One Night

Among my family, there were only two people I could stand: one I could tolerate, and one I genuinely loved. Emma was the one I could tolerate.

I kept reminding myself that Emma was excited, that she was the only one who had stood by me during the hardest time of my life.

During our Friday lunch with our father, she asked if I could play two pieces of her choice at her engagement party.

“I’m not a fan of Bach,” I told her, feeling like I’d said it a million times before. “And really? Pachelbel’s Canon in D major is the best you could think of? It’s so cliché.”

“Blair,” Dad warned, shooting me a sideways glance.

He didn’t appreciate it when I spoke “disrespectfully” to my older and more successful sister.

What he didn’t seem to get was that he just didn’t like it when I voiced my opinion. To him, having an opinion was the same as being disobedient or some other nonsense like that.

Emma sighed, and I noticed a couple of businessmen at the nearest table giving her an interested look.

“It’s okay, Dad,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Blair’s allowed to help me with this.”

I made a face. No, I was not obligated to help anyone with anything. But from the look Dad gave me, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

We were at my father’s favorite restaurant, a fancy place on the upper side of the city. Both Dad and Emma seemed to fit right in.

Dad, in his usual three-piece suit, looked as polished as ever, with his platinum hair and baby-blue eyes.

My sister, the supermodel, looked like a younger, female version of him, only more stunning, with white-blonde hair that fell silkily down her back and the same blue eyes, only maybe a shade lighter.

We all shared the same light skin tone, although my father and sister’s was a shade darker than mine.

Then there was the fact my sister was tall and perfectly trim and my father even taller and still athletic looking even in his fifties.

Then there was me. It’s not that I wasn’t attractive, but I didn’t have the aura they did.

Dad had a huge charisma that drew people to him, like moths to a flame and my sister was the same, only even more so because of her job.

I didn’t have that kind of charisma, and whenever I gave off any kind of aura, it was usually dark and broody. Not very appealing, honestly.

Emma looked at me with a furrowed brow. “What music do you suggest you can play, then?” she asked, sounding so serious, as though she’s talking about something much more important than that.

Always the dramatic one, my sister was. Although not as dramatic as both Roman and Rosalyn could be.

Suppressing a groan, annoyed, I said, “I don’t want to play at all. You know we each have our own taste in music.” She was into mainstream pop and classical. I was more into hard, emo rock.

“We can compromise,” she argued, not letting the subject drop. “Play something that you composed. Something that is about four minutes long.”

Yeah, because showcasing my own music at such a lavish event was exactly what I needed in my life.

“No,” I said firmly, leaving no room for the ridiculous idea of compromising she was trying to introduce into this absurd conversation.

“Blair,” Dad chimed in again, this time giving me a full-on glare. “It’s your sister's, older sister’s engagement party. You will play the piano, and you will do it for this specific reason.”

I’d already grown used to his harsh tone and tough words. Most people claimed that they never got used to their parents’ cruelty. I guess I was the exception.

He couldn’t get to me anymore, even though he tried really, really hard. I was the black sheep of the family, after all. The one who didn’t do something big, something amazing, like the others did.

I liked being the black sheep. It meant I wasn’t one of them.

That was why I wasn’t afraid to speak up anymore. They’d betrayed me so deeply two years ago that no matter what they would ever do or say, I wouldn’t give a damn.

So I gave him a defiant look and responded, “I’m not a puppet to be manipulated into doing odd jobs. I voted against playing at the engagement party. Since my vote is the only one that counts, I guess this discussion is over.”

Dad’s face twisted, morphing into the angry expression he usually reserved for me. I didn’t even need to brace myself anymore. I just waited until he was fully glaring at me.

Emma, however, tried the more charming approach of looking at me pleadingly.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I had any other choice,” she pleaded. “The violinist bailed on us at the last minute, and we don’t have time until tomorrow. So please. Just this once help me out.”

I looked at her, and I knew that what I was about to do was purely out of spite. But my family deserved all the spite I had.

Even Emma, whom I tolerated, had done enough to deserve being reminded from time to time.

“Did you help me out when I needed you?” I asked her, my voice low, sharp, cruel. She visibly flinched. “That’s what I thought.”

“Blair!” This time my father called, almost yelled, and his voice echoed in the sudden quiet of the restaurant. He gave me his rage-filled look this time.

Oops, I’d crossed a line. I’d mentioned the night-that-must-not-be-named. I’d mentioned the unmentionable.

