Her jaw clenches, fire licking in her eyes. “This is my private time. You can’t just invade my life. We have a rather detailed agreement, and nowhere in it does it say—”
“I’m entitled to ten additional hours of your time?” I finish for her, watch her already pale skin drain of all color.
A tremble makes it clear I’ve given her a chill.
Her head shakes. “No. You can’t make me play for you, andyou can’t steal this from me. This is all the time I get with a real piano.”
Real, physical pain enters the empty fear in her eyes, and I drop my teasing. “You’ve managed to get that good with only this much time each week to practice?”
Venom snaps through her words. “No, I have a keyboard at home. Which cost fifteen dollars at a yard sale. And doesn’t even have a table. I keep it under my bed and play it on the floor hooked up to five dollar headphones since I don’t have a speaker.”
I can’t pull my attention off her. “That’s…really impressive dedication.”
Her breath catches, and she looks away, snatching the sheet music off the stand. I didn’t notice it until she reached for it, but now that I have, I realize it’s notprinted. If she tells me she’s a composer now and she wrotethatsong, I’m going to draw up another contract and keep my little sugar glider forever.
Instead of blurting my discovery, however, I screw my lips shut on the matter and determine that I’ll not scare her away. Keeping her forever will take tact. Sugar gliders, apparently, are quite skittish. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” I offer.
“Until it suits you,” she mutters. “That’s how people are. Secrets are secrets until sharing them suits you.”
“That’s how rotten people are, maybe. It suits me best to make sure my play partner doesn’t hate me.”
“If my not hating you is the goal, you’re not doing yourself any favors by stalking me.”
I laugh, and she shoots a glare over her shoulder, so I lift my hands in defense. “Sorry. Can’t blame me for wanting to hear you play again, though.” Smiling, I drop my attention to the floor my legs are swinging over and clasp my hands in my lap. “It’s a sad song. Something despondent and beautiful.”
“This isn’t music appreciation. You don’t have to analyze thepiece.”
“It resonated with me.” Closing my eyes, I let the memory of the tune sweep me away. When the notes in my head fade, I fix her with an impish grin. “It’s practically our song, since it’s what alerted me of your existence.”
That splash of blush she so easily relinquished flashes across her cheeks, even as her eyes translate murderous thoughts. “Absolutely not!”
“What?” I lean forward, unable to help myself. “Don’t tell me it’s for someone else? Unrequited love? The loneliness of rejection? I’m dying to know your secrets, especially if they are so melancholy.”
“It’s about my father leaving me.” Tears prick to life in her eyes, and a moment is all it takes before they fall. The shaking quality of her voice makes it sound like the broken pieces of her heart are shattering more with every word, rattling around in the empty spaces of her chest. After a second, she whispers a correction, “Us. My mother and I. He walked out. And that’s that. This hollow sound is all that remains to remind me of him.”
“I…” I swallow. “I’m sorry.” Sliding off the desk, I clear my throat. “Maybe making that our song isn’t the best idea then. Sorry for intruding.”
A snort sounds the moment before I reach the door, then a hushed, “Crap,” follows.
I turn back around, my brows furrowed, as Calypso explodes laughter and covers her mouth.
The striking realization comes to pierce me directly through the heart. My mouth falls open, and all I can do is watch as Calypso and her crocodile tears come undone among a plague of giggles.
“I can’t believe it.” She grins, fierce victory lighting in her eyes. “I got you. And then I ruined it. You were about to leave, and I ruined it.Crap. I’m so mad I can’t even be mad.”
“You…” I’m at a loss for words.
“I got you back for your stupid stunt in the car Wednesday, and you were too dimwitted to remember of the three—now regrettably four—contacts in my phone, my father is one of them.”
I march right on back over to her. “You can actually cry on cue?”
“What? Like it’s hard? I’m a girl. Isn’tcryingfifty percent of what we do?” She flutters her damp lashes, pushing her glasses up to wipe her tears on her sleeve
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
I plop right down on the floor next to her bench. “I have a feeling you have far more important things to do thancryfor half your life.”
She rolls her eyes, and her fingers gravitate back toward the piano keys. They don’t make a sound. “I got you fair and square, so you should leave. It’d be the graceful thing to do in defeat.”
