Chapter Five Second Date #3
This is possibly my favorite date, ever.
Better than any dance or party. Shoes kicked off.
Cat asleep on the windowsill across from me.
Comfort food in my belly. Gordon watching me with his mouth hanging open as I play my favorite pieces, the pieces that are easy now, but still sound impressive to the uninitiated.
The kind that flow easily and make my entire body feel warm and relaxed.
Für Elise. Nocturnes. Pop hits from the eighties.
Gordon’s eyes just get wider, and his criminally handsome face gets softer.
Sometimes I see him rub his chest, just for a second, and then he puts his hands back on his knees.
He makes my sofa look like toddler furniture.
And the chest-grabbing thing could mean he’s not used to all the spices in the adobo chicken. Could be heartburn.
But when my fingers still over the final notes, I hear a croaky whisper that’s so small, I can’t believe it came from someone so big. “That was beautiful. All of it,” Gordon says.
“You’re a good audience. Want to try it out? I’ll teach you a scale. C major is so easy, all white keys, all in a row,” I encourage, and when he stands, looking oddly lost in a heroic body, I tug him by the wrist, and he moves like a puppet on a string.
I think... I think this big, tough, “strong silent type” guy is a secret softie, and it tickles me.
It also gives me feelings I didn’t mean to catch. “C’mon,” I nudge, and sit him down on the piano bench. I stand behind him and have to stretch to reach over his shoulder and put his thumb on middle C. I try not to feel how hard his shoulders are, how densely muscled.
But oh my God, I’m not made of wood. He might be made of stone, however.
I’ve never felt anyone with muscles like that.
My insides go all woozy from being so close, and that’s just stupid and unprofessional.
Right now, he’s kind of like a student. “Okay, like this.” I demonstrate five notes in a row with my right hand, one octave up.
“Just go thumb, two, three, four, five. Perfect!” I cheer when he does it right, a look of amazement on his face.
“Okay, and to do a scale, we go thumb, two, three, tuck the thumb under, and it’s thumb, two, three, four, five.
” I coach. “Look, you did that. And so smooth.” It was smooth.
And careful. “Want to learn to play ‘Hot Cross Buns’?”
“A song?”
“A simple song. Three notes.”
He hesitates. “I should go soon.”
“We don’t have to play the piano, Gordon,” I say, wondering if he’s bored and just wants to get out of here, even though we just finished dinner a few minutes ago. I glance at my phone from where it sits on the piano’s sleek wooden top.
Oh. No, it really is that late. I must’ve played for almost an hour.
“Teach me?” Gordon asks, that same little voice that melts me whispering past his lips.
“Sure!” I demonstrate the song, saying the name of the notes as I go, explaining that each key matches a note name.
I feel like he should have been taught this in school—but then I remember the snippets I know of his childhood.
I remember how many schools cut art and music first when money gets tight.
Gordon is a fast learner. He taps the song out slowly, perfectly. I can’t resist giving his massive shoulders a quick squeeze as I give a happy squeal. “You did it! Here, I have one of the beginner piano books I use with the piano class at school. Let me get it for you.”
“How much?” His hand reaches to his back pocket, and his head swivels to look up at me.
“Nothing. Freebie,” I smile.
When Gordon sits on the bench and I stand next to it, we’re practically eye-to-eye. Smile to smile. My eyes widen, and then slowly start to close as I lean closer.
And end up with a pectoral in my face.
“I have to go. I... I don’t need the book. I don’t have an instrument,” Gordon blurts, stepping over the piano bench the way I’d step over a twig on the ground.
“Oh, let me show you some piano practice apps. A lot of my students don’t have pianos, either, but this is good practice for the real thing. Plus, you could always come over and practice here if you want,” I offer.
Gordon looks like I tried to light him on fire. Panicked. Some kind of shocked. “Are you okay?”
“I... I have to go. I’m sorry, I stayed too long. The food was amazing. The music was amazing. Thank you.” Gordon looks at me, opens his mouth, then shuts it with a snap. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you sick? You ate a lot of pandesal.” I move towards him, concerned.
“I’m not sick. You’re a good cook. Pandesal is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. It’s just that I—”
The conversation is cut short by a persistent beeping, and Gordon actually looks relieved. “There’s a fire call. Gotta go,” he cries, and bolts.
I’m left standing there, with Chopin, now awake, pacing between me and the door. “What the actual hell?” I mutter, feeling deflated.
“Mrow?” Chopin asks.
“I know, right?” I walk back to the table and collect the dishes we left behind.
“This was the nicest date. Very chill. Very...” I look at the cat and sigh.
I’m talking to a cat, and I did something wrong that scared Gordon off.
Or maybe he has a weird sixth sense about when fire calls are about to come in?
Maybe he didn’t want to tell me has psychic powers.
“Oh, God. I’m so pathetic,” I whisper. Psychic premonitions? Sixth sense stuff? Next I’ll believe that he turns into a werewolf or something and he had to go before the full moon got him. We still didn’t exchange numbers. We just keep making plans.
But we didn’t this time. So.
It’s over.