XPLR | Colby Brock

~113~

Paisley's hands were clammy and nervous. We shared a piano bench, sitting thigh and thigh. The music in front of us smelled of dust and age.

Mr. Dawson sat in front of us, in a chair. His legs were spread apart and he seemed relaxed, and he must've enjoyed seeing Paisley and I practice again.

What I don't understand, is why doesn't Paisley have any confidence in her abilities? This girl is a wonderful musician. The kind you admire in high school, who plays through college, but inevitably never follows it. Though she'll probably make a lot of extra cash teaching kids to play.

Her hands fumbled, sliding from an a flat to an a natural. She pulled her hands back in the middle of our half-time tempo performance. "Sorry, sorry..." She said as she held her hands away from the keys.

Why is she so nervous? When I was her age, I wouldn't have been nervous to make a simple mistake. Could it... could it be because I'm playing next to her?

I don't know how to feel about someone being nervous to play in front of me.

Colby probably knew that feeling well. That feeling of superiority due to success. No, superiority isn't the right word. He must've known how it felt to be admired so much that people fumble and crumble at the idea of meeting him, working with him.

No, no thoughts of Colby. This is about Waltz from Masquerade.

"Hey," I said, holding my hands up like she was. "It's okay. This is our first read through, I can't expect you to be perfect. And you shouldn't put so much pressure on yourself to do well, I'm not pressuring you. All of this you're feeling, I've felt it too."

She looked up at me, meeting my eyes for maybe... the fifth time in the last forty-five minutes. She nodded, then asked, "How?"

I chuckled. "I was a sixteen-year-old musician at one time too. I never played a duet with a professional, but... I remember playing with an amazing pianist," I said, grinning, "my mother was a perfect musician. She taught me everything I know. You know what she told me?" I asked.

Paisley shook her head, beckoning me to continue. I remember back to when I was sitting at the piano with my mother. I must've been practicing for the competition that took me to New York City. I was twelve.

"If you're nervous, the piano will get nervous too. You and the piano are friends, don't forget. If you're good to the piano, the piano will be good to you," my mother had said. I repeated the same thing to Paisley now.

She nodded, and took a deep breath. I grinned at her, and I sneakily put in, "and that's a minor cord."

I ran my hands over the higher octave of the piano, Where the melody usually rests. "Ten days is not enough!" Paisley complained.

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and I gave her a quick, fleeting smile. "One day is plenty, if you practice hard enough. Come on, let's get back to it," I said.

When she was ready, we continued playing.

The sounds of the piano are better healers than any bandages ever will be. Music, in general, is unlike anything in the world. Sure, affection and love can fill your heart, but music does so in a way nothing in this world can.

I closed my eyes as we played. I don't have the music memorized, but I've listened to it so many times over the years that I can guess where my hands go, and more often then not, I'll be correct.

When I'm playing, which I haven't done in a few days, the only thing I can concentrate on is my music. Colby, Logan, even Mr. Dawson and Paisley, become things of a different universe galaxies and galaxies away. Here, in my musical atmosphere, the piano and I are the only things that exist.

I opened my eyes and I found my spot quickly on the music again. We were playing until there was a noise that interrupted all of us. I looked up just as Mr. Dawson stood and took my phone from my bag. He showed it to me, it was Colby's name, and without hesitating he accepted the call and answered.

I stood up suddenly, just as I started to say, "No, no, no!" But Mr. Dawson's face changed. Colby must've started talking immediately.

He looked at me just as he said, "you probably should take this."

I looked at the phone, whose timer ticked past ten seconds.

I shouldn't take this. I know I shouldn't. But my arms were already bringing the phone to my ear. "Hello?" I asked quietly as I headed towards the door, to find better service but also to be alone.

"Rose! Rose. Oh my god," he said. I could hear the nerves in his voice. "God, Rose, where are you?" he asked.

I couldn't find my words. Not until he said, "Rose...?"

"I'm in Oregon," I answered quickly. "Oregon?" He asked. "I thought you were going to-"

"New York. I am going to New York. In twelve days," I said.

There was silence on his end for a moment. "God, babe, I'm so-"

"Don't call me that," I snapped. "Let me get this out!" He growled back. Which startled me. He almost never yelled at me, but his tone wasn't yelling. It was growling.

"I love you," He said. "I love you so damn much, Rose, I don't know what I'm going to do without you! Have you been listening to my voicemails?" He asked. I felt tears threatening before my eyes. "No."

"Why not?" He asked. "Because I can't deal with this, right now, Colby!"

He was silent again. "I love you too! Don't you get that? But what you did, what you did with her," I hissed, "is impossible to forgive. I don't know if I could. Maybe if she was a stranger, there would be a chance we could be what we were, but it would never be the same. I wasn't enough for you. You broke my heart, Colby!"

I'm surprised he wasn't crying now.

"I know, Rose. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I'm so fucking stupid! Rose, I can't live without you. Please. Please, just come home. For twelve days if that's what it takes to convince you that I love you!"

I don't doubt that he loves me. I know he does, and I love him.

But I can't go back. I can't.

Everything I've ever wanted is in my hands.

"Goodbye, Colby."

"Wait, no. No, Rose, let's talk this out-"

"Not this time."

I went to hang up the phone.

"Wait! Wait. Rose, I have to know you'll be okay. I have to," he pleaded. I could feel the sincerity in his voice. That same protectiveness that helped me fall in love with him in the first place. The same protectiveness that let him defend me from Kai, protect me from scary faces in the street. The same instincts that worry about me now.

"I'll be okay."

"Are you going to New York alone?" He asked.

I'll tell him the truth.

"No," I said, "Logan is picking me up from Newark Airport."

He paused. "Logan-"

"I have to go," I interrupted, "I'm sorry, Colby."

"Can I call you later?"

"No," I answered shortly.

"Oh... okay..." he started, "I love you."

"Bye," I said. It hurt, but I finally hung up.

I walked back into the orchestra room, wiping my tears away. Neither Dawson or Paisley asked.

I sat down.

Come on, piano, work your healing magic.