under Thayre's gaze. He's watching. And even if he wasn't, he was listening. I swallowed hard as my vision traced the strings on the violin, the curve of its neck, and finally, the bow which I held in my hand. It had been so long since I'd held my own violin that it took me some time to get comfortable with the weight of it.
I knew I was incapable of playing one of my own pieces, so I glanced at the music sheets in front of me. I dragged the bow across the middle of the strings and froze as the sound reverberated off the surrounding walls.
“Jesus, that’s loud.”
Thayre came around to face me, and his grin from earlier widened. “It’s a sound system, what did you expect?” He pointed at the wire connected to the base of the violin.
“Won’t your neighbors hear?” Do they mind?
It was probably close to, if not past, eleven by now. Surely they wouldn't appreciate getting woken up by someone else’s music, no matter how beautiful the string of notes looked on the page.
He knocked on the glass. “Soundproof. Come on, Moyra, give me some credit. As many nights as I lie awake with something stuck in my head, I had to make it soundproof.”
“So, you come in here a lot?”
“All the time—not just to play, either. The table over there?” He pointed to it, and I couldn’t help noticing the lights hanging above it. “I write most of my music in here, and most times, it’s in the middle of the night. I can’t get to sleep until I get the notes out.”
“Sounds like what I go through with writing.”
His eyebrows jumped. “You write?”
I dropped my gaze and caressed the scroll of the violin, smiling at how smooth it was beneath my fingertips. “A little. I haven’t shown anyone, though. Poetry mostly.”
“I’ll be damned. Any chance they could get turned into lyrics?”
I looked at him and laughed. “Can they be turned into lyrics? Seriously, you’re going with that?”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I get your point. Dumb question. So, are you going to play, or what?”
I licked my lips and looked at the violin I had coveted for so long. It was in my hands, and I was inside Thayre’s soundproofed room. No one who didn’t want to hear the music would, which meant there was no chance of my sour, out-of-practice notes getting back to Bret.
Taking a breath, I positioned the fingers of my left hand on the strings and started to play. One thing I had always loved about Thayre’s music was how easy it was to follow. That isn’t to say it was simple. In fact, it was the exact opposite, but I guess after playing for more than twenty years, the notes came easier for me.
The melody was soft. At one point, I was even tempted to close my eyes, but doing so would’ve left me blind to the notes I had yet to read, so I kept them open. And I'm not sure when it happened, but I'd been swaying to the music I was playing, almost as if I was in a trance. Typical Thayre. He may have helped me with my own music at one time, but even on those long nights of banging our heads on a wall, there were times we took a break to play something of his own.
And no matter how late it was, or how much caffeine we'd had to drink, playing his music was instinctual, as though it took no effort on my part at all. Muscle memory. It had gotten me far back then, and here I was, allowing it to happen again.
Once my nerves had settled, the music carried me—reminded me—how to play. I never should've stopped playing. I may have been in love with Bret at one time, but he could never compare to my passion for music. A passion I almost snuffed out, just because he'd asked me to.
I hit a sour note and cringed, pulling the bow away from the strings.
“Don't stop now,” Thayre said. “You're almost back. Keep playing?”
I threw a glance over my shoulder, but the smile on his face wasn't there to mock me. “Back? Back from where?”
He shrugged. “You started out tense, and even though you say you haven't played in a
I knew I was incapable of playing one of my own pieces, so I glanced at the music sheets in front of me. I dragged the bow across the middle of the strings and froze as the sound reverberated off the surrounding walls.
“Jesus, that’s loud.”
Thayre came around to face me, and his grin from earlier widened. “It’s a sound system, what did you expect?” He pointed at the wire connected to the base of the violin.
“Won’t your neighbors hear?” Do they mind?
It was probably close to, if not past, eleven by now. Surely they wouldn't appreciate getting woken up by someone else’s music, no matter how beautiful the string of notes looked on the page.
He knocked on the glass. “Soundproof. Come on, Moyra, give me some credit. As many nights as I lie awake with something stuck in my head, I had to make it soundproof.”
“So, you come in here a lot?”
“All the time—not just to play, either. The table over there?” He pointed to it, and I couldn’t help noticing the lights hanging above it. “I write most of my music in here, and most times, it’s in the middle of the night. I can’t get to sleep until I get the notes out.”
“Sounds like what I go through with writing.”
His eyebrows jumped. “You write?”
I dropped my gaze and caressed the scroll of the violin, smiling at how smooth it was beneath my fingertips. “A little. I haven’t shown anyone, though. Poetry mostly.”
“I’ll be damned. Any chance they could get turned into lyrics?”
I looked at him and laughed. “Can they be turned into lyrics? Seriously, you’re going with that?”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I get your point. Dumb question. So, are you going to play, or what?”
I licked my lips and looked at the violin I had coveted for so long. It was in my hands, and I was inside Thayre’s soundproofed room. No one who didn’t want to hear the music would, which meant there was no chance of my sour, out-of-practice notes getting back to Bret.
Taking a breath, I positioned the fingers of my left hand on the strings and started to play. One thing I had always loved about Thayre’s music was how easy it was to follow. That isn’t to say it was simple. In fact, it was the exact opposite, but I guess after playing for more than twenty years, the notes came easier for me.
The melody was soft. At one point, I was even tempted to close my eyes, but doing so would’ve left me blind to the notes I had yet to read, so I kept them open. And I'm not sure when it happened, but I'd been swaying to the music I was playing, almost as if I was in a trance. Typical Thayre. He may have helped me with my own music at one time, but even on those long nights of banging our heads on a wall, there were times we took a break to play something of his own.
And no matter how late it was, or how much caffeine we'd had to drink, playing his music was instinctual, as though it took no effort on my part at all. Muscle memory. It had gotten me far back then, and here I was, allowing it to happen again.
Once my nerves had settled, the music carried me—reminded me—how to play. I never should've stopped playing. I may have been in love with Bret at one time, but he could never compare to my passion for music. A passion I almost snuffed out, just because he'd asked me to.
I hit a sour note and cringed, pulling the bow away from the strings.
“Don't stop now,” Thayre said. “You're almost back. Keep playing?”
I threw a glance over my shoulder, but the smile on his face wasn't there to mock me. “Back? Back from where?”
He shrugged. “You started out tense, and even though you say you haven't played in a
Similar Books
Romeo Fails
Amy Briant
The Warrior King (Book 4)
Michael Wallace
At the Duke’s Pleasure
Tracy Anne Warren
Monsters in the Sand
David Harris
Missing
Gabrielle Lord
The Hidden Paths to Power
D.A. Smith
Flash
Ellen Miles
Origins
L. J. Smith
Shadow Sister
Carole Wilkinson