The only valuable connection I’d ever introduced to Leo, and not the other way around, was my songwriting partner, Kaitlyn Parker. Meanwhile, Leo had been the one to introduce me to our drummer when I was fifteen, our lead guitarist five years ago, and our producer three years ago. Our producer was the one who’d eventually helped sign us to the label.
My mind on suitcases and perfect excuses, I slowed as I approached the entrance to the main floor living room, a thought suddenly occurring to me. What if Mona was here, on the main level with everyone else? What if, by attempting to avoid her, I was actually achieving the opposite?
Mouth suddenly dry, I approached the wide doorframe and stopped, taking a moment to scan the room. Leo wasn’t there, neither were Mona or her friend, but most everyone else seemed to be. The mood had shifted since I’d left over an hour earlier.
Instead of everyone gathering around the piano, playing music, talking in a haphazard circle, they’d separated themselves into smaller, two- or three-person clusters. They were talking quietly. No one looked especially happy. And the music wasn’t helping.
My attention moved to Kaitlyn sitting at the piano, playing a technically brilliant and woefully ominous sounding piece on the instrument. I suspected it was improvised, something she was making up on the spot, as was her habit.
Rubbing my cold hands together, I entered the large living room—which looked more like a medium-sized hotel lobby than a living room—nodding at our drummer, Charlie, as I passed, and declining our guitarist’s invitation to join her small group on my way to the piano. I did take the long way around to check on the fire. It wasn’t low, but I added another two logs anyway.
Sitting next to Kaitlyn on the bench, I brought my folded fingers to my mouth, breathing hot air into my cupped hands, and bumping her shoulder lightly. “What’s that?”
Without stopping her improvisation or looking at me, she said, “I’m providing the soundtrack.”
“The soundtrack?”
“Yes. If we were in a movie, this would be the soundtrack for the moment,” she whispered. “Earlier, before the arrival, everything was light and fun and fancy-free, like a Disney cartoon. C major.”
I glanced between her profile and where she depressed the keys. A maudlin tune, with frequent dramatic pauses, reverberated from the grand piano.
“And now?” I prompted.
“And now, D-sharp.” She said D-sharp in a very deep voice, sounding like Eeyore, pulling a smile from me. Her left hand moved lower down the bass clef, taking the mood from maudlin to morose.
Shaking my head, and despite myself, I chuckled. “You are so weird.”
“Thank you,” she said brightly, giving me a quick, bright smile.
“Why did the key change?” The arrival she referred to was obviously Mona and Alan’s.
“Well, let’s see. Where to start, where to start . . .” Kaitlyn leaned to the side, extremely close.
With anyone else I would’ve suspected she was trying to flirt, but not with her. Kaitlyn Parker wasn’t a flirter. I doubted she had any idea how to flirt. One time after a gig, when we both played for the same for-hire live band, she did a robot-dance-off on a dare and won after twenty straight minutes of impressively stunted movement and seriously committed beeps and boops. But her lack of flirt-skills didn’t matter. She was a brilliant composer, gorgeous, smart, and hilarious both accidentally and on purpose.
She was also engaged to be married, and the guy was a real asshole. A ridiculously rich asshole with an asshole name (Martin) who was a stockbroker or something equally asshole-like. Yeah, he worshipped her. Yeah, he treated her like a goddess as far as I could tell. But he was still an asshole.