[This story is free again]
A social klutz and certified bookworm, Autumn Lyne is content with having just books as companions--that is, until her extrovert of a sister drags her out to meet her band. But nobody has expected that this would mark the...
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The coffee tasted too bitter for my liking, but I didn't tell Michael about that. This meal was on him again, and I didn't want to complain and sound ungrateful. I added more cream to my drink and bravely took another sip. Much better.
I wasn't fond of drinking coffee because I believed it was a beverage suited for older people. Then again, that was the reason why I had agreed to drink it. I wanted to act as if I was older than my age.
We were sitting outside the coffee shop; a black and white canopy was above us to protect us from the sun. Soft jazz music was coming from the inside, but my ears were attentive to Michael playing his new guitar, the one I'd pointed at in the store. I watched in fascination as his fingers drifted over the fretboard.
"Caprice No. 24," he answered when I asked him the title.
"As always, you play incredibly well," I commented.
He lowered his instrument on his lap and took a sip of his drink. "Don't think so. I'm terribly offbeat. It's one of the hardest pieces ever written, and I'm not fast enough for it. I need more—what?"
I was giving him an are-you-kidding-me look. "It wasn't terrible! It soundedflawless! You're an amazing musician, Michael, and I li—"
Luckily, I managed to stop myself before I could blurt out my feelings. I gulped and lowered my volume. "Sorry, I got carried away. I didn't mean to burst out like that."
His laughter cut me off.
"What's funny?" I asked.
"You looked like an overexcited chipmunk," he said amid his chuckles. "I've never seen that look on you before."
I scowled to fight off the smile threatening to invade my face. Swinging my feet under the chair, I picked a wafer from the plate and asked him, "Did you take private music lessons when you were young? Just wondering."
"No. I tried asking my parents if I could join a summer class, but they didn't want to waste money on it," Michael said. "Plus, my father didn't want me to play music. He said I'd be more annoying than I already was."
He laughed again; this time, it sounded unnatural. I noted that whenever he talked about his parents, he sounded so formal and distant.
"Oh. So, how did you learn how to play and read music, then?"
"Observation and constant listening. Do you know that store over there?" He pointed his thumb at a street across from us. "That one that sells home appliances? They used to display TVs behind the store window, and they'd put on wildlife shows, movie trailers, and stuff..."
"Oh! I was one of the kids watching the TVs through the window. There was one time when they played a movie that I liked, and Mom had a hard time pulling me away because I refused to leave until the show was over," I said, amused at the memory. "Hmm, what movie was that again? I think it was—"
