Isaac makes no further mention of his confession, or of the awkward little kiss he'd stolen. I can't tell if he's letting it lie on purpose, or if it's just that he can only focus on one thing at a time—which is whatever happens to have his attention at the moment.

When we finish swimming, what has his attention is procuring sandwiches from a nearby deli, and then ice cream from his favorite shop. Like a ten-year-old with no parental supervision, he chooses the chocolate-peanut-butter-candy-crunch on a chocolate-dipped waffle cone drenched in sprinkles.

Call me boring, but I go with a scoop of coffee-flavored ice-cream in a paper cup.

After a few hours of walking and sight-seeing, we return to his uncle's house, where Reg invites us to watch a movie in his home theater. I decline, saying—honestly—that I'm tired, but Isaac looks disappointed and—oddly—a little concerned.

The following morning, I wake and come downstairs to find Reg's housekeeper-slash-cook in the kitchen, making breakfast.

"Just tell Ana what you want," Reg calls from the dining room. "She's a great chef."

I'm sure she is, but I feel weird having someone else serve me like that, even though I'm sure Reg pays her well.

"I'll just have some toast and coffee," I say, intending to get it myself; but apparently the kitchen is Ana's domain, at least when she's on the clock. In the cheeriest way possible she effectively communicates that I should sit the fuck down and let her make the damn toast.

I obey, and I have to admit that, even though it's just toast, she presents it like it's something special: little squares of soft melting butter on perfectly crisped bread, and homemade orange marmalade on the side.

When I finish eating, Isaac has yet to appear, and I wonder if he's a late riser or just sleeping in. Either way, I decide not to wait for him and head out on my first wedding-related mission: flowers.

After visiting every florist in the area, I've discovered one thing: flowers are fucking expensive.

Isaac had assured me that cost was no issue, so I'm not looking for the best deal—I'm looking for the best flowers.

I think I've found them, too, but there's a problem.

Apparently, most people book services like florists and caterers months—not weeks—in advance of the event. While the owner of Mountain Meadow Flowers has agreed to do Isabelle and Dylan's wedding, we have to pay an extra fee for the short notice. On top of the cost of what Isabelle wants—lilacs—we're looking at over five grand.

It seems insane to me that—in total—a one-day event could cost more than my whole college education—or at the very least a nice new car.

It's afternoon when I return to the house. Isaac is busy going over plans with his uncle, so I make use of the 'music room,' which Reg assured me is at my disposal.

It's really just an extension of the living area—a half-octagon with cushioned window seats, polished wood floors, and a glorious, shiny, black grand piano. Distressingly, Reg told me doesn't play, but he likes 'the vibe' and it's convenient when he hires live music for his parties.

It should be a crime for such an instrument to belong to someone who probably thinks middle C is a kind of vitamin, but it's not my place to judge.

I pull out the cushioned bench, sit down, and open the cover to reveal an expanse of pristine black and white keys.

I'm feeling a little dreamy and lazy, so I start with Debussy's Rêverie. The acoustics in the room are superb, and I feel the notes floating in the air, ringing with pure, clear tones.

The piano has a warm, rich voice, and I quickly fall in love.

I close my eyes and let the notes drop from my fingers, relying on years of reinforced muscle memory. When the last high, soft chord fades into silence, I open my eyes and find Isaac standing in the arched, open doorway that separates the music room from the rest of the living area. He's watching me with a look of amazement and possibly adoration, and his eyes are actually sparkling with emotion.

Then he bursts into cringingly enthusiastic applause.

"Wow! That was so fucking beautiful! What the fuck was that?"

"Just some Debussy," I answer, frowning.

Honestly, it wasn't that good.

"Play some more," he says, perching on one of the window seats and leaning forward with eager expectation. "Please?"

"Uh..Okay. What do you want to hear?"

"Just—more," he answers, seemingly perplexed by the question.

"More...Sure."

Going with the dreamy theme, I play one of my favorite lesser-known pieces—Lotus Land by Cyril Scott.

When I finish, Isaac's head is leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape, an uncomfortably open expression of rapture on his face.

"Oh God, I want someone to play like that for me when I die," he says, opening his eyes to look at me.

It's an unexpected and weirdly serious thing for him to say, and I'm not sure how to respond.

"It was okay," I offer, shrugging, "but it's not like I'll be playing with the London Philharmonic or anything."

"No, I'm serious—when we're like, eighty-something years old, and I kick it, I want you to play for me, just like you did now."

"Um..."

