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Johann Sebastian Bach was a German composer, conductor, teacher, and musician.
William
CHAPTER NINE
“You’re quite feisty.”
“A little,” she admits, surprising me.
Actually, surprising me seems to have become her specialty.
I still haven’t recovered from the sight of Taylor in the rain. I’m far from sentimental—maybe I’ve been truly affected by emotions half a dozen times in my entire life, like when my grandfather died or when Maryann was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
Even so, watching Taylor savor something as ordinary as a rain shower left me speechless. I think I’ll keep that image in my memory whenever I think of what it means for someone to really ‘feel.’ Perhaps because it’s not something I handle well, witnessing the way her face conveyed emotion—joy but also some sadness—threw me for a loop.
“Tell me about the violin.” I’m driving, focusing on the road, but I notice she tenses up at my question.
“Are you giving me this ride as my employer’s grandson or as an ordinary guy?”
“I don’t like labels,” I reply, without fully committing, though I understand exactly what she means. “But feel free to say what’s on your mind.”
“It’s nothing major, just that you’re very direct. I might not want to talk about it.”
“Then just say so.”
“It’s that simple? You might think I’m being rude.”
I glance away from the traffic to look at her. “What people think of you doesn’t depend on how you treat them, Taylor. You can be the best human being in the world, do everything right, and still end up despised.”
“That’s a good philosophy for life.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“So you don’t care what people think of you, sir?”
“No sir.”
“I’m not sure if I should address you so informally.”
“I’m giving you permission to address me informally, Taylor. Don’t start a war over everything.”
“I will be calling you ‘sir’ in front of your grandmother.”
“As for your question, yeah, I don’t care what people think of me.”
“Yeah, I noticed, because if you did, you wouldn’t have offered me a ride. Sherie’s probably going to tell your mother.”
“I’m a grown man. I don’t need anyone’s permission to . . .” I trail off, which is unusual for me, but I’m not sure she’s ready to hear what I was about to say.
“To what?”
“Pursue a woman.”
“That’s what you’re doing?”
“It’s the first time I’ve offered a ride to an employee.”
“Why me?” she asks, then I see her shake her head as if regretting it. “Forget it. You don’t have to answer. I know why. You got interested because you saw me naked.”