Page 24 of House of Hearts

“I think you need to swap us,” she confesses after a quiet moment. Her hand slides against the back of her neck, and she shifts her eyes to the floor. “I might’ve been Emoree’s roommate, but let’s face it, Violet knows more about her than I ever will.”

“Are you sure?” Sadie asks like she’s waiting for Birdie to change her mind.

“I’m sure. I’m better at history anyway. Violet should take my place.”

Sadie deliberates over that with a strained wince. “I was worried about Calvin looking for any excuse to screw around and not work, but I can tell you’re serious, Violet. Fine. You’re right. We’ll switch.”

I have no idea what I’m supposed to say, but Sadie doesn’t give me time to think.

With an exhausted rub of her eyes, she says, “Well, I guess go let him know.”

“Where is he?”

“Didn’t you hear? Follow the screaming and crying.”

I do the second-best thing and follow the sound of the piano.

The overall composition has “Calvin” written all over it.

Dramatic, consuming, maudlin. The pianist is so enraptured with his music, he doesn’t pay me any mind as I slip inside.

Calvin’s eyes are closed as his fingers fly across the keys in a Dionysian riot.

The notes are equal measures haunting and romantic.

Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13, “Pathétique , ” the sheet reads.

Somewhere within the third movement, the melody falls off. The piece collapses in on itself like a house of cards, and Calvin pushes away from the keys with a snarl.

“?‘Pathetic’ is right,” he mutters under his breath before turning to look at me. “Are you here to laugh at my expense?”

“Shockingly, no. I’m here to tell you that Birdie begged to switch, so now you’re stuck with me.”

He couldn’t look more disappointed if he tried. “You?”

“That would be what I said, yes,” I grit back, ignoring the painful stab in my chest at his tone. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, I’m sure it will be as wonderful as a root canal,” he mocks sweetly. “Oh, sorry, that wasn’t very incorrigibly flirtatious of me. Allow me to try again. Ahem. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“I don’t know, shall you?” I challenge.

He glances appraisingly at me and breaks out into a wicked grin at long last. “Hardly. You’re more like a winter’s night with a frostbite advisory.”

I take an experimental step forward, and his Adam’s apple bobs strangely in his throat, his grin faltering alongside it.

“Oh, really? And here I was about to nurse your wounded ego and tell you your song actually sounded pretty good.”

“?‘Pretty good,’?” he echoes, “is precisely the problem.”

“Would you rather it sound bad?”

Any trace of humor vanishes. “Anything less than excellent is bad. The acceptance rate for Curtis is abysmal. I’m not just going up against the classically trained—I’m going against six-year-old prodigal reincarnations of Frédéric Chopin.

Oh, and if that weren’t bad enough, my mother keeps reminding me how perfect Percy’s recital was.

Because God forbid I forget I suck for even a half second. ”

“Who cares if you’re the next Chopin?” I take a step forward and bury my hands in my pockets. “The man’s not exactly who I’d pick to be. He died before he hit forty, and they pickled his heart in a cognac jar. I’d rather be pretty good and relatively happy than a majorly depressed prodigy.”

Calvin lifts a brow. “Do you think Anastasia’s heart is in a pickle jar somewhere, too?”

“Frankly, I’m surprised your sister didn’t slosh it around at me on initiation night.”

“She would’ve if she had it.” He runs a tongue over his broken lip. I need to stop thinking about what his mouth looks like kiss-bitten and bruised. How it might feel to tug his lower lip between my teeth.

He surprises me by scooting over and gesturing for me to join him on the bench. The black and white keys remind me of the chessboard floor beneath our feet, the innate feeling of being a pawn in a much larger game.

“Your mom seems…”

“Terrible?” he offers. “That’s because she expects us all to fall in line with her carefully orchestrated life plans. She had big dreams for Percy, erm, post-sacrifice, and now all those dreams are being thrust onto me.”

