I edged closer, mesmerized, as Tristen took the already morose melody to an even darker place, his hands moving to the lower register of keys and his shoulders tensing. But he was relaxed, too. I could see that his face was at peace.
His gorgeous, gorgeous face.
Becca had been right. On any given day Tristen was hot. But when he played piano, there was no word for him except gorgeous. He was beyond just handsome, or compelling, or beautiful, even. That aura of power that seemed natural to him, it was concentrated around him when he played, like he was under a spotlight even in a living room.
I found myself stepping even closer as Tristen dragged that sweet, bitter song toward a conclusion that was as powerful and commanding as the way he’d strode across Mr. Messerschmidt’s classroom on the first day of school. His fingers tore across the keys, and the song got faster and louder, rumbling against our thick plaster walls as he began to pound the piano, guiding the song to a breathtaking, furious crescendo. A climax that shook the rafters even harder than the thunderstorm had done a few days before.
Then, just when I thought there was nothing more Tristen could wring out of that old instrument, when I thought the song had been carried as far as it could go, he swept his hand the length of the keyboard and wrecked the whole thing, with an expression of satisfaction that came close to bliss. When I saw him draw back his hand, I almost cried out in dismay, like I could have somehow saved the whole experience. But Tristen . . . the corners of his mouth actually lifted to hear the whole thing destroyed.
I stood dumbstruck. I’d never seen anybody revel in ruin. Especially not the destruction of something so magnificent.
When the house was quiet again, Tristen turned to face me, opening his eyes, and I saw the dark black bruise . . . and maybe a glimpse of the dark place where that song had come from. A place that the photograph of Tristen hadn’t been able to quite capture.
“Wow . . . Tristen . . .” I didn’t know what else to say. Not about the music or that part of him I’d just seen in his eyes. “Wow.”
Tristen seemed to accept that as a compliment, though. “Thanks.” He nodded toward the easel. “I like your work, too.”
I felt my cheeks getting warm again, and I glanced toward the portrait, which looked conspicuously ill-concealed, pushed to the wall. “I didn’t think you saw that.”
“It looked very accurate,” Tristen said, and I saw that he was laughing at me yet again. “At least, I thought it looked just like you—although I barely glimpsed it before you hid it away.”
So, he’d noticed that, too. My cheeks got hotter. “It’s not done yet.”
I was embarrassed not only because I’d been caught trying to hide the painting but because I knew that my work paled in comparison to Tristen’s. Nobody would ever laugh at what he’d just created or say that it didn’t capture who Tristen was. I barely knew Tristen, but both times I’d heard his music, I knew that I was seeing him. Including the stuff that might be beautiful in a way but which wasn’t exactly pretty.
I found myself looking to my easel again, confused.
Was that what was missing in my own work? In my eyes? The darkness that I sometimes saw there now when I looked in the mirror? Darkness that wouldn’t be reflected in my junior year portrait, taken before Dad’s murder . . . and the flashes of utter blackness that I tried to force away since learning about his theft from me.
But who wanted to see that in a painting? The loss that I always felt and the newer rage . . . they were ugly. Weren’t they? Aspects of myself that I shouldn’t just hide but banish. Exorcise, even.
“Jill.” Tristen called me back to reality, standing up and stepping away from the piano bench.
I turned to him and nervously tucked my hair behind my ear, surprised to find that he had grown very serious while I’d been staring at the back of my painting. “Yes?”
“Enough about art,” he said, moving toward me. “Let’s see that box.”
Chapter 14
Jill
“I HAVEN’T BEEN inside this office since my dad died,” I confessed, trying to insert the key, which I’d borrowed from my mom’s jewelry box, into the lock. But my hand jerked a little. What would it feel like to see Dad’s stuff?
“Why not?” Tristen asked, standing close behind me in the dim hallway. “Why is the room off limits?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, kind of wishing he’d give me room. “It just is.” My fingers kept fumbling with the key. What would I see in there? Was this a mistake? Why had Tristen changed his mind about the contest, anyway?
“Jill.” Tristen sounded impatient. “Here.” He reached around me and folded his fingers around mine, compelling me to insert the key into the lock and twisting my wrist, firmly but gently. I felt his hard chest pressing against my back, pushing me forward, opening the door.
And the first thing I saw as the door swung open, illuminated in a shaft of moonlight, was my father, smiling at me.
Chapter 15
Jill
“DADDY . . .”
The childish name that I hadn’t used since I was maybe six years old sounded loud in the musty room. I probably should have been embarrassed to have said that in front of Tristen, but I’d kind of forgotten he was there as I walked woodenly toward my dad’s desk and then picked
