piece of work. That boy—that Nik—he’s something special. Been coming here since he was knee-high and banging keys with all ten fingers.”
Adam’s lip quirked. “Yeah?”
“His momma didn’t want him messing around, but I taught him a thing or two. Came natural after that.”
Adam squirmed with discomfort again. People talked about Nik like he was this thing, an attraction—like the way Stella mocked him for his ink and piercings. Except hers was on purpose. This old man didn’t seem to realize the way he’d reduced Nik to an anomaly, but it wasn’t his place to say.
“He told me about it, but I couldn’t remember the time,” Adam confessed—not really a lie.
The old man laughed again. “He seemed fond of you, and that boy don’t make friends easy. Be good to him.”
Adam had the wild, insane urge to promise that he’d take care of Nik for as long as he could—but the man was a stranger. Two conversations didn’t mean jack shit.
“I’ll tell him you sent me,” he replied.
“You do that, son. And if you ever want lessons of your own…”
Adam laughed. “I was never good at piano. I played guitar.”
“I did a mean banjo back when I could move my fingers.” He raised his hand, showing knuckles bent from arthritis, and he shrugged. “You ought to play with my boy. Bet you two would make some interesting music.”
The thought had him reeling—the whine of his electric guitar rising and falling, twisting around the rippling notes of Nik’s piano. Or maybe his acoustic—his second oldest with nicks all over the wood, polished spots on the frets from fingertips, and worn strings that badly needed changing. It wasn’t really the music that gripped him, but the thought of creating something with Nik that left him off-kilter.
He’d felt like this once, standing in the doorway of an open garage watching Damien, Manny, and Liz sitting on the floor, laughing and flexing their fingers and running through scales and riffs. And he’d known he was about to step into something important, something with meaning, something that might change everything.
He felt that way now—not as strong, not like he was standing on the edge of a cliff preparing to jump—but close. “I’ll talk to him about it,” he finally conceded.
It was enough for the old man, who reached onto the table and gathered up a stack of flyers. “See if Vincent over there wouldn’t mind handing these out for Nik. This spring is a big deal for ‘im.”
Adam took the flyers into his hands, more careful with them than he’d been with his own, and he gave the man a nod before crossing back over the polished tiles and setting them onto the corner of the welcome desk. No one who came in would probably go, but at the very least, he could try. Maybe he wasn’t entirely interested in listening to the music of old, dead white men, but with Nik playing, it meant something else.
Reaching for the computer mouse, he wriggled it until the screen came on, then glanced behind him to make sure he was alone. He was, of course. Vincent was working on his all-day piece, and there were no appointments booked until Darryl came in at four. It felt weird, like he was sneaking porn when he pulled up the search bar and typed, Nick, and blind pianist.
The first thing that turned up was an op-ed piece about an English composer, Nicolas Michaud, and his husband, a formerly blind pianist named Cedric who had made waves with a brand new opera debuting in Rome. He stared at their photos, and his stomach twisted warmly at how they leaned into each other, how they seemed profoundly aware of each other, but it wasn’t what Adam was searching for. Trying again, he added the name of their town and hit enter, holding his breath.
He felt a little like he was betraying his new friend, but a couple of grainy YouTube videos popped up, and he clicked on one that said Yanik Mandroux- Carnegie Hall. He quickly paused it, grabbing the earbuds and shoving one into his ear before hitting play again. It was clearly shot by someone in the crowd, the video taken with a shaky hand and zoomed in and out of focus like it was filmed on someone’s phone.
A soft, rumbling voice spoke—a man, low like he was leaning in toward the speaker. “He should be on stage soon, Van. Stop being so impatient.”
There was a shift in the crowd, and