I settle my weight beside him and try not to notice his closeness. “And your dad…Where is he in all of this? Sadie said he was a Card member when they met.”

“Well, for three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, you can find him on the golf course, but then he magically swoops in on Christmas to leave us gifts and get into a drunken screaming match with Mom in the hallway. Typical Hallmark holiday.” His attention drifts my way with a curious arch of his brow.

“What about your parents? Perfect and hopelessly in love?”

“Parent,” I amend. “And far from it. My father dipped before I was born. He probably fled the scene when Mom showed him two pink lines.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” It’s an old wound. I prod at it occasionally to see if it will manifest into anything, but usually it lies dormant.

“My mom took it hard, but hey, what’s new?

When she’s not falling in love, she’s falling apart, and when she’s falling apart, it’s my job to piece her back together again.

” I don’t mean to sound like some wistful Grecian heroine, but I’m afraid that’s exactly how it comes off.

“Guess the guys she picks aren’t real winners?” he asks carefully.

“Understatement.” I do my damnedest to sound nonchalant about it. “She’s got a type, and it’s called ‘deadbeat assholes.’?”

I force out a strained laugh, and I’m thrilled that Calvin doesn’t push it. He gracefully changes the subject with a press of his fingers against the keys. “Can you play?”

“What, the piano? No. I’m awful.”

I feel the warmth of his hands before I register him standing up and draping his fingers over mine. His chest presses into the planes of my back, and I shudder at the rush of his breath, sticky and hot against my neck.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

He guides my fingers over the keys. “Helping you. You don’t need therapy if you have a piano. I would know.”

“Is that so?”

“Believe me.” His breath ghosts against my skin, his chin settling in the junction between my shoulder and my throat. “I wrote the playbook on familial trauma.”

“Oh, did you?” Our fingers glide together as he begins to play a song from muscle memory. “Hell, I might’ve co-written it.”

His chuckle tickles the back of my head. “That depends, do you have siblings?”

“Only child.”

“Lucky.” He hums the word, and I feel it radiate across my skin. “You’ve met Sadie.”

I sure have. “She’s…a lot.”

“Understatement,” he parrots, and I swear I can hear him smiling. “She didn’t always used to be like this. We actually used to be pretty close, but not anymore. She idolizes my mother to a sick degree, wants to walk and talk and act like her.”

“And Percy?”

“Remember how I said he was better than all of us?” he asks, his voice achingly soft.

“My brother was kind, hardworking, talented, and perfect. I used to hate him for all that. So many times I used to daydream about him dying—horrible, I know. I was convinced that with him gone, I’d be useful for once.

Now look at me. He’s disappeared, and all I can think about is getting him back.

Not even as a brother but as a barrier between me and my family’s expectations. ”

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I thread our fingers together for a single moment. I squeeze reassuringly.

“Sometimes I wonder if our séances always fall through because of me,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. “That he knows all these treacherous thoughts in my head and doesn’t want to come back.”

“Where have you been conducting these séances?”

“His childhood bedroom at least five hundred times. The Winthrop music department. His old dorm room. We’ll be doing it here again tomorrow. All the places he loved and might linger in.”

I’m admittedly new to this supernatural world, but I know how it felt when I saw her . Emoree had been an electric current, my arms tingling with the sensation of lightning touching down in the distance.

Sitting in here now, I don’t feel anything particularly supernatural . Nothing that would suggest a ghost was setting up camp in the vicinity.

He carries us back through the song, only this time in reverse. I clear my throat. “What are you playing?”

“A crab canon. Think of it as a musical palindrome. To get the full effect of the song, you have to play it in retrograde.” His chin grazes the soft flesh of my cheek, and I feel the heat of him on my back.

Retrograde.

“You’re tense,” Calvin accuses.

Neurons fire off all at once. How many times has my mother lost something and the first question out of my mouth was “ Where were you last? ”

“I think I have an idea.”

“About?” His question tickles my cheek.

“Tomorrow’s séance.”