“Oh, you actually know what you’re doin’.” King looked visibly impressed. “Do you know of Debussy?”

Did I know of Debussy… For fuck’s sake. The question was practically insulting.

Personally, I found his most famous piece, “Clair de Lune,” overrated. And it paled next to the masterpiece that was “Rêverie.”

I eased into the first notes and kept my gaze on the keys, getting to know them, sinking into the music, letting old memories wash over me. I’d obsessed over this piece in college. Nonna had loved listening to me play it too.

If I remembered correctly, it was also the piece that made Nicky vow to become as good at guitar as I was at piano.

He’d succeeded.

“My God, Anthony.” King approached slowly as the song built up toward its rather angsty climax, and he sat down on the edge of the bench.

“Tell me about your stepfather?” I asked quietly.

“In a moment. Please play it again.”

So I did. The dream state-like beginning, how it split and let my hands each tell their own story, one more playful than the other, then how the theme shifted, as if the two tales were in a debate and almost arguing, slowly building up toward an ending that left the listener empty and missing something.

“That was amazing,” King murmured.

“Thank you.” The second my fingers were off the keys, the silence crashed down on me too heavily. There was tension in the air that I didn’t know how to interpret, so I chose to play more. Something else. A mindless tune to keep the tension at bay.

“Damn, boy,” he sighed. “I’m still feelin’ the shivers from your playin’.” He blew out a breath and shook his head, and I kept my face composed. But fuck yeah, that was some raving review. “You asked about my stepfather—not much to tell. A genuinely good man who treated my mama the way she deserved, unlike my biological father, who left us when I was in college. Unfortunately, my stepfather loved bad food almost as much as he loved my mother. It took one heart attack.”

I winced. “Sorry to hear that.”

He shook his head quickly, closing the subject, and checked the clock on the wall. “I can bore you with family deaths another time. Can you play something else before the guests arrive?”

“Sure. More classical music?”

“I’d like to hear what you prefer to play,” he answered. “Do you sing too?”

I smiled faintly. “A bit.”

“Well, then. Don’t be shy.”

I chuckled under my breath. While I wasn’t much for tooting my own horn, I knew my strengths—possibly because they were so few.