Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
When we’d first arrived, I’d actually been a little surprised that he sat right next to me. I’d half thought he’d sit one seat over. But I was glad he didn’t. The armrest was up, and our arms kept brushing against each other, which was kind of nice—if only he’d stop fidgeting.
Mindlessly, I stared at his fingers. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Oh.
I felt a little foolish when I realized that he wasn’t fidgeting… he was playing piano, with one hand on each thigh. Now that I’d seen it, I could almost feel the rhythm, and I wondered what piece he was playing. Too bad I couldn’t hear inside his head.
Smiling, I went back to watching the episode, but I couldn’t get into it.
Then the episode took a crazy turn, and it suddenly reminded me what this show was about. Not just the chemistry experiments we were supposed to critique, but drugs.
And my sister was in a rehab center at this very moment. Somehow, I hadn't made that connection until now.
I missed her, and I thought about her every day, but I tried very hard not to think about what she was going through because there was nothing I could do to help her. The pain in her voice... it had killed me. I’d fall apart if I focused on that. So, yeah, watching a show about making drugs was possibly not the best choice right now.
So I focused on Cody instead. He was still playing piano with one hand on either thigh. It was fascinating to watch. I knew so little about music, but it almost felt like I could hear him.
Which gave me an idea. I took out my phone, dimmed the brightness as much as I could, and pulled up his contact. Then I sent him a text.
You're playing too loudly.
His phone vibrated, and he fished it out of his pocket, read it quickly, and then shot a quick grin my way, holding up his hands as if in apology.
It was so rare to see him smile that I cherished that moment and kind of wanted to see it again. After another minute or two, his fingers started moving across his legs again. He had to be aware that I was staring at him now.
There was rhythm to what he was doing. Some notes were long, others quick. Sometimes his hands moved up and down as if playing low notes or high notes.
I shot a quick peek at his face. His eyes were distant, as if he were hearing the silent music he was playing.
I reached out with my index finger and, moving slowly, I deliberately touched a spot right next to the fingers of his left hand, playing a note.
He didn't respond, his fingers flying across the keys—or, well, his jeans.
I watched for another minute, and then I did it again.
This time, he lightly smacked my hand away, which made me laugh.
“Shh,” he said sternly. “You're interrupting my practice time.”
His voice was so low as he leaned in that it barely reached my ears, let alone anyone else's. Then he started playing again, and I got an idea. I leaned toward him, and this time I put both index fingers on his left thigh.
I pressed them down together several times, then moved my left hand farther away, still playing silent notes.
When I'd finished, he leaned in close.
“Chopsticks.”
“It's all I know how to play,” I whispered. “Except for that one note in that song the other day.”
“I can teach you more sometime.”
“How about now?”
“We're watching the show.”
“No we aren't,” I pointed out, still speaking softly.
“We're supposed to be,” he whispered back.
He had a point, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to think about drugs, or making drugs, or dealing drugs. Hell, I didn't even want to think about high school, which is what the lead character had started out as—a high school teacher.
I turned my attention to the screen for all of about twenty seconds. Why should I watch something that made me depressed when there was a cute, hot guy sitting next to me, so earnest with his music that it was like he was begging me to tease him?
And, if I were being honest with myself, I could use the distraction.
I leaned toward him, my hair falling on his shoulder.
“Your piano's out of tune,” I whispered.
He turned toward me, raising his eyebrow.
“Use mine.”
I swung my leg up and over his thigh, keeping it straight, providing a new keyboard for him. He froze as my leg came to rest on his. For a moment, I couldn’t predict his reaction. Would he get up and leave? Push my leg away? Start humping it? I had no damn clue.
Then, finally, he placed his hands along my leg—his left hand high on my thigh, and his right hand around my bare knee. Then his fingers began moving, and I swear I could practically hear the symphony.