Never a Hero

tried so hard to convince myself that I could have a life with her. I felt him watching me. I could almost taste his curiosity.
    “Are you going to ask?” I asked.
    “Ask what?”
    “Why I live like a hermit?”
    He cocked his head at me, almost smiling. “Should I?”
    “No.”
    He shrugged. “I suppose you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
    “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
    “Fair enough.”
    I took a drink of my beer, not because I wanted it, but because I felt awkward and it gave me something to do.
    “Listen, do you mind if I shower before we eat? I’ve been working all day, and I feel kind of gross.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll be out in a flash.” He set his mineral water down on the piano. Halfway out of the room, he stopped short and came back. He pulled an unopened envelope out from his stack of mail and placed it under the bottle of water in lieu of a coaster. He winked at me as he turned away. I was glad he was out of the room and couldn’t see me blush.
    The water began to run. The sound seemed unusually loud in the hushed apartment. I pictured him shedding his clothes, climbing into the shower, letting the hot water run down his chest—
    Stop.
    I took a huge swig of beer, draining at least half the bottle, although it made me cough. I put the remainder down on the envelope next to his water.
    Now what?
    The piano loomed in front of me, mute and morose. Did it miss Regina? Did it resent being reduced from an instrument of beauty to a glorified coffee table?
    I reached out, touching it gently, as if the keys might disintegrate beneath my fingers the way my dream of Regina had. I played a note. I barely pushed the key, and the sound was barely distinguishable above the sound of the running water. I played it again, louder this time. A single note. I didn’t know how to play a chord. I didn’t know how to add harmony to melody. I could only hit random keys. A mockery of real music. It made me inexplicably sad.
    It’s meant to be played. It won’t break.
    I hit the note hard this time. At the exact same moment, the water in the bathroom turned off. The note rang out, loud and vibrant, yet still alone. Still in need of accompaniment.
    I felt silly, especially when Nick appeared in the doorway, wearing sweats and a T-shirt, his hair still wet. “You play?”
    Teasing a bit, but there was nothing malicious behind his words, so I laughed. “Yeah. You’ve now heard the full extent of my repertoire.”
    “You should do something about that.” He picked up his bottle of water and headed for the kitchen. “You can practice while I cook. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
    Within moments, the homey sounds of cooking began to fill the kitchen—pots clanging and water running, a knife on a cutting board, the oven door opening and closing. I sat, comfortably nursing my beer.
    And I played the piano.
    It wasn’t playing the way Regina had played. It probably wasn’t playing by any reasonable definition. But as the alcohol began to warm me, I grew bold. I tested the keys, from the solemn low notes to the chirpy highs. From the bright white keys to the oddly discordant black ones. I played the one song I knew how to play over and over again—a simple, one-handed version of “Frère Jacques,” taught to me by my paternal grandmother when I was a kid. I should have felt ridiculous, a one-armed man playing piano, but somehow, I knew Nick wouldn’t mind.
    I knew he wouldn’t laugh.
    Half an hour later, dinner was ready. He served me broiled fish, a medley of steamed vegetables, and fresh fruit salad. I stared at it, wondering for a moment how insulted he’d be if I went back for my chicken pot pie.
    “I guess I should have warned you, I’m a bit of a health nut.”
    I looked at him, bulging arms and all. “I should have known.”
    Although it wasn’t the tastiest meal I’d ever eaten, it was undoubtedly the healthiest one I’d had in ages. It wasn’t until we’d finished eating and I was starting my third beer that Nick leaned forward on the table, bringing himself closer to me.
    “So tell me, Owen. Why do you live like a hermit?”
    I’d just taken a drink and I paused, surprised by the question, my mouth full and my beer bottle frozen halfway between my lips and the table. I felt vulnerable. I swallowed hard and put the bottle carefully on the table. I found myself holding my left arm close to my body, hugging myself with my right arm in an attempt to hide my stump. It