“It’s you,” I say, unable to stop the grin that blooms across my face.
He steps away from the piano and comes toward me. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while. His face is scruffy. It’s sexy, I think.
He’s wearing faded jeans, and a black button up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his biceps. I drink him in. He takes my breath away.
“It’s me.” He picks up one of my hands and caresses my palm with the other. The butterflies are frantic, and my heart is racing, racing, racing.
“I didn’t know you played.” The words stumble out of my mouth like drunken old men.
“So you’re my other half?” His fingers are caressing my inner wrist, and my heart stops. Slams to a standstill.
“The duet?” I ask, clearing my throat.
He chuckles. “Maddie Martin. Freckles.” His eyes roam my face as though he’s searching for memories. Trying to see the girl I was when we were younger. When we made our pact.
I was eleven. Short. Shadowy curls. Chunky. Full of wonder and ideas. Always quick to laugh. Always quick to share.
I’m no longer that girl. My face and body have become lean. My hair is long, and I don’t laugh nearly so often as I used to.
“It’s been a long time.” His eyes are searching my face, whether for truth or lies I’m not sure.
I rock back, surprised he’s gotten right to the point.
Does he know why I left? Why I wasn’t able to say good-bye? Does he know that I believe his father killed my parents? Does he know what I saw? The gun in his father’s hand, the words he said. How could he? Unless his father told him. Told him about the silly, mixed up Martin girl. And what if his father asked him to watch out for me? Kill me?
I can no longer meet his gaze and look away. Too many questions are racing through my head. “I…” I’m not sure what to say.
He steps closer, pulling my body to his. I sink my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of fresh laundry, and manly smell, and vanilla. He’s solid, real. And I don’t ever want to let him go.
He knows me. He knows who I am. I allow myself a tiny smile.
“I’ve missed you,” he says into my hair, and I shiver. I can’t help it.
“I missed you too, Kyle,” I respond, hugging him tighter.
The door thumps open and Professor Jenkins walks in. He clears his throat, scrunching his salt and pepper brows. Then he clears his throat again. “I see you two have met. Excellent. Excellent. Sorry I’m late.” He pulls some music from his briefcase and hands it to each of us. “Have a seat, and let's go over the piece I’d like you to play.”
Kyle winks and sits at the piano he was playing moments before. I take the one across from him.
The piece of music is kind of a letdown. Sonata in F Major, K. 533/494: III. Rondo. Allegretto. Written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Arranged for two pianos by Grieg.
“Let’s take a look at the first page. You’ll see the title, and arrangement. Are you both familiar with this piece?” Professor Jenkins asks.
“Yes,” Kyle says.
Professor Jenkins glances at me. “I am.”
“Excellent. Want to run through it once?”
Kyle lifts a shoulder and grins. His face is easy to read. It’s saying, I’m game if you are. I can’t help but meet his grin with one of my own.
And I’m thinking, Game on.
“Absolutely,” Kyle says, and I agree.
Kyle and I run through the piece with Professor Jenkins several times. Professor Jenkins gives us lots of pointers. Advising us on the more difficult sections. The first run through Kyle plays piano one and I play piano two. Then we swap. Piano one is my favorite. The music is so fast my fingers almost have to float above the keys. But Professor Jenkins ends up giving Kyle piano one. I’m bummed, but I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter. Playing with Kyle at the Winter Gala means another year of college on a full ride. That’s the important part. Screw my pride.
“Alright, you two. That’s a good start.” Professor Jenkins nods at each of us. “Plenty of practice. Let’s meet back here. Same time. Same place. One month from now. I expect great progress.” Then he stands, grabs his briefcase, and walks to the door. “I think the two of you make a great duo.” He leaves.