Page 103 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“Can you play one of your solo songs?”
As if on cue, Ryder’s hand slips, and the wrong note has us both grimacing.
“Sorry.” He shakes out his hand. “Let me try again.”
He repositions his fingers on the keys and starts over. This time he makes it through the opening melody, and when he sings, his voice comes in soft and tentative.
But three lines in, his fingers fumble, his voice catches mid-word, and the lyric comes out garbled.
He stops completely, his shoulders bunching with tension. “Dang it.”
“It’s okay,” I say gently. “Keep going.”
He tries again, getting further this time. When he’s almost through the first verse, his left hand misses its mark entirely, and he loses his place. The singing stops as he tries to recover the melody, but it’s too late. The flow is broken.
“This is ridiculous.” Frustration bleeds into his voice. “I wrote this song. I should be able to play it.”
“You can do it.” I keep my tone soft and encouraging. “You’re so talented, Ryder. Just take your time.”
He takes a breath, his jaw tight. “One more try.”
This attempt is worse. His voice wavers with uncertainty, and he’s second-guessing every note. When his hands collide, trying to reach the same keys, he slams his palms flat against the keyboard in defeat.
“I can’t.” The words come out sharp with self-directed anger. “I haven’t played this song in months, and it shows.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t give up.”
He runs both hands through his hair, and his dark eyes fill with frustration when they meet mine. “I’m too in my head. Ugh. I’m always too in my head.”
I hover near his shoulder, unsure how to help.
“Come here,” he says, his voice quieter now. He shifts on the bench, making room.
“What?”
“Sit with me.” He pats the space beside him. “I have an idea.”
My heart hammers as I settle onto the bench next to him, our shoulders brushing together.
Ryder takes my right hand and gently positions it over the higher keys. “You play this hand, so I have one less thing to think about.”
I laugh nervously. “Ryder, I don’t know how to play the piano.”
“It’s easy. I’ll show you.” His hand covers mine, guiding my fingers to four specific keys. “It’s just these four notes, over and over. A pattern.”
He presses my fingers down in sequence—one, two, three, four—and the notes ring out clear and simple.
“See? Like this.” He moves my hand again, creating a gentle, repeating melody. “Just keep that going. That’s all you have to do.”
“Just these four?” My voice comes out smaller than intended. I’m hyperaware of how close he is, and how his hand completely engulfs mine.
“Just those four.” He guides me through the pattern three more times until my fingers remember it. “Think you’ve got it?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Okay.” His hand slides away from mine, moving to the lower keys. “Start whenever you’re ready.”
I press the first key. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Back to the first. The simple melody fills the practice room, and after a few repetitions, Ryder’s left hand joins in with deeper, richer chords that support my higher notes.
