“What about your hands?” Asher asks, not fazed by my comment. “Are they the hands of a musician?”
I look down at my palm and shake my head. “No. They’re not.”
“You were playing yesterday.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “You said I played beautifully. If you knew anything about music, you’d know what was coming out of that piano was far from beautiful.”
My body jerks about as I talk. My nerves shooting through me like a bolt of lightening.
“I didn’t say the music was beautiful. I said you played beautifully.”
Asher leans up from his seat and pushes into my personal space, making me feel all sorts of uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons. “When you play, you are beautiful. It’s as if the melody possesses you and takes you on a journey. I was in awe just watching you.” His words come across as authentic and honest, his eyes burning with meaning. I part my lips, yet have nothing to say.
Asher, on the other hand, fills in the silence. “That said, the melody itself was dismal. It doesn’t take a savant to know you are not a musician.”
My eyes shoot wide open and I balk back at him. Fine, he is right about it being dismal but how rude can you be?
“I’ll have you know I graduated from Carnegie Mellon. I, sir, am a classically trained musician.” My voice is loud and rough. I don’t know why I even said the words. I’m sure he doesn’t even know what Carnegie Mellon is.
“You? Well you certainly didn’t train to be a pianist.” He’s baiting me.
“What does it matter to you?”
“I’m interested.” His voice contradicts his words.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I bite back.
“What do you play, Emma?” he asks sternly, his tone loud and commanding.
“I don’t play anymore.”
“Just say it.”
“The violin!” I shout. I don’t know why I get so dramatic. But this guy just gets under my skin. “I played the violin.” My voice lowers a few octaves.
The air is tight with tension and the only sounds are the waves crashing around us. I go back to peeling my orange, one I have no desire of actually eating, and peel off an entire portion of the outside layer.
“I know. I googled you,” he says, laughing at his own joke. It’s infuriating. “Why don’t you play anymore?”
Man, he just doesn’t let up.
“I don’t talk about that with anyone.”
“Why not?”
I stand up and walk to the side of the boat, away from Asher, his intense regard and his probing questions. They sound harmless but every mention of music and every furrow of his brow makes me want to shut down and curl into my metaphorical fetal position.
“Just stop asking.” I shoot him a stern look. It’s the first time I’ve been able to hold steady eye contact with him. He’s so intimidating I have a hard time doing so.
The boat bounces in the water as a small wake comes in. We each ride the tide, waiting for the other to say something. Asher is looking out, his eyes zoned in on a piece of granite that hangs down from the top of the rocky archway. It looks like a teardrop of glitter hanging down from the face of a goddess of stone. Yes, I’ve decided the island is a woman.
“You’re from Pittsburgh.” Asher’s statement is just that. A statement, not a question.
“Two hours outside, originally. Moved to the city a few years ago.” Pittsburgh has been my second home for fifteen years. Seven years ago I made it my permanent residence when I got my first apartment just off campus and stayed as I pursued my Master of Music. It was the best seven years of my life.
Asher leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Shaking his head, he lets out a smile. “Klavon’s still there?”
I lift my head at the mention of the historic ice cream shop in the strip district. “Yeah, it’s still there. You’ve been to Pittsburgh?”
He slowly nods his head and a hazy look passes over his face. “I was born there.”