Panning my eyes between the adjoined rooms, I glance up the staircase to a small hallway. “Show me.”
“I don’t think—”
I start walking toward the stairs.
A huff of aggravation sounds behind me as I down another sip of coffee and take the steps two at a time. There are a slew of closed doors, all a few feet apart. On a whim, I guess which one might be her room and press forward, reaching for the brass knob.
“No!”
A dainty hand curls around my wrist, wrenching me away, a touch filledwith urgency. I whip my head toward her and take a full step back from the door. “What’s the matter?”
“You can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
There’s a frantic gleam in her eyes as she shakes her head. “You…you just can’t.” Regrouping, Stevie clears her throat and ushers me up a narrow staircase. “My room is up here. It used to be the attic.”
I’m still processing the interaction as I peer over at the three steps leading to a fourth door. With a knot in my throat, I follow.
Stevie fidgets near the threshold, widening the door and waving an anxious hand around the space. “Here’s my room. Super exciting. Now let’s go back outside—”
I plow through the entryway and beeline toward the upright piano flush against the far wall. It’s big and clunky, a little old-looking, but it must’ve been expensive once. The dark cherrywood is polished, slightly worn at the edges, and the ivory keys, though discolored with age, still shimmer under the soft glow of her ceiling light. Carved legs support its weight, giving the instrument an air of antique elegance.
Stopping just short of it, I glance at Stevie over my shoulder. “You play?”
Of course she plays. It’s in her fucking bedroom.
Worrying her lip, she wrings her hands together and rocks in place. “Yeah. It was a hand-me-down from my grandmother. Mom couldn’t bear to part with it after Gran died, and it took up too much space in the living room, so she put it in here. I taught myself how to play.”
I peer over at the scrollwork and chipped carvings. I’ve never learned an instrument, relying solely on my voice for making music. Mom used to sing a long time ago: lullabies and peaceful things that would make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It’s been years since I’ve heard her singing voice.
Dad says music is for lazy dreamers with nothing more productive to occupy their minds. He has no appreciation for the soul. Probably because he doesn’t have one of his own.
Nodding, I give the piano another once-over before turning back to Stevie. We face each other, a few feet apart, as sunlight from the dormer window hitsher just right and makes her look like an angel. She sings like one, so it suits her, I guess.
She’s still antsy, picking at her fingernails and scuffing her feet along the once-white carpeting. It’s a yellowy beige now, dappled with a few stains that resemble spilled nail polish. Stevie heaves in a wobbly breath and tucks her hair behind her ears. “What’s your room like?”
“It’s different,” I tell her.
She takes it as a snub. “Better, you mean.”
“No. Not better. Just different.”
“Different how?”
“Well, it’s bigger, but not in a good way. It’s too big. Kind of…sterile. Empty.” I scratch the back of my neck, not used to giving pieces of myself away. I’ve probably said too much. “Your room feels like you. Like a real person lives in it.”
Cautious interest glitters in her eyes. “You look tired.”
I take another sip from the mug, and it’s the only shot of life to these cold veins. “I’m always tired, Nicks.”
She studies me like I just said something tragic, then takes a careful step forward. “We can go over lines now if you want.”
Right. The show.
I glance around for a place to sit, but there’s only her small bed covered in fifty thousand sea-blue pillows and a raggedy old teddy bear. Kind of endearing.
Stevie must not think so because her eyes round and she launches forward. “Oh, um…sorry.” Cheeks blooming with pink splotches, she scoops up the stuffed bear and shoves it in her nightstand drawer. “Let’s go outside.”
