Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I only own my mistakes.
~~~o~~~
I am late for my piano lesson. Well, piano assessment for placement into said lesson. The reason for my tardiness is of course Rosalie. Her new form of torture is hiding the items of clothing that she considers ill-fitting, prudish, or in other words, comfortable. It took me forever to find a t-shirt and hence I'm late.
I'm a bit out of breath when I reach the instructor's office at the end of the hallway. The door is open and I can see him bent over in front of his desk, rummaging the drawer, looking for something, I presume. I can hear him groaning in frustration once I move closer to the door.
I take one more step, lift my hand to knock on the door to catch his attention, but before I do his head snaps up.
Holy mother of unexpected encounters, it's Fedora-guy!
Except he isn't. I mean, he's not wearing a Fedora today.
I smile out of instinct, although I'm pretty sure he can't see me since his eyes are again hidden behind Raybans, and also the little fact that he may be blind. His face is contoured in a frown, almost as if he is in pain, and it takes him a few seconds to compose it.
I get that feeling again in my stomach, like he's staring right at me.
How is that for irony? He sees me even though he can't see.
"Isabella Swan?" He closes the drawer with a sigh. Keeping his fingers always in contact with the surface, he moves around the desk and closer to me with confidence.
His hair is a disgustingly perfect, chaotic mess. He's wearing a cobalt blue button up that is again rolled up to his elbows. He stands a few feet away from me, and I'm rendered speechless by my idiotic brain.
"Hello?" he speaks again.
Oh Jesus, his voice is so deep and sexy, and I'm having a meltdown.
Think, Swan, think!
"Uh... yeah?"
I cringe at my inadequate words. Eloquence, clearly not my strong suit in front of this guy.
He takes one step closer. "Bella?" And that little lopsided grin appears on his face. "You're Bella, right? From the bar last Saturday. I'm Edward, remember?" This time he extends his hand to me, not exactly in front of me but a little to the right.
I try picking out pieces out of the incoherence that is my brain at the moment. This guy, Fedora-guy — Edward, who is clearly blind — somehow remembers me from the fraction of a second that we interacted a couple days ago.
Tentatively, I reach for his hand, and when our palms touch, he grips mine tightly and his smile stretches.
"How do you-"
"You have a very unique voice," he says, shaking my hand before dropping it and stepping to one side. "Please, come in." With a hand, he waves me inside. His office is small, but big enough for an upright piano to sit on the left side next to a window.
I step inside and stand there, between the piano, his desk, and him. He smells like soap, and clean, and man, and good...
I knot and intertwine my fingers, amazed at how he moves around the room with such ease.
"You're here for the piano assessment, correct?" He grabs a folder from his desk.
"Yes." Once he hears my answer he moves around me, to the piano, where he sets the opened folder on the music rack.
"Okay..." With a hand on the top of the piano, he turns to me. That friendly smile still on his face again. "Two options. Your choice." He waves to the bench.
I take my seat with a deep breath, before looking up at the sheet music.
Beethoven... fuck my life.
Okay... "Ode to joy"... I can do this.
My fingers are shaky as I start, and I know I can do better than this, but him standing right next to me is making it extremely difficult for me to focus. He remains still, not looking at me, one hand over the piano, the other loosely over his pocket. His fingers mimic the fingering of the keys.
I get through it eventually. It comes out choppy and out of tempo, but at least I finished it.
"Good," he says. "But that was too easy. Try the other one."
"Für Elise?" Is he serious?
I look up at him, and as if he could feel it, his grin stretches wider. "C'mon, just try it."
I take a deep breath and try following the sheet, but it's way out of my range. I can't get the arpeggios with my left hand, and my right hand is not doing so well either. I sigh in frustration and give up altogether when I notice his fingers twitch over his pocket.
"May I?" He gestures to the space next to me on the bench.
Oh God... he wants to sit next to me.
My eyes find his face again, and I shyly nod. A couple uncomfortably silent second later, I remember he can't see me.
"Yes," I say, exhaling through my nose as he moves around the bench.
He sinks beside me, and I clasp my hands between my knees. He begins playing, and I become transfixed on his hands and the beautiful music they create. His fingers are long and a little bony, but incredibly skilled over the keys.
His posture is a bit stiff, back completely straight. His jaw is tightly set too, and every now and then, I can see his jaw muscles twitch.
He finishes with a small release of breath and clasps his hands over his lap. His jaw twitches again.
"Try one more time," he says with a clipped tone.
On my second attempt, he corrects me swiftly, and I am amazed by the fact he knows what I'm doing wrong without having to look.
As time progresses, I can feel he's losing his patience with me. He gets stiffer, if that's even possible. He cringes at some of my notes, and his hands are now in white-knuckle fists.
I stop, tentatively, and turn to look at him. With two fingers, he pinches the bridge of his nose as he suppresses a groan.
"Are you okay?" I whisper.
Before he can answer, a beeping signals the end of our hour, and he shoots up from the bench. He stumbles on the way to his desk and turns the alarm off.
He's unable to keep the frown off of his face anymore. I feel like I should apologize for my lousy playing, but I decide not to. He winces again, and his fingers clench around the edge of the desk.
"I'll email you your class placement," he says through his teeth.
"Okay." I get up from the bench and make my way to the door. Something's wrong. I want to ask him again. He looks like he's in pain, but it can't be because of me, I'm not butchering Beethoven anymore.
"Goodbye," he says in my direction.
"Okay..." I sigh. "Bye."
I don't know if I should close the door or not, so I leave it as I found it: ajar. I turn to check on him one last time. He's back behind his desk, furiously searching for something in his drawer. Groaning, he slams the drawer closed and looks up.
I duck out of view out of instinct.
Silly, Swan, he can't see you.
"Alice," I hear him say from inside — on his cell-phone, perhaps? — "I need help."
~~~o~~~
bit . ly / 1yPEvBh (remove the spaces)