house exactly three hours later like the fucking eager beaver that I am. There’s not a chance in hell I’m giving her a chance to back out on our talk, and it has nothing to do with what my father wants and everything to do with needing her forgiveness.
An older woman tells me that Isla’s in the library and directs me how to get there, although I already know. They are too fucking trusting in this house if she’s just gonna let me wander around and find her myself. That would never happen in the household I grew up in.
I make my way down the wide hallway, and when I get closer, I hear the sound of a piano being played. I round the corner to see Isla at the far end of the library with her back to me. She’s sitting at a black grand piano, sheet music in front of her and doing her best to play the song. It’s a basic one, something a kid in second grade might learn.
Isla turns when she hears me close the doors behind me.
She looks out of place here in this room that’s so masculine when she’s the epitome of femininity. She’s changed since I saw her earlier. Her hair is still down and wavy, but she’s wearing white-and-navy striped pajama pants with a matching tank top.
“Hey,” she says, appearing solemn.
“Hey,” I say and walk into the room, wishing I too had changed. I slip off my suit jacket and set it on the edge of the sofa as I pass, leaving me in my vest and dress shirt. “I didn’t know you play.”
Isla rolls her eyes. “Are you tone deaf?”
I break the distance between us. “I’ve heard worse.”
“Gee, thanks.” She spins back around to face the piano.
“Did you take lessons when you were younger?” I ask, stopping where I am.
“Only for a couple years. My mom plays and wanted me to learn, but it became apparent pretty quick that I wasn’t blessed with the musical gene.”
“May I?” She turns to look at me from over her shoulder and I nod to the piano.
“I guess.” She shrugs and slides to the far end of the bench when I take a seat at the center.
With a shaky breath, I let my fingers slide over the keys with expertise. The sad lonely notes of Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor fill the room. My eyes drift closed as I remember another time in my life, one when I used to play for a different woman and for very different reasons. I lose myself in the music, remembering how my mom would sit on the couch, asking me to play again. When I finish, I glance to my right. Isla’s looking at me with a mixture of agony and loss, awe and reverence. Her eyes glisten, and when she blinks, a single tear rolls down her cheek.
“I didn’t know you played.”
“My mother used to love to watch me play. She always loved music, so she signed both me and Harper up early in age. Some of my fondest memories are when she would sit and listen to me play. Even when I just learned Chopsticks, she was proud of me.” I look away from her, down at the keys, caressing them between my fingers. “I never felt more loved than when I was with her. After she died, I never felt that way again.”
Despite the bastard I was to her, Isla’s tender heart shows through when she reaches out and takes my hand, leaning her head on my shoulder. “It was beautiful.”
“Then why are you crying?” I give a sardonic chuckle.
“Because you make me feel everything. Always. Whatever you’re feeling, it always feels like it’s inside me… a part of me.”
My breath catches in my chest; that’s the only explanation for why I can’t breathe.
“I didn’t see a piano at your place, though.”
“There’s one, it’s just off in one of the rooms instead of out in the main area. I can’t look at a piano without feeling the loss of my mother. I only go in there to play when I’m having a crap day.”
She lifts her head. “So why did you play tonight?” she whispers.
“Because I deserve to be punished for hurting you. And you deserve to see it.” Reaching out, I take a chance and brush my thumb across her cheek.
Her eyes flutter closed and she squeezes them tight. “I want to forgive you,” she says.
“I was an asshole back then. We both