Wild Reckless

His head falls to the side, against his headrest, his leg propped up along the seat. He lowers my hand in his and presses it flat against my leg, resting his palm over mine. “I’ve seen you. No…not just that…I’ve heard you, Kensi. I’ve felt you when you play, when you lose yourself so completely to that piano. For you, it’s different. And for you, this is something that could mean the rest of your life. And you might not think you want it now, but Kens, believe me, when something’s gone—” he swallows hard, his jaw flexing, his eyes struggling. “When something’s gone that you love, and you start thinking about how much you didn’t appreciate it when it was here…that shit will poison you. And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try to save you from that.”

To my left, out the window, is the main music hall for the University of Chicago. I know those steps. I’ve climbed them for years. There’s a small hallway to the right, as soon as you enter, and it dips down, below ground, to a long line of offices and practice rooms. It’s where I play with Chen. It’s a place I haven’t been in months.

And Owen’s right about one thing; not going, missing it—my time with Chen—it gnaws at my insides when I let it in.

I draw in a deep breath, the heat from Owen’s truck mixing with the coolness of the glass window by my face. I look back at him, his eyes hopeful. I want to do this, maybe more for him than me. And maybe for me, too.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I say, looking down at the silly band shirt and jeans I have on. Owen pulls the plastic bag up to his lap, sliding it over to me, inside a plain black dress and a simple pair of black ballet flats. It’s exactly what I would have picked on my own.

“I scoped out your closet before I left your room last night. And yes, I had to tell your mom what I was up to when I stopped by your house this morning to get this. But don’t worry; she’s not coming. I told her I had to trick you into coming, and her being here would probably scare you away,” he says.

He’s right. It would have.

“My time’s at four o’clock,” I say, looking at my watch. It’s a little after three thirty.

“I know,” he says, his head now resting along his arm, against the back of his seat. His jaw is rough, his beard showing more than it usually does.

“Will you come in with me?” I ask, the bag of clothes held close to my chest.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, a smile so soft, so honest, it makes me believe that maybe I can do anything.

I lead Owen through the corridor, to the hallway bathroom I’m familiar with, and I change quickly. I’m glad Owen brought what he did. Anything…more and I would feel uncomfortable. The only thing I need to work past now is the growing nerves threatening to derail the strength and control in my hands. Owen notices them trembling, reaches down, and threads his fingers slowly through mine as we stand along a sparse hallway, the applicant before me staring at the crack in the auditorium door, waiting for it to open, for someone to welcome her inside.

Once she enters, I squeeze Owen’s hand harder, looking to my right, to the long wooden bench, and the two boys who have sat down, each of them dressed in a suit.

I pull my hand from Owen’s briefly, blowing on my palms, trying to make the sweat stop. Please, for five minutes, just stop!

“Miss Worth?” There’s a young woman standing in front of me now, clipboard in her hand, the list of names on it—long.

I smile and let go of Owen, wiping my hands along the skirt of my dress and passing through the doors with him, watching to see just where he sits. I notice Chen at the main table in the center of the auditorium as I pass through the rows of seats. He doesn’t smile at first, but when nobody else is looking, he raises his thumb and winks.

I needed that—more than he’ll ever know.

“Miss Worth, what will you be playing today?” a man with a graying beard and glasses pushed to the tip of his nose asks.

Clearing my throat, I flex my fingers, searching for the memory of everything I know. I know this. I know I know this.

“Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2,” I say, my voice losing its confidence the moment the sound of it hits the airy stage, the vastness around me swallowing me whole.

“Very well. Begin,” the main man says. I move to the piano, possibly the nicest one I’ve ever seen, and smooth the wrinkles on my dress. Looking down, I search for the pedals, placing my feet in familiar positions, finding my comfort. I close my eyes and run my hands once in opposite directions, just as I do every time, until I come back to center, and my hands find their natural groove.