À Quatre Mains

I realized I loved Laurie on a late summer day.

I sat on the piano bench as he played a delicate tone. He had always said that Emma was better than him, though, to my untrained ears, they were equally outstanding in mastering the instrument. I loved watching him play, for the world seemingly turned peaceful with each key pressing.

"One day, we'll play on the same piano," he said confidently after the last note.

"Like, piano four hands?" I asked, vaguely remembering Emma had told me something alike.

"It's called à quatre mains in French," he straightened his back.

"Of course," I teased, "I almost forgot you speak French."

My playful and lighthearted banter wasn't perceived as I intended. His joyfulness dimmed, and he looked away.

"What else could a rich idling boy do besides learn French and play the piano?" He said sarcastically.

"Oh Laurie, you know that's not what I meant," I felt horrible for making him sad. I squeezed his arm, trying to get him to look at me. At first, he stubbornly had the back of his head to me. Eventually, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, and he was the pleasant Laurie I befriended again.

I grabbed his wrist and put his hand on the piano. Then I hurried him to put his other hand there too.

"Play something," I demanded.

He pretended to squint dubiously and followed my order. Under the touch of his long, slim fingers, the melody began to flow. I waited a few seconds before I ruined the tranquil moment by pressing randomly on the keys.

"Does this count as à quatre mains?" I asked as I kept on with my show.

"That's not how you pronounce those words," Laurie laughed. I was glad to see him laugh.

"Give me a break," I jokingly rolled my eyes.

He stopped playing and turned to face me. I could feel him staring. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him smiling. I liked that smile. It was a heartfelt, genuine and caring smile that only he had given me. My hands were off the keys. I was enticed and entranced.

It all made sense now. The blue hue of his eyes, the allurement of his eyelashes, the curls of his hair, and the chisel of his face all made sense.

I was no longer lost in my feelings.

"What's wrong?" He frowned. "Is there something on my face?"

"No," I snapped out of my daze and flung my hand, "it's nothing. Play another song, please. This time I won't interfere."

I couldn't tell him about the thing on my mind. It was wrong. There was a law, and it'd be a criminal offense.

He didn't move. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his eyes before staring into mine again.

"Anne," he sounded ever so determined, "I'd like you to know that I love you."

There, he said it. The words came out in a natural and fluent flow. He was braver than I ever could be in this way.

"It's not stupid," I was glad, confused, and lost. "Are you being sincere?"

He nodded in seriousness.

I couldn't speak. My thoughts were tangled, and I couldn't bear to look him in the eye as I muttered: "We're committing a crime, Laurie, for I love you too."

His hand was on the back of my neck, and his forehead was touching mine.

"Isn't that what we do in this family?" He whispered. "Committing crimes?"

He made me smile. And he smiled too.