I’m lying under the piano while she plays, hands behind my head. From my vantage point, it’s like being completely immersed in a starlit ocean. It calms my mind.
She stops playing. I still lie there. I start to rise, but she kneels, looking under the piano. She slides underneath and lies next to me, gazing upward. “Hey,” she says.
“You sounded phenomenal.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t hear me shitting the bed on that last section.”
“Can and am. What’s the name of that piece? It’s gorgeous.”
“ ‘Jeux d’eau’ by Ravel. It’s basically impossible, but I’m screwed if I play something easy, even if I play it perfectly.” She crosses her legs and smoothes her sundress against her thighs. “So this is what it looks like under here.”
“I’m not in it for the looks; I’m in it for the sound. You’ll get dirty.”
She snorts. “Who cares? I used to go frogging with my brothers. I’ve had so much mud between my toes.”
“You went frogging?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Here we go with the racism again.”
“What? No. Come on. How?”
“Yes, every time I mention being country, you’re so shocked because Asians can’t be country.”
“That’s not it.”
“So you’re just sexist then.”
“No.”
“If I were a seventeen-year-old white bro from Jackson, Tennessee, would you be at all surprised if I told you I went frogging with my brothers?”
Shit. Walked into that. “Yes?”
“Liar. Sexist liar.”
“No! It’s because you’re a pianist and I assume y’all are too worried about your hands.” Nice. Quick thinking there.
She stifles a giggle and backhands me in the stomach. “That’s…musicianist.”
I double over and laugh. “Ow. That hurt. Which doesn’t surprise me at all, because girls are good at hitting too.”
“Shithead,” she mutters around a smile. “So I want to hear how it sounds down here. Go play something.”
“I don’t play.”
“Every single person on Earth has a song they can play on the piano. Do it. Git.”
I feign annoyance. “Fine.” I get up and dust off. I sit at the piano.
Eli sits at the piano bench next to me. “This is gonna be good.”
“Your face is gonna be good,” I say.
“I tried with you, I really did.”
“I know. I told you a bunch of times: music isn’t my thing. My dad’s music genes just totally skipped over me. I don’t know.”
“How many times did I offer to teach you guitar?”
“Dude, you tried. I admit it. It’s like you couldn’t stand to have anyone around you who didn’t know the joy of playing an instrument.”
“Fact. And another fact is that I have woefully underprepared you to hang out with my very musical girlfriend after I’m gone.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I was going to teach her guitar. She’d have been good.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Eli tosses his hair out of his eyes with a quick flick of the neck. “Stick to the key of C, dude. No sharps or flats. More forgiving.”
“I’m all there for forgiveness.”
“None of that made any sense to you.”
“Not really.”
“How did you avoid taking piano lessons as a kid?”
“Georgia gave my parents such a hard time, they didn’t even try with me.”
“Here’s my official suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Be funny. It’s your only shot.”
“That’s what Blake would have said.”
“Yeah, well, we know your strengths and weaknesses, Blade.”
“I miss you guys.”
And then he’s gone.
Jesmyn’s voice sounds distant from underneath the piano. “Okay. Wow me.”
I affect my horrible British accent. “But what to play? What shall I regale you with? The Mozart? Pah. The Beethoven? Poppycock. The…who’s another composer?”
“Bartók.” She’s giggling.
“The Bartók? Stuff and nonsense. No, I shall play you one of my own masterpieces—”
“Play already, you dingus!”
“Shhhhhhhh…one of my own masterpieces entitled ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’.”
She giggles. I play it haltingly, clumsily. I finish with a flourish, stand, and bow. She applauds.
I slide under the piano and lie next to her. “How was it?”
“Bravo, maestro.” She pats me on the chest. “It sounds amazing under here.” After a moment or two, she says in a quieter voice, “This reminds me of when Eli would play for me.”
The air between us is like when a heavy wind stops and the trees become still.
“Yeah,” I say, because I don’t know what else to.
“Did he ever play for y’all?” Jesmyn turns on her side toward me, her hands palms-together under her face.
I turn toward her and mirror her position. “Sometimes. But I assume he wasn’t trying to kiss any of us.” We give each other wistful half smiles.
“I’m still not okay,” Jesmyn says. “I’m better, but I’m not back to normal.”
“I was coming down from another panic attack when I called you the other day and wanted you to play for me.”
“You win. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. What a shitty contest to win.”
“I keep crying randomly,” Jesmyn says. “Like the other day my mom sent me to Kroger to buy eggs and I’m standing there in line and the line is really long so I start crying. I never used to cry about stuff.”
“Remember how I talked about having the goodbye day with Blake’s grandma? That’s tomorrow.”
“Wow,” she murmurs. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes. I talked to her last night and she’s got a plan, so I guess we’ll go with it. It’s hard to know how to honor someone’s life.”
“Yeah. You’re smart and sensitive, though—you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not that sensitive.”
“First of all, sensitivity is an awesome trait in men; and second of all, yes you are, and that’s okay. I was trying to give you a compliment.”
“Sorry. Compliment taken.” The “in men” part salves the part of my ego that was wounded over being thought overly sensitive.
“What time is it?”
I look at my phone. “Four-fifteen.”
“Crap. I got a student in a half hour.” Jesmyn slides out from under the piano and jumps to her feet. I follow.
She faces away from me and steps backward, gathering her long, thick hair and lifting it. “Dust me off.”
I balk. She waits. So I start dusting her off. I sweep her smooth, almost-bare shoulders. They’re scented with honeysuckle lotion. The place where her neck meets her shoulders, even though her hair was probably covering it. I just want to do a good job. I don’t do it like I’m pounding cracker crumbs from car upholstery. More as if whisking the dirt from a treasured painting discovered in an attic. Her skin is warm under my fingers, like the first day of spring when you can open your windows.
I brush off her shoulder blades. The middle of her back. The back of her left arm. The back of her right arm. Her lower back, as low as I dare go.
My pulse tingles in my fingertips. “Should I do your legs?” She could easily reach her own legs. But…
“No,” she murmurs. “I want to walk around with dusty legs.”
Interesting. “See how I didn’t assume that you wanted me to because you’re a girl who’s afraid of a little dirt?”
She turns her head around partway so I can see her smile. “You’re not hopeless.”
I bend down and dust off the backs of her smooth thighs below the hemline of her dress. The minute I do, I start experiencing what we’ll call “some personal growth.” I’m really trying to keep this pure and innocent, and I’m not being gross about a friend, but I’m touching her legs and they’re really pretty. So I conjure the image of my grandma pooping to try to nip things in the bud and avoid any potential awkwardness when Jesmyn turns around. It mostly works.
“You’ll do great tomorrow,” Jesmyn says out of nowhere. And that reminder works even better than Grandma pooping. “You’re doing the right thing. I bet this’ll help.”
“I don’t want to make things worse somehow.”
“You won’t. You done? Am I good?” she asks, letting her hair fall.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re good.”
On my way home, Darren Coughlin calls. I pull over to answer. He wonders if I have some comment on the impending investigation. I tell him I don’t and sit there and breathe and listen to my heartbeat until I’m sure I won’t have a panic attack while driving.
If I had a million dollars—well, first I’d pay Mr. Krantz—but then I’d pay the rest of it for just one hour when I don’t think about the Accident, about Judge Edwards, about the DA, about Adair, about legal bills, about prison, about any of it.
An hour when I can sit and let the warmth of Jesmyn’s skin ebb from my fingertips’ memory while my mind is as clear and tranquil as a waveless sea on a windless day.