea anything.
“Good! Um. Gosh, I’m sorry. I’m keeping your hands prisoner, and you can barely eat.”
“I’ve eaten four of these pande... Pandesals?”
“Pandesal, yes. They’re more of a breakfast or coffee accompaniment, but to me, there is nothing that screams Filipino comfort food more than one of these, so I decided to make them for you.”
“You made them. You’ve baked for me twice.”
“You’ve saved my cat once. That’s enough.” She giggles.
Oh, no. It’s becoming one of the prettiest sounds I know, and I want to hear it again.
I want to hear her play, and sing, and laugh...
and suddenly I picture her on my lap, guiding my hands, and my hands slide to her long, beautiful legs, and she makes a new sound.
“Gordon,” she sighs, softly, warm little body against my much bigger one.
Not afraid of being held by me, because she knows I’d never hurt her.
Never hurt anyone, even though I’m a troll.
“I’d save him again,” I say gruffly. “If necessary.”
“Thank you.”
She finds my hand again. A little pat. A little smile.
It’s absolutely unfair that it hits with the force of a firehose.