Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
I did once upon a time, he replies. Nothing serious.
Do you still have one?
I’m sure I’ve got one around here somewhere.
Then maybe I don’t want a video. Perhaps I want a live performance!
Are you serious? he texts.
Deadly, I reply, then realize that might not be the best choice of words considering the circumstances. Yet with Matt, we can pretend all the other stuff is just a far-off song with notes we can barely hear.
I guess I’m bringing my guitar, then.
Bubbles dance in my belly.
“We bonded over music,” I mutter, “but I thought he was just taking an interest in his sister’s passion. I didn’t know he …”
I trail off when I realize there are tears in Mom’s eyes. Standing up from the couch, I rush across the room and sit beside her. “What’s wrong?”
“I haven’t seen you this happy in years.”
She breaks down into sobs, turning and pushing her face against my chest. I hold her tightly, letting her cry. She doesn’t have to explain the rest of it. I know she feels guilty for letting me pay her way through college. She wishes she could see me like this more often. She had hoped our lives could have been different, but it wasn’t all bad. All that flows between us wordlessly as we hold each other.
“I’m going to freshen up,” she says once she finishes sobbing. Standing over me, she smiles shakily, bravely somehow. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Whatever else happens, and however this ends, enjoy yourself.”
I go to Emily’s room, knocking lightly and opening it to find her sitting cross-legged on the bed in a patch of sunlight, a notebook open in her lap, her cheeks flushed.
“Creative mania?” I say with a wink. She always gets the same look when she’s in a poetry frenzy.
She beams back at me. “How did you guess?”
I grin. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Have fun!” she calls after me.
In the living room, my phone vibrates again. I snatch it so eagerly. I never cared much about texting before Matt came along. This text is from Sofia.
Hey, I was wondering if you still wanted to be my violin teacher.
Definitely! You’re making such great progress already. When we have a chance, we’ll get another lesson in.
Okay, phew. I just thought that because of “the stuff.”
“The stuff” doesn’t need to affect us, I tell her.
I don’t add this part, but anyway, my attitude to the stuff—the Mafia, the killing, the darkness—isn’t what it probably should be. Maybe an ordinary girl would instantly hate Matt. Perhaps a normal girl would be terrified he was going to hurt her. It turns out I’m not normal. It turns out the music in my heart is darker than even I knew.
I’m coming over now, Matt texts.
With your guitar?
As my lady requested, I’ll serenade you in the limo.
The limo?
Walking to the front window of the guesthouse, I see the limo pulling up. Shameful or not, cray-cray or not, I can’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MATTEO
“Thank God it’s soundproofed back here,” I say, leaning over the old acoustic.
Bella’s cheeks are flushed and red, the flush spreading down her neck, her hands clasped in her lap as she stares at me with complete captivation. There’s more attentiveness in her expression than last night, even. Her dress is a deep red with a glittery pattern, matching the sparkle in her eye. I almost canceled the date when she walked out of the guesthouse. My body stirred so damn urgently, roaring at me to grab her, claim her, own her.
Own her?
“Before I quit, I was working on Romance Anónimo. Do you know it?”
“Anonymous Romance,” she whispers, nodding slowly.
I smile. Of course, she knows it.
“I can’t believe you didn’t mention you played guitar!”
“There’s a lot I didn’t mention …”
I regret saying this right away, but the glowing expression on her face doesn’t falter. She clasps her hands even tighter together, looking at me closely. I have to remind myself she’s only doing this for her mom’s tuition, or is that just an excuse?
Why bother with this private moment if this was just a trade? Nobody can see us now.
“Well, here I go …”
Slowly, I begin to pluck the piece. It’s a challenge involving a melody with the thumb while my fingers attempt to handle chords simultaneously. It comes out slowly, joltingly, in fits and starts. Yet the more I play, the more I remember the instrument. Or maybe it’s like the instrument remembers me.
Finally, I look up to find Bella looking with tears glistening in her eyes.
“Whoa,” she whispers.
I put the instrument aside and move across the limo to sit beside her. Her leg touches mine, the heat shimmering into me. The more time I spend pressed up against her like this, the saner these insane thoughts feel. It’s like there’s this connection in us—this sheet of music only we can read that makes sense to us.