Page 48 of What He Doesn't Know

So, I pushed my fears aside, packing them into a box and shelving them away. Because the truth was, I wasn’t afraid of Reese.

And I’d missed him, too.

“I’ll always be your friend,” I finally whispered, and we both stopped dancing, standing perfectly still in the middle of the room.

Reese smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting in unison before they fell flat again. His eyes searched mine, his hand tightening over where it held my waist. We were so close, maybe a littletooclose, so I cleared my throat, stepping away as the song changed.

“Okay, trouble maker. Can you turn the music down now so we can get back to work?”

I was already making my way back to my station as Reese grabbed the speaker from the shelf he’d placed it on. He changed the song before lowering the volume and setting the speaker next to us again. Then, he took his seat, picking up where he’d left off on the card.

I tied the first knot on the ribbon I’d abandoned, but then my fingers stilled, and I glanced at Reese.

“Thank you,” I said. “For being here. And for the dance. You’re right — Mom needed that.”

He smiled, nodding hisyou’re welcomebefore his eyes were on the script he was writing again. And I knew I didn’t have to say the other half of that sentence for him to hear it.

I needed it, too.

Reese

In my brain, there was always music.

It had been that way since I was born, or at least, ever since I could remember. I saw the world in music notes, heard every bird and passing car and laugh on the street as a beautiful symphony. I was, in my opinion, way too in tune with the sound of voices, with the noises made by inanimate objects when they were shuffled around by human hands.

When I was younger, I would often zone out during class to write a piece of music, instead. Or wake up from a dream only to frantically scramble for a notepad and pen to write down the music living inside me.

Music was everything — my release, my kryptonite, my pain and my pleasure all in one.

When I heard certain songs, they transported me to another time, to another place, and sometimes, to another person. There were songs that reminded me of my move to New York City, songs that took me back to the first time I drank alcohol, and, sometimes, songs that took me back to my family. To Mom. To Dad. To Mallory.

Winter: Ghosts of a Future Lostby Clint Mansell always took me back to them.

It was the song I’d been playing at the piano, the one at Mom and Dad’s in Manhattan, when I’d received the call from the hospital.Thecall. The one that told me the absolute last thing I’d ever expected to hear.

They were gone.

So, when the first few notes played at the Reid’s Valentine’s Day fundraiser Saturday night, they hit me like a brick to the chest.

I was just standing there in the middle of the grand ballroom, watching from a distance as Gloria talked to each of the guests surveying the silent auction table. Maxwell was flirting with the crowd, jumping from group to group to ensure everyone had made it over to check out the items up for bid.

They were a team, just like my parents had been.

Sometimes when I looked at them, I saw my parents, instead. It was easy to merge them, especially since our families had been so close. We’d gone on summer camping trips together, spent days out at the lake, and way too many evenings we’d end up in each other’s back yards or living rooms. We were one giant family unit before, but now, it was just me.

I pulled at the collar of my dress shirt, loosening the tie just a bit. Wearing a suit and tie felt like punishment to me. It always had. The only time I’d ever even marginally enjoyed it was when I wore one for high school graduation and Charlie told me I looked “dapper.” I’d teased her for using the word, but inside, I’d made note of the colors I’d worn and the way I’d styled my hair.

I liked it when she noticed me.

And she always did. I was aware of her crush from a young age, from the way her eyes widened when I was in the room, the way her cheeks flushed, the way she shied away from any conversation I initiated with her. She grew more confident with age, waiting up for me when I’d go out to parties with her brother. But even sitting on top of my piano, Charlie had a hard time meeting my eyes.

She’d always watch me when I was playing, when my eyes had to focus on the keys.

And then she’d look away when I looked up.

That’s what I was thinking about when the first notes of Clint Mansell’s song played. At first, I didn’t really notice them. The song starts out so slowly, so softly, that I convinced myself it couldn’t possibly be what I was hearing. But as the notes stretched and morphed, as the song grew to life, I knew I wasn’t imagining it.

And I was instantly transported back in time, back to that day, to that piano, to that call.