"I can't believe you got it started," Eric yelled over the roar of the engine.
She beamed at him. "Hop in, we'll take it for a spin."
"And then you'll play our song with me?"
"Of course. I can't wait."
Eric hit the button to open the garage door as he made his way around to the passenger side. Once he climbed into the car beside her, she backed out of the garage and turned around to take the long, winding drive.
The power of the engine was exhilarating, especially on the loose gravel.
"Yeah!" Eric shouted as Rebekah hit the gas, and the car fishtailed before gripping the road again.
At the end of the driveway, Rebekah spun onto the blacktop and pushed the car faster. She shifted into third, and the engine whirred in neutral before catching with a harsh shudder. "Transmission needs some work," she said.
She turned her head to find him staring at her.
"What?"
He just smiled and shook his head slightly. She turned the car around at the end of someone's driveway and headed back home. She'd just entered their driveway when there was a loud squeal followed by a snap. "I think that was the fan belt." She stopped the car, and it died.
"I guess she's not quite ready for street racing yet," Eric said.
"Not yet. But soon!" They left the car in the driveway and walked hand in hand to the house. He kissed her knuckles when they entered the kitchen. "Wash up, and meet me at the piano," he said.
"Don't I get a good morning kiss?"
"It's almost noon."
"So I'll take a lunchtime kiss too."
He kissed her. Twice. Neither kiss long or deep enough as far as she was concerned, but she could tell he was anxious to play their short duet, and she was anxious to hear it.
She scrubbed as much oil and grime from her hands as she could with lava soap and examined her nails with a grimace. She really could use a manicure, but she'd just end up breaking them off while working on the car anyway. She wondered if Eric regretted falling for a less-than-feminine woman.
She found him sitting at the piano bench in the family room, staring at the piece of music as if he were trying to set it on fire with his eyes. She slid onto the right half of the bench beside him.
He shifted closer so that her body was against his from calf to shoulder and slid his right arm around her lower back. He placed the fingers of her right hand on the proper keys and showed her the sequence of the notes. There were less than thirty notes in the little piece of music, but it moved her so profoundly she could scarcely breathe. She knew it was weird, but it sounded like her. Like who she was on the inside. If she had been a song, this joyous, hopeful little melody would be it. She couldn't believe he could capture it so perfectly in a few notes.
"Do you think you've got it?" he asked as he helped her play it for the tenth time.
"Yeah," she said breathlessly. "How did you do that?"
"What?"
"Capture me in a piece of music."
He shrugged. "I don't know. It just sort of came to me. Keep playing. I'll add mine now."
His left hand moved to a lower octave, and he joined her hesitant playing with a different melody. It sounded entirely different from hers. Still upbeat, but a little darker. It sounded like Eric. And when the two melodies were played together, they complemented each other perfectly.
"This is why we work together," he said. "We're different, but harmonious."
She nodded in agreement, too awed to form words. The man really was a musical genius. He should be writing concertos and symphonies. No, she decided, he was where he belonged. He made Sinners' music phenomenal and rocked millions.
She stopped playing her little string of notes and reached up to cup Eric's cheek. He looked into her eyes. When she didn't do anything but stare, he lifted an eyebrow. "What?"
"Why don't you take more credit?"
"Credit for what?"
"For writing Sinners' music."
"Because I don't write it all. I arrange it."
"What would they do with Brian's disjointed solos and Sed's words if it weren't for you?"
"I'm sure they'd think of something." He laughed. "It would probably sound like shit, but they'd think of something."
"You're a genius, baby, but you act-you act like a goofball most of the time."
"Yeah, well, who wants to hang with a genius? Boring."
"There's nothing boring about you."
"I have written a few things," he said, avoiding her gaze.