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“Nope. Playing the violin relaxes me. It’s performing at fancy auditoriums that stresses me out. And anyway, I like playing for you.”
Everything inside me feels warm as he takes his violin out and perches on the edge of the coffee table. He lifts the bow and pauses before he starts.
“Tell me if it sounds too loud okay? I won’t be offended.”
I nod. So excited to see him play for me I can’t speak.
“Any requests?” he asks.
“You know I don’t know classical music.”
His lips quirk a little before he touches the bow to his instrument.
“I worked on something a little in class today. I think you’ll like it.”
He starts playing, and I’m surprised that I recognize the tune. Is it from an advert or something? And then I realize why I recognize it. It’s the intro to the original, slow version ofThe Weekendby SZA.
I watch him play, fucking mesmerized. How can he be this perfect?
He stops playing after a few bars and looks at me.
“Was that SZA?”
“Yeah.” He smiles.
“When did you learn that?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “After you showed me that song, I listened to some of her albums and got stuck on that song. I love it. It’s so different to what I thought popular music sounded like.”
“Did you learn that in like half a day? Is there even sheet music out there for that song on the violin?”
“I learned it by ear. My grandfather can do it too on the bouzouki. I guess I inherited that skill from him.”
“You’re like a fucking virtuoso or some shit.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”
“What are you talking about? You’re so talented!”
“Talent means nothing if you can’t perform.” He drops his eyes.
“I’ve seen you perform. You were great. You had everyone at the restaurant eating out the palm of your hand.”
“Okay, I can perform for tips.”
For some reason, Nashville comes to mind. That internship I applied for, and the thought of Stef performing at one of those music venues with all those talented musicians. Surely that’s got a similar atmosphere to his dad’s restaurant?
“Have you ever listened to country music?” I ask
He shakes his head.
“Maybe you should.”
“Are you okay?” he asks with a concerned laugh. “Your concussion isn’t playing up?”
“No, my concussion isn’t ‘playing up’ silly. Come here.”
He puts his violin away and joins me on the couch, and this time, I can’t stop myself from bundling him into my lap.