“Saturday night,” he said, still pinning her in place with his eyes. “Will you have dinner with me? Somewhere with actual napkins and decent food?”
Keira smiled at him. The spell of the moment broke, but the cracked pieces still glittered with leftover magic. “Yes to dinner. But this is Sherwin. We might be able to find cloth napkins, but you’ve been here long enough to know that there is no decent food.”
Walker laughed. “Close enough. Now let’s find you some music. Might as well make one of our families happy today, right?”
The two of them walked back to the bins, but Keira struggled to pick some music. She was like a ship caught on a roiling sea, pitching helplessly back and forth between the delicious heat of Walker’s touch, his invitation, and the cold horror of the fact that his family already didn’t approve of her.
And why should they, when she couldn’t even be counted on to have a simple conversation without hallucinating? She toyed with the idea of saying something—asking him why it was only when she was with him that she saw the bizarre darkness.
She thought about asking if Walker saw it too.
Her mouth opened barely wide enough to let the words slip through. The tip of her tongue traced her lower lip—
And then the clang of the door echoed through the store as an old woman minced into Take Note with a battered violin case under one arm.
Keira’s mouth snapped shut. Walker sauntered up to the counter, and Keira turned her attention back to the music. Fine. Maybe this wasn’t really the time to bring it up after all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
FRIDAY SCRAPED BY SLOWLY. When Saturday came, time barely seemed to be moving at all. Susan was distant—it was like she could smell Keira’s disapproval. When they talked, Susan was vague, and when Keira asked if she wanted to hang out, Susan was “busy.” Keira’s parents went . . . wherever it was they went to escape.
Keira spent the day at the piano. She played the things she was supposed to play, but after an afternoon of uninspired, technical practice, she found her fingers wandering over the keys. Not playing anything she knew, but playing something, nonetheless. She felt the music taking shape beneath her hands, the same way she’d stumbled into the song she’d written for Walker.
This one was different. Staccato and choppy and repetitive, but suspenseful, too. She could hear—could feel—all the wanting trapped inside her, echoed in the spiraling measures and circling notes. The strangeness of hearing music, making music, without being able to see the notes on a page in front of her, quickened Keira’s breath. It was like driving with her eyes closed, trusting that she knew the road and the car well enough to avoid a crash. As thrilling as it was, though, it wasn’t going to get her into Juilliard.
With a sigh, she let the last chord fade into silence. Without bothering to transcribe what she’d just played, Keira picked up the music for the Beethoven sonata and positioned it on the music stand.
At least she could play again. It was still missing the spark that she felt with her own pieces, but she knew she’d get that back.
It would just take practice.
Lots and lots of practice.
? ? ?
That evening, Walker pulled into the driveway at five thirty. Keira was already dressed and ready to go, her stomach rumbling at the thought of dinner. She stretched her neck, easing out the kinks that had set in after the hours she’d crammed in at the piano before getting ready for her date.
Her date. The words were cool and sweet as ice cream and Keira shivered pleasantly. She was going on a date with a guy she liked, and she wasn’t sacrificing her music to do it. She would have loved to call Susan and gloat, but she was pretty sure Susan was already out with Smith. That sort of interruption wasn’t going to win her any points at all.
The thump of Walker’s car door snapped Keira’s wandering thoughts back in line. She shrugged into her jacket and turned to yell good-bye to her mother.
“Where are you going?” Her mom stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed in front of her.
“Um, out to dinner?”
“With Walker?” her mother prompted.
Keira nodded. She wasn’t trying to hide what she was doing. If her parents were too wrapped up in their own drama to notice what was going on in her life that wasn’t her fault.
“The therapist said it was healthy for me to spend time with my friends, remember?”
Her mother winced, then recovered. “But Walker’s more than a friend, isn’t he?”
Heat flooded Keira’s cheeks. The doorbell rang.
“Well?” her mother asked.
“Not yet,” Keira whispered, keenly aware of the thin walls and flimsy door. “Are you telling me I can’t go? Because Walker’s standing out in the cold and that’s rude.”
Her mother sighed and dropped her arms. “Fine. Be home by nine.”
“Nine? But it’s Saturday!” Keira protested.