Page 65 of What He Doesn't Know

So many mornings I’d woken up at his house to the sound of him playing, tiptoeing my way into their dining room to spy on him. He always knew I was there, though — and he’d stop after a song or two and put the lid down on the piano, tapping it with his hand so I’d hop on top to listen.

Reese always put so much emotion into his music, so much heart — it was absolutely captivating to watch.

That hadn’t changed, I realized, as he began the first few notes of the new song. His eyes were closed for most of the song, his fingers feeling along the keys, brows furrowed in a mixture of concentration and what felt like an insurmountable amount of pain. It was as if he’d taken on the task of writing the theme song for loss. It was so beautiful, so touching, and sorealthat I started crying again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered when he finished, his eyes finding mine from where I sat on top of his piano. I knew having the lid down would warp the sound a little, but I wanted to watch his face as he played — just like I used to.

“Don’t be.” I swiped the tears from my cheeks, laughing at my ridiculousness. “It’s just beautiful, that’s all. You’ve always had such a gift.”

Reese smiled, but shrugged modestly. “I’m nothing special, just another guy pouring his heart into music. More wine?”

“Please.”

I should have said no, seeing as how we’d already gone through one bottle and opened a second. But the wine was helping the ache in my chest, and Reese was making me smile.

I didn’t want either to stop.

I followed Reese into the kitchen this time, raiding his cabinets until I found a bag of pretzels. I popped one in my mouth as he poured another glass of wine for each of us.

“Want me to heat up those tacos? Are you hungry?”

I shook my head, tossing another pretzel in my mouth. “No, just wanted a little snack.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not even close. You?”

“No.” He took a sip of his wine, sliding my glass toward me. “Let’s make a fort.”

“What?”

“A fort. Like the one we made when we were kids. I’ve got a shit ton of sheets my old roommate sent with me.”

I laughed, shaking my head and opening my mouth to list off reasons why building a fort was an absolutely ludicrous idea. But then I realized I didn’t have one. Reese watched my wheels turn, a lazy grin on his face.

It reminded me of the last night we’d spent together at his old house, of the way he’d looked at me in those final hours of the going away party.

There was something behind his eyes, something unspoken that called to me in a way I couldn’t explain. We were like two magnets in a constant pull, fighting the urge to connect.

“We’re in our thirties,” I tried, but it only made Reese laugh at the sad attempt.

“Who cares? That only means we can fasten the sheets to higher places. Come on.”

Reese grabbed my hand not wrapped around my wine glass and pulled me back to the living room. I couldn’t protest, couldn’t do anything other than laugh and try to ignore the warmth that spread through me at the feel of his hand in mine.

He left me standing in the middle of his living room as he disappeared down the hall, and seconds later, he emerged with an arm full of mismatched sheets. He threw them at me, knocking a bit of my wine out of the glass as they fluttered open, and then he was gone again. This time, he returned with pillows from his bed and an old sleeping bag. He tossed those to my feet next.

“You made me spill my wine.”

“It’ll wash. Come on, grab a sheet. This fort won’t build itself.”

We laid down the sleeping bag and pillows in the middle of the floor first, building the fort up and around them. We spread the sheets from the top of the couch to the top of the TV, from the corner of his coffee table to one of the kitchen bar stools we’d pulled in, and from the top of his recliner chair to the mantle of the electric fireplace. Reese grabbed two standing lamps from his bedroom to hold up the middle section of sheets, creating a circus-type ceiling over the sleeping bag. Once it was complete, we grabbed our wine and crawled inside, both lying back with our sock-covered feet close to the fireplace, heads on the pillows, eyes on the sheets above.

I leaned up long enough to take a big gulp of wine before I sat it carefully to the side, lying down next to Reese again. I didn’t realize how tipsy I was until we’d leaned back the first time. The wine was buzzing low and warm in my stomach, mixing with the heat from the fireplace and lulling me into a comfortable stupor.

Reese’s home turned out to be the perfect escape.

“I love this,” I said, smiling and pressing a cold hand to my warm cheeks. I was flushed, but I didn’t mind.