Owen waits behind, heeding my mom’s orders that we stay downstairs, and that he goes home before midnight. When her door closes, Owen sweeps me into his arms, lifting my legs from the ground and kissing me as he carries me to my piano. My friends gave me a few new music books for my birthday, not really knowing about my silent protest against this instrument. That’s the beauty of independent study—I can pretend I’m actually still practicing, and there’s nobody there to witness and counter my lie.

“So, explain these things to me,” Owen says, settling on the bench with me still in his lap. He pulls one of the books over and flips through a few pages.

“Well, this line here,” I start, pointing to the top ledger for one of the Mozart books, “is for my right hand. The one on the bottom, with this symbol, is for my left.”

“And you can read this?” he says, brow pinched, finger tracing the lines of notes while his other hand trails up and down my back.

“Uh huh,” I say.

“Prove it,” he says, pulling the book forward and placing it on the music stand for my piano. He’s trying so hard to be smooth, and part of me wonders if he also planned this out in a conversation with my mother.

“Ohhhhh nooooo,” I chuckle, closing the book and sliding it back along the top of the piano. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What?” he asks, his face an expression totally foreign to him. It’s fake, and Owen can’t pull off fake. He’s clear about everything, and I like that he can’t pretend with me. “Yeah…all right. You’re right,” he says finally, pushing the book a few inches more away from me. “But you haven’t played, not really, not since—”

“I know,” I answer without him finishing. “I can’t explain it, but…I just don’t want to anymore.”

“But you love this. You love music,” he says.

“I did,” I say, looking down at my keys, my right hand finding familiar—hating it and loving it all at once.

Owen studies me, his left hand still stroking my back, soothing me—lulling me. “Bullshit,” he says.

“Owen, it’s not bullshit. The piano, me playing, studying it—that was always my dad’s dream for me,” I say.

“Bullshit,” he says again, his eyes a little darker, challenging.

“Stop it,” I say, my tone angrier. “Don’t say that.”

“Because it’s true,” he says. “You might associate this with your dad, but there’s a part of you, a part of your heart, that loves your talent. I know it.”

“Owen, I know you’re just trying to be supportive, or whatever, but please don’t. You don’t understand,” I say, and he runs his right hand over mine, pressing my fingers into the keys slowly until they make a sound, a sound that breaks my heart and fills my chest.

“Yes I do,” he whispers into my ear. “I understand, Kens. You know how I know?”

“How?” I ask, a breath in response to him.

“Because I heard you,” he says, his eyes boring into me, like he’s reaching inside me, rattling my heart back to life. His right hand holds my fingers into the valleys of the pressed keys. “Play for me. None of this,” he motions to the books spread out on my piano top. “Play what you love, what you want to hear. Please, Kens. Just this once, for me, for your birthday.”

“Do you know how fucked up it is that you are asking for a present on my birthday?” I tease, my heart rapid in my chest, my fingers rigid, not wanting to do this. I’m frightened.

“Not a present,” he says, his lips sliding into a smile, a new smile. “A gift.”

I roll my eyes, but let them settle on our hands together, mine still resting in their position on the keyboard. Slowly, I slide my hand out from under his and crack my knuckles against my chest. With a deep breath, I nod once to Owen, then move my hands back into a different position—one far away from the usual classics I’ve been forced to practice. I move them into a loose position, comfortable, barely touching the keys. Eyes closed, I begin to drag them slowly around the middle of the keyboard, my foot pressing the dampening pedal, trying not to play loud enough for my mother to hear. It’s pointless, though—the music echoes in the cavern of the tall dining room and front foyer of the house.

Owen’s hand stays on my back, his rhythm constant, fingers gliding up and down, until I finally let myself have this small break, allowing my fingers to fly further up the keyboard, breaking rules, changing time, changing speed.