“Giving up?” Ansel asks me. His attention remains focused forward as if the notes from the song as forming in the air in front of him.
The color drains from my face. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be in here.” The corners of his mouth turn upward for a moment, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
“You always were dramatic,” he says. “I told you not to touch the piano, not that you couldn’t come into the room.” He pauses. “This was my mother’s piano.”
“I know,” I whisper. “You used to play it for me whenever I danced.” He looks up and stares at me without breaking his focus. The storm brewing in his eyes almost stopped my heart.
“And I’m playing now. So, are you going to do your part, or have you really given up?” His eyes bore into me, and I know it’s not a real question,