For one thing, he's assuming we'll still know each other in sixty years—I wouldn't bet on Dylan's marriage lasting that long.

"What if I die first?" I ask, going for light humor.

"You can't," he says, shaking his head. "I'm booking you now."

It's a bit morbid, but it makes me laugh. I hadn't thought he was the sort of guy who could even think that far into the future, much less contemplate his own mortality. Maybe there's more to Isaac than a dude who likes to surf and listen to the 90's greatest hits on repeat.

Switching gears with jarring speed, he sits up and eyes me with a smile. "You hungry? There's a good pizza place about a half-mile from here—we can walk."

"Actually...I just started practicing. I've got a bit more work to do," I say.

"Oh, that's cool. Can I watch?"

I hesitate. I'm self-conscious about people listening to me practice, but I feel like it would be weird to say no. It's his uncle's piano, after all, in his uncle's house. "Sure. Just, um, you have be quiet, okay?"

"Won't make a sound," he promises, making a sign of crossing his heart.

"Also, it can get kind of boring. Sometimes I play the same piece, or parts of a piece, four or five times in a row. I won't be offended if you leave," I assure him, sort of hoping that he will.

He just nods, waiting expectantly for me to begin.

I turn back to the piano and try to ignore him as I start running through my repertoire of wedding music. The grand really is a pleasure to play, and soon I forget Isaac's presence, absorbed in my own concentration.

When I look up again, an hour has passed, and Isaac is still there, still awake, and still looking like I have him enthralled.

"Has Belle heard you play?" he asks, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.

"Just once," I say. "She and Dylan came to a jazz night I did at a local bar a few months ago, but they didn't stay for my whole set."

I frown, remembering. It was Isabelle who'd wanted to see me perform, but afterward, Dylan had told me she'd said I sucked, and that they'd left after the first song.

I'd believed him, and been effectively crushed.

Later, I'd learned it had been Dylan who'd wanted to leave. He'd surprised Belle with tickets to some movie and claimed he'd been planning it for weeks.

In fact, Belle had wanted to stay and watch me play; and of course, she'd insisted I perform at her wedding, so she must have been impressed enough by what little she'd heard.

"I can't wait for the wedding," Isaac says, coming to stand by me at the piano. "But... I guess I'm glad there will be other musicians, too."

I do intend to hire a local string quartet for the bridal march and a good portion of the reception. Still, my fragile artist's ego trembles at the implication in Isaac's words.

"Really? Why?" I ask.

"Because we can't dance together if you're busying playing all the time," he answers, like its the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh...no, I guess we couldn't."

"I'm booking you for that too, by the way," he says. "I don't want to get stuck with Belle's bridesmaids. They're nice enough under normal circumstances, but when there's a wedding on?? It's like there's blood in the water or something. When Belle's best friend got married, it was like a competition to see who could sleep with the most eligible men. I barely escaped with my life," he laughs.

Wincing a little against the images that conjures, I rise, close the piano and push in the bench.

"I'm not actually for hire, you know," I say. "At least, not as a dance partner."

Isaac frowns. "I know. I was hoping you'd want to, though."

He looks a little anxious—like he's afraid he's said the wrong thing—which strikes me as funny given his usual lack of awareness. I can't help laughing, and his expression grows even tenser.

"Yeah, I want to," I assure him. "I won't even charge you the short-notice booking fee."

He looks confused by that, and I guess he hasn't had the chance to talk to any caterers yet.

I'd like to kiss him—his unadorned lips, his lightly freckled skin, the bright, sea-green gray of his eyes, the vibrancy of his unguarded soul—everything about him draws me in, like a small object pulled towards the center of a disastrously large black hole.

I turn away, pretending to check something on my phone. "You know, I am hungry now," I say. "What was what you were saying about pizza?"

He immediately brightens.

"Yeah, there's this great place—Red Wolf Pizzeria—it's soooo good," he says, practically bouncing with anticipation. "I'll bet you anything you'll love it."

"Anything?" I ask, looking over my shoulder with a skeptical grin.

He nods.

"Alright. If I hate it, I won't dance with you," I say.

He grins. "Fair enough. I wouldn't dance with a guy who brought me to a shit pizza place either. But if you love it...I get to ask for something, okay?"

"Like what?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I don't know yet. Just...something."

I consider. It's a fairly amorphous request—one that either of us could twist any number of ways. I figure if worse comes to worse, there are plenty of ways I can weasel out of whatever he settles on.

"Sure," I say, with more confidence than I feel, and take his outstretched hand. "Deal."