Page 9 of What He Doesn't Know

My phone lit up on the kitchen counter just feet away from me, the loud vibration of it jarring me from the song. I tried to push past it, but the moment was gone, the notes I’d been chasing vanishing like smoke as I ran my hands through my hair.

I didn’t have to look to know it was my former roommate, Blake, who was responsible for the interruption. No doubt the text would be asking if I’d managed to unpack anything yet.

But I didn’t move to answer it, nor did I unpack a single box that night. I just made my way back to the sliding glass door, lighting another cigarette and drinking the rest of my six-pack until it was time to go to bed. I sat wondering how the hell I’d been hired to teach at one of the top prep schools in the nation, how the hell I’d ended up back in the town I never thought I’d step foot in again.

And how I’d managed to run back into Charlie Reid after so many years.

That Friday, I stayed after the last bell had rung for my first tutoring session at Westchester.

“Good. Now, when you’re practicing scales, I want you to take your time. Focus on your hand position instead of just slogging through. It may seem like it’s not a big deal, as long as you’re practicing them, but right now is the time to build good habits,” I told Matthew, watching as his face twisted in concentration.

He was my first victim at Westchester, my first one-on-one experience with a child and not a college student. I didn’t have it in me to tell him I was just as nervous as he was. When I helped out at Juilliard, it was always with already-skilled musicians who were struggling more with growing pains than actual music-related issues. It’d been more of a therapy job, which was also a joke, since I didn’t have a single thing figured out myself.

“Trust me, I wish I’d have put more time and effort into this kind of stuff when I was your age,” I told Matthew. “Would have saved me a lot of headaches retraining at Juilliard.”

He nodded, his fingers finding the keys again as he played through the same set we’d just finished. I watched him move, his hands a little more arched this time, his fingers skating with more ease over the keys. He still needed a lot of practice before he could move on to the more advanced pieces some of his peers were playing, but he had potential. And he listened. That’s all I needed to be able to work with him.

When he finished, I sat down at the piano next to him, gesturing for him to watch me play the same sheet of music. It was an easy piece, an old nursery rhyme set in E major. I played it easily, forcing myself to go slow so I could talk Matthew through some of the points I’d been making with him that afternoon. He nodded along, taking notes in a small notepad, and when I finished, he smiled toothily at me.

“You make it look easy.”

I chuckled. “You’ll do the same one day. Go ahead, run through it one more time.”

As he played the first few notes, I noticed Charlie leaning against the door frame just behind us. I squeezed Matthew’s shoulder to let him know I was still listening before strolling up to her, returning her soft smile.

“It’s nice to see you playing again,” she said first, careful not to talk too loudly over Matthew’s practicing. “I always loved to watch you play. Or rather, to hear you.”

“Different tunes back then,” I pointed out.

The corner of her mouth twitched at a grin, though it didn’t fully expand. “Yes. Much more angsty and sad, but you were a tortured soul back then.”

“Still am,” I teased.

“I’ll warn Mr. Henderson to keep the teenagers away from you, then.”

Charlie’s hair was up in a bun again, wrapped tight and sitting high on her head. Her long, slender neck was exposed in the dainty light-yellow blouse she wore, and even though it was casual Friday, she still wore a navy skirt similar to the one I’d seen her wear the first day. She’d been in a skirt or dress every day that week, and though I’d only seen her briefly at lunch each day, we were beginning to fall back into our old steps.

At least, as much as we could.

She still hadn’t opened up to me, hadn’t laughed, hadn’t told me much about what she’d been up to over the past fourteen years. But she sat with me each day at lunch, and she was finally starting to do some of the talking instead of leaving it all to me.

I’d take what I could get.

It was strange, how she brought out the young adult in me. Charlie brought me back to simpler times, just by existing. She reminded me of freedom and Pall Mall cigarettes, of dusty old books and stolen scotch. Hearing her talk about how she used to watch me play reminded me of those nights, of her carefully closing the lid on our piano so she could sit on top of it while I played. It always morphed the notes, but I never minded — it was never about the music when she was sitting there with me.

I never knew which nights I’d come home and find her there in my old kitchen, one foot tucked under where she sat on the same bar stool reading late into the night. At first, it seemed like just a coincidence. She couldn’t sleep well at our house when she stayed the night with Mallory, and I always came home late, so we’d spend those early morning hours together at the piano.

But after a while, I began to wonder if she waited up for me on purpose, if she hoped for me to stumble in and play for her.

“Are you busy this evening?” she asked after a moment, standing up from where she’d been leaning against the frame.

“Unpacking,” I said, but quickly followed it with the truth. “Well, attempting to, at least.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear you’re not unpacked yet.”

“Hey,” I defended. “This week has been busy. I’m a teacher now, you know.”

“You’re also lazy.”