The Truth About Tomorrow by B. Celeste

Author:B. Celeste [Celeste, B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

She’s sitting in front of a piano with her long hair falling down her back and her fingers caressing the ivory. I’m sure she thinks she’s alone as her body sways to the slow melody she’s creating. I recognize it from somewhere, yet don’t. It’s entirely her own version.

Standing with my shoulder against the doorframe and my leg crossed over the other, I watch as her attitude toward the song changes. The way she hits the keys turns rushed, angry, like she wants it to end. After a few more seconds, it shifts back to something soft and alluring until I’m left gaping.

I’ve never doubted her skills. In fact, I’ve wanted to watch her play for a while. She would make excuses about why I couldn’t, so I respected that she wanted to keep playing to herself. Some things we shouldn’t have to share with anybody. I don’t get it, but I accept it.

When her hands still on the keys, the music fades into the room until there’s nothing but silence.

Slowly, her hands drop onto her lap. As if she senses me, her head turns until our eyes lock across the room.

“That was … wow.”

From here, I see her cheeks pinken.

“Who was that?”

She turns her body toward me, her knee resting on the bench. “I Am They. It’s called Scars.”

Pushing off the door, I walk into the room with my hands in my pockets. “Does it have lyrics?”

She hums out a yes.

Stopping beside her, I run my hand against the edge of the piano. She watches me, her eyes curious as I slide my fingers to the key closest to me and press down. It rings loud in the room between us.

Moving to one side, she pats the empty spot beside her. “Come here.”

My brows arch.

She smiles. “Trust me?”

Without words, I slide onto the bench.

She reaches out and takes my hands, positioning them onto the keys. “Put your pinky on this one, your thumb here, and your pointer finger right there.”

I watch her settle my fingers in the correct form, swallowing the drum of my heartbeat that plays wildly inside me in the process. When she’s satisfied, her hands fall away as she mimics the position on her end of the keys.

“Watch me,” she instructs. I do, trying to figure out the pattern in which she moves her fingers to create the sounds coming from the taunting instrument.

She does it again, slower. This time, when she tells me to go, she moves her hand to mine and taps the fingers I need to move in the pattern to recreate her sound.

It doesn’t sound similar at all.

She laughs. “It took me a while to learn the keys. I would stare at a how-to paper for hours until I memorized which ones were where.”

“How old were you?”

Her body tenses slightly, then eases when she takes a breath. “Nine or ten, I think. I was determined to learn how to play, so I would try reading over some music guides after bed when my foster parents were asleep.

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