Page 31

PIANO

DELILAH 15 YEARS OLD

M y mother screeches while I ignore her in the large reception room that will be my stage for the night. I can’t even work out what she’s saying, it’s just noise. An irritating, grating sound that makes my jaw clench.

Ever since my sisters left home, or ran away, she’s focused all of her attention on me. She doesn’t understand that I don’t want it. I don’t want to be her reserve child who is winning her affections for being too young to get away from her.

As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m following them. We haven’t had any police officers knock on the door to say they’ve died so their plan must have worked.

“Happy birthday, Delilah, three more years until you’re free of the controlling bitch,” I whisper to myself.

Mom’s screeching gets further away, and I close my eyes as I lift the lid of the vintage grand piano my grandparents sent for me. The inscription on the brass isn’t a brand or anything I could find any information on. It’s just the number three in fancy cursive with vines. I trace it with the tip of my finger.

Dad always said that it was special, and he’ll tell me what it means when I’m older. No one else is allowed to see it which is why it’s hidden on the roof of the lid, right where the sheet music sits against. Even the cleaners aren’t allowed to touch it, and the brass has darkened with age, showing how old and unmaintained it is.

There’s a vague memory of a pendant Ruby would wear before visiting our grandparents. It had the same etchings, but just like her, it’s no longer here. I miss my sisters more on this horrible fucking day. They were the only people who made it feel like it belonged to me.

But they’re not here. I am.

My eyes close as I lay my fingers on the keys. I gently press my foot against the left pedal and play without any sheet music. The composition isn’t manufactured for anyone else’s ears, it’s made up by me for me. The messiness is perfect too, and I lie to myself that there are people sitting, watching me fuck up with the same awe they do when my parents bring out their trophy.

The screeching stops entirely and the door to the room softly opens as though they don’t want to disturb me, and I keep my eyes closed. There’s no glare directed at my head, so I have no idea who it could be. Everyone in this house hates me. I hate them, so we’re on even ground.

My foot switches automatically as the door closes and goes to the pedal on the right. It adds extra bass in the tones, making it angrier and violent as I stretch that single note out in my own “fuck you” to whoever is disturbing me.

Arms wrap around me from behind and I recognize them instantly. My smile follows as I lift my hands and foot off the piano. Asher always smells the same, but he must have stolen one of Kane’s t-shirts because they’re mixed together in one person. The comfort of my best friend and my boyfriend as one is something I can’t help but sink into.

He slips around me, his thighs bracketing mine, as he rests his chin on my shoulder and kisses my cheek. His hands drop further down to my thighs, and he toys with the hem of my dress as he whispers into my ear.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

I hold his wrists to stop him from putting his hand between my legs. He lets out a long breath, but he doesn’t argue with me for once and just holds me. Leaning back into his chest, I turn my head and kiss his cheek when he doesn’t allow me to reach his lips. His jaw is tense, and I know he’s pissed about my refusal to fuck him or do anything physical.

I’m not going to have the argument with him again. He can shove his bad mood up his ass instead of trying to put anything in me. Pushing my elbow into his rib, I sound cold to my own ears.

“You can leave.”

He tightens his arms around me and stops touching my thighs as he switches personas and pretends to give a fuck. His lips softly press against my jaw, then my neck, and he keeps his voice low, so he doesn’t get caught.

“I just want you to feel good. We’re going to get married anyway, so it’s not like your dad will know you weren’t a virgin.”

It takes work not to snort. My excuse of wanting to wait until I’m married is exactly that, an excuse. The truth is that I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want to have him wrapped around me and lead some perfect life my parents have picked out for me where my childhood sweetheart is more in love with my father than me. He probably only wants to fuck me so he can get closer to that old bastard.

He turns sweet and peppers the side of my face with his lips. The kisses continue down my neck to my shoulder and then to my bicep. Each one gets more obnoxious than the last until I’ve softened, and he smiles widely as he stretches his neck around me.

“Are you ever going to write something for me?” He pulls me into his chest.

I hum and delay answering. The truth will just lead to an argument, and we can’t argue in this house. My parents will hear, and they’ll start bitching about me ruining the perfect match. Everyone talks about us like we’re going to donate organs to each other, not like we’re in a relationship.

Each piece I write is because of an emotion, positive or negative. It has to be felt before I can string the notes together to something coherent. I love Asher, but it’s not maddening. It doesn’t make me sick to my stomach or inspire something deeper. It just exists in the same way I eat cherries—I’m happy to have them, but I don’t crave them.