“You will stop this nonsense right now or I’ll cut off your allowance!”

Dad thought that this was a real threat. I was twenty-four, earning my own money, and he still believed in giving a monthly allowance to both me and my sister, who was a multimillionaire by now.

Even though money was tight in my job, I didn’t touch the bank account into which he’d deposited his money. I usually didn’t mind people paying for me for stuff—heck, I preferred it.

No amount of money could ever erase what my father had done. I tried to play nice, to be part of the family, but the hatred for him and the rest of them never faded.

“I wouldn’t touch your dirty money even if I were homeless,” I muttered, matching his icy glare with my own. He may have been a tough opponent, but he’d taught me well. I could give as good as I got.

“Please stop,” Emma whispered. I glanced at her to see tears welling in her eyes. Drama queen. “I hate it when you two fight.”

Dad, who actually had a soft spot for Emma, shot me one last angry look before sinking back into his chair. I wasn’t done with this fight, but seeing Emma on the verge of a meltdown—and the two guys at the next table gawking at her—I let it go.

Emma turned her pleading eyes to me. “Please, Blair. The engagement party is tomorrow.”

I didn’t think of myself as a cruel person. If anyone else had asked me to play piano at their engagement party, I would’ve said no. But Emma had stood by me, in her own way, more than anyone else in our family had.

Gran would’ve fought for me like a lioness, but she wasn’t around when everything went to shit. Emma was. And she probably thought she’d done all she could. Maybe she had. Maybe not. Still.

“Just one piece,” I said, holding up a hand when her face lit up. “Four minutes. That’s it.”

She nodded, her eyes shining with relief. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.

After the disastrous lunch, I couldn’t wait to get back to my apartment, away from my overly emotional sister and even more emotional father. I changed into my work clothes.

Normally, I played piano at a high-end restaurant downtown, but tonight I had a gig at a fancy seaside hotel. It was a Hilton, which meant big money.

Their regular pianist, a woman in her thirties, had called in sick, so I was filling in. Lucky me.

I had two formal dresses. One was a long, elegant black satin number I was saving for tomorrow night. The other, a dark red dress that hit just above my knees, was what I wore tonight, paired with black Mary Jane heels.

I brushed out my hair, turning it from curly to wavy gold, and braided it in a Chinese style. I applied a bit of makeup—thin black eyeliner, mascara, and soft red lipstick—grabbed my purse, and headed out.

I arrived at the grand lobby at six o’clock. It was a Friday evening in mid-June, but the hotel was mostly empty. Most of the tourists were probably out exploring the city.

I preferred winter myself.

The grand piano was waiting for me next to a large window overlooking the hotel’s beach. A few people were scattered around the lobby, sipping coffee and nibbling on snacks.

I didn’t pay them any mind as I made my way to the piano, opened the lid, and settled onto the cushioned bench.

I stretched my fingers, relaxed my shoulders and neck, and focused on the keys. I closed my eyes and let the music flow from me.

Sometimes I played classical pieces by well-known and unknown composers. Other times, I composed my own music, letting my fingers find the melody on the keys. I used this method at work.

Some of my compositions I wrote down and turned into sheet music. Others were partially improvised, with new flourishes added to the main theme.

My compositions weren’t professional—I’d never formally studied composition—but they were harmonious and melodic, pleasing to the ear.

As I played, I felt the familiar sensation of being watched. I was used to it. Some people seemed to think I was performing some kind of magic. I wasn’t. I was just playing the piano, something I’d been doing for seventeen years.

But when the feeling of being watched became too intense, I discreetly opened one eye and glanced to the side. The lobby was dim, and I could only make out the silhouettes of two or three men. I closed my eyes again and continued playing, pretending they weren’t there.

I felt their eyes on me for the three hours I played in the lobby. I didn’t hear anything but my own music, but they must’ve been doing something—talking, maybe—while I played.

I hoped so. The last thing I needed was three creeps staring at me for three hours straight.

When it was time for me to leave, I let the final note hang in the air, then stood, closed the piano, and looked toward the lobby. But I was too late to catch the watchers.

The lobby was empty, except for a few receptionists and a security guard, who clapped politely. In that moment, my life was perfectly summed up. I gave them a weak smile, left the hotel, and headed home.

Tomorrow, another scene would perfectly illustrate my pathetic life.

But that was tomorrow. For now, there was still time to finish off the half bottle of Jack Daniels I’d opened.