We walk into the classroom together. Killian holds my hand the whole way. I don’t let go. But the second we step inside, Callum spots us and points at us, laughing. “He brought a teddy to school! And he’s holding Jenna’s hand!”
“You’re just jealous because no one wants to hold your hand,” I retort, feeling unusually brave.
“Shut up,” Callum says.
I stick out my tongue at him and tighten my grip on Killian’s hand. He tightens his grip back, and a smile tugs at my lips. I don’t care what anyone thinks as long as Killian is holding my hand.
44
The Teacher
Jenna
Ian and I have just dug into his delicious lasagna when Killian saunters into the kitchen one night and plops onto the chair beside me. Expecting some sort of mockery or conflict to ensue, I tense, and Ian reacts the same.
We’re both stunned, staring as Killian scoops lasagna and salad onto his plate and starts eating. Usually, he just grabs the food and leaves—often without a word.
When nothing else happens, Ian breaks us out of the staring, quietly ordering me to eat with a nod at my plate.
More minutes pass in awkward silence ofchewing and clanking silverware, Killian still acting like nothing’s out of the ordinary while Ian and I are waiting to see how this will unfold.
“What is Dad drilling you on these days?” Killian finally asks me, throwing me a quick glance while cutting into his lasagna and shoveling a big piece into his mouth.
I swallow hard a few times to clear my mouth. “Chopin.”
Killian lifts an impatient brow at me. “That’s hardly an answer. Is it his nocturnes, his études, or is he trying to get you playing one of his ballads?”
“A nocturne. The one in F major. Opus fifteen.”
Killian snatches my wrist, sending a bolt of electricity through me, both jarring and heating. “With these hands?” he asks incredulously, holding up my small hand. “Shit, Dad, are you trying to strain her fingers on those rapid sixths?”
“With the right technique, even small hands can manage rapid, big spans,” Ian explains.
Killian studies my hand, bringing more lasagna into his mouth with his left hand. “How’s it working out? Can you play the whole piece?” he asks me.
“Um, not without flaws.”
With an irritated edge, he adds, “Do you have all the notes down or not?”
“I do.”
He releases my hand and snatches his fork into his right hand. “I want to hear it. Upstairs, once you’ve managed to gnaw your way through the rest of your food.” He lifts a brow at my barely touched portion, then goes to work on his own.
I expect Ian to intervene, but he just nods at my plate and says, “Eat, Jenna.” Then he asks Killian, “What are you working on? I think I heard Rachmaninoff’s third earlier today.”
“Yeah, it’s a beast, but I’m tackling it.”
Ian’s voice fills with pride. “I’m sure you are.”
“Pembroke wants me to play it at the Summer Piano Festival.”
“That should be plenty of time for you to master it to perfection.”
“Yeah.” Killian scoops a big forkful of arugula and tomato salad into his mouth, chews for a moment, then says, “I don’t like his approach to the first movement; it feels rushed. Would you hear it and see what you think?”
“Of course.” Ian lights up in a whole new way, pride and affection warming his entire countenance.
I quietly listen while I eat, the knots in my stomach slowly untangling in the easygoing atmosphere. Killian and Ian slip into a passionate conversation about the challenges of Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto, and I get a sense of comfortable familiarity I haven’t experienced between them before. It’s comforting—the way I always thought a real family should be. Jealousy prickles in me, but most of all, I simply enjoy the easy chatter even though I’m not part of it.