Restoration

Back at my apartment, I showed him the spare room setup—a cozy corner of my place that I'd set up with a daybed and some bookshelves. I grabbed him some extra pillows and a blanket, suddenly aware of how domestic this all was.

"Bathroom's down the hall," I said. "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you get hungry. And, um, thanks again for today. It really helped."

"I'm glad." He set the pillows down and turned to face me. "And Cee? For what it's worth, I think you're going to write something amazing. You always do."

"Even when I'm being forced to write love songs?"

"You'll find a way to make it yours."

I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in days. "Goodnight, Parker."

"Goodnight."

In my room, I changed into pajamas and pulled out my laptop, the blank document still waiting. But instead of feeling pressured, I felt... inspired. I thought about the day—not as a research exercise, but as a genuine experience. The easy conversation at the café. The way Parker had helped me aim the dart. The Ferris wheel at sunset. His hand in mine in the parking lot.
My fingers found the keys, and I started typing.

I wrote until my eyes were heavy and my brain was fuzzy with exhaustion, but when I finally saved the document and crawled into bed, I felt accomplished. Satisfied.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit in love.

Even though that was just the research talking.

***

I woke up the next morning with the faint smell of bacon and pancakes in the air. I rolled over in my bead groggily, wondering if I had left my windows open. It would make sense, because how else would the neighbors' breakfast have its smell leak into my room? I yawned. I'm not complaining though. It is a nice smell after all.

I heard a knock on my door, which immediately jolted me awake. What???

It only took me a few seconds to realize that it was the next day, and that I had technically gone on  a date with Parker that lasted the whole day. In hindsight, that was probably weird. I get the feeling that most dates don't usually last that long, but it's not like I would've had a frame of reference.

Parker's voice echoed into my room. "Cee, I made some breakfast. You can get up and try some, if you'd like."

I yawned again. "Sure, mom."

I followed him into the dining room, and I was pleasantly surprised by the breakfast options on the table. He probably did some grocery shopping, because I've cleaned up the house a bunch and I was not at all familiar with some of the ingredients he used. Seriously, does this boy ever sleep? I don't know how he managed to shop and do breakfast. The human mind is beyond me sometimes. Well, not the human mind. Definitely Parker though.

***

After breakfast, Parker's eyes landed on the grand piano; he sat at the tiny stool, stared at the keys, and then casually pressed one of the white keys. G, I think.

Parker saw me observing him, and he walked up to me and did a fake kneeling position. "Please teach me," he said.

"What?"

"Piano. I have to play a musician in an indie film next month. Teach me a chord."

I sighed, but I positioned his hands on the keys. "Okay. Thumb on C. Pinky on G. Keep your wrists up. No, higher. You're slouching."

He groaned as I corrected his posture. "You're a scary teacher."

"And you're a terrible student. Focus."

We spent twenty minutes bickering over scales. It was mundane. It was silly. And slowly, the heaviness in my chest began to loosen. Parker wasn't treating me like 'Celeste the Pop Star' who needed a hit single. He was treating me like his best friend.

"Okay, break time," Parker said, shaking out his hands. He turned to me, his expression softening. "How about you play that song you mentioned earlier? The one you wanted to be the single?"

I played dumb, looking away. "Shimmering Heartbeat?"

Parker's eyes narrowed, clearly unamused. "Not an Ariel Avita song. One of yours."

"Ugh." I hesitated. "It’s not finished."

He rolled his eyes. "Sure. And Diana totally listened to an unfinished song before. I believe you."

Darn. Diana, you tattletale!

He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, looking at me expectantly. He was clearly not going to budge until he heard it. It was a giant hassle, but I decided to bear it. I grumbled, a smile tugging at my lips. "Fine! Fine! You win. Scooch over."

His face brightened immediately. "There we go!"

"I feel like I got tricked into doing something," I muttered.

I took a breath, closed my eyes, and played Starlit Dream.

It wasn't a love song. It was a song about ambitions and chasing one's dreams. I poured all my frustration about the label, all my fear of failure, into the keys.

The final piano note lingered in the air. I willed myself to stare at the keys. This was so embarrassing. I didn't even rehearse, and I’m pretty sure I missed a chord in the bridge.

"That was great, Cee! I loved that," Parker said, his voice quiet.

"I could play you Itsy Bitsy Spider and you would still say it's the best thing you've ever heard," I deflected.

He nodded solemnly. "I would only call Itsy Bitsy Spider decent. But, hey, I don't throw the word 'love' around easily. That counts for something."

I looked at him suspiciously, searching for the lie. "What did you like about it?"

"Hmm..." He thought to himself for a moment. Finally, he looked me right in the eye. "I liked the way you performed it. It’s not showy. It’s not a performance. It sounds like you mean the things you’re saying. I like when I can notice that in a song."

I looked at him—messy hair, glasses askew, sitting too close to me on the piano bench.

It sounds like you mean it.

It was such a good compliment, and the weird thing was I don't think Parker even meant it to be some sort of 'shining' one. I turned back to the keys. I didn't play Starlight. I played a softer, slower chord.

"What's this?" Parker asked.

"Research," I whispered.

I started making a soft instrumental piano demo; Not about the museum, or the movie, or the date. I wrote about the drive home. And I wrote about the only guy who understood me.