Staccato (Magnum Opus #2) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,62
times he’d truly come face to face with the way people would always look at him. But his dad had kept him grounded, hand in his, his rumbling voice keeping Nik present and safe.
And he’d made a couple of mistakes from nerves and shaking fingers, but he’d managed it. He was no prodigy, he was nothing special. He was just a child who spent every waking hour practicing. And it showed that night and every night after. It showed during his triumphs and his failures.
“You goin’ back?” Mitchell asked, and Nik knew he wasn’t talking about physically.
“I’m trying. My dad’s going faster and faster each day, and the school’s thinking about cutting my hours.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Mitchell said.
Nik almost laughed, because he knew Mitchell would just offer him the shop. He’d been offering him the piano store since Nik first returned, and he had a feeling there was a will somewhere that named him the eventual owner. And he’d deal with that someday in the future, but only when he had to.
“I should go,” Nik said. He’d come to his piano to play more than just those few notes, but there was too much weight on him now for it to mean anything. Home was calling him—his sheet music, his soft bed where he could lie there and tap silent notes out under his fingers and let the feeling of what really moved him create the first beautiful thing he’d written in years.
Adam. His name was Adam. And there was no escaping it now.
Nik put the final touches on his sheet music, then lifted his head when he heard a knock on the doorframe. He recognized the sound of his brother’s half-ditty with his knuckles, and he nodded for him to come in. “Done for the night?”
“About an hour ago.” Van crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair by the window. “I was listening to you play.”
Nik felt his cheeks heat. Videos of him were online, he had played for Carnegie Hall, and yet when Van listened, he felt self-conscious. “It’s not…it isn’t done or anything.”
“I know. I know what your work sounds like when it’s finished.” Van let out a slow breath. “It’s different.”
“It’s terrible,” Nik blurted, even if he didn’t really believe that.
“Liar.” Van tapped his foot in a mimic of Nik’s earlier beat. “It’s new. It’s…I don’t know the word I’m looking for. I’ve never understood music like this. But it’s good.”
Nik laughed and pushed the stylus and slate aside. “It’s something. It’s more modern than I usually write, and I think it’s throwing me off.”
“That’s not a bad thing though. You should like…submit it for something.”
Nik scoffed as he turned on the bench and rested his back against the covered keys. “To what? I already bombed my sorry little local concerto.”
“Submit it to that Italian guy you had a boner for when we were younger,” Van told him. “Alessandro or whatever.”
“Alessio de Rege?” Nik asked with some disbelief. “You can’t just submit compositions to famous composers, Van. That’s not how it works.”
“Yeah well, I still subscribe to all those stupid symphony websites from when you were playing, and there was an open call by that guy. I got it last week.” Van’s nonchalant tone made Nik’s head spin, and he felt anger at first that he didn’t know, but then again, he’d filtered all those messages years ago when he resigned himself to teaching kids. “It’s probably still open.”
Nik’s hands shook. “That’s…I mean, I don’t even have anything ready, and getting it transcribed from braille to print would be a pain in the ass.”
“So record yourself, tell him that,” Van said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “How many authors send out unfinished manuscripts for contracts?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a writer,” Nik snapped, then reeled himself in. In truth, this was the first big thing that he’d come across in years, and it was almost as terrifying as loving Adam. “I’m…god, I’m too old for that.”
“That’s bullshit. I’ve seen those composers, Nik. They work until they’re, like, five hundred.” The chair squeaked as he stood. “I’ll help you record it if you want.”
Nik let out a breath of air, then shrugged. “Let me think about it.” He’d said that twice today—once when it didn’t matter, and once now where his entire future could hinge. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and he forced his tongue between them so he wouldn’t bite down. “Thank you, though.”