by Tabatha Kiss
My lungs force me to breathe and I fill them both in one single quivering inhale. “Hi,” I say.
Jonah smiles, I can just feel it. “So, what do you think?”
Think? Think?
He expects me to have a coherent thought right now?
I nod. That should be enough, right?
“You know, silence isn’t always golden,” he says with that amused inflection. “In fact, it can be quite cruel.”
“I…” I find my voice. I find it for him. “I love it. It’s perfect.”
He chuckles. “I thought you’d say that so I’m giving you time to sleep on it. I want an honest opinion tomorrow.”
“Okay…”
“Will you be around?”
I swallow hard. “Around?”
“Tomorrow,” he simply says.
Tomorrow. Tuesday. Tuesday tomorrow.
“I have classes,” I say, finding a little clarity in the haze between my ears.
“Call me after. You have my number now.”
Holy shit. I really do.
“Okay, I will,” I say, somehow.
“Cool.”
“I really do love it, you know,” I add. “I wasn’t just saying that as a fan or anything.”
“I know,” he says.
“And I know that constant praise can be crueler than silence so I’ll do better. I promise.”
“I trust you.”
I flinch. “Why?”
“Just do.”
Something tells me that’s the best I’ll get, so I let it go but it stays in me, simmering somewhere within my chest.
“Hey, that’s a good name for a song,” I say.
“What is?” Jonah asks.
“Cruel Silence.”
A pause. A gentle hum. “That’s not bad, actually,” he says. “But it’s not this one.”
“What’s this one called?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He sets the guitar down and brushes the phone’s microphone as he picks it up. “Sweet dreams, Marla,” he adds, his voice a bit louder than before.
“Goodnight, Jonah,” I say.
He hangs up and leaves me in a silence that one can only — ironically — describe as cruel.
And here I thought I was in for a quiet night alone with textbooks and a highlighter.
Fat chance now.
Seven
Marla
Professor Nealy drones on at the front of the lecture hall. I put my pen to paper, scribbling new and relevant information as it comes up — and honestly missing a lot of it as that short song from last night replays over and over again in my head.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Less than thirty minutes left in class and then I can call Jonah.
My chest clenches.
Yeah, right.
Less than thirty minutes left in class and then I get to stare at my phone for nine hours trying to build up the courage to call Jonah… and failing.
I’m not that brave.
But maybe…
He did ask me to. If I don’t, he’ll think I hate him and I definitely don’t hate him. I’m just…
I’m just Marla Gorchinsky.
And he’s Jonah freakin’ Botsford.
I absently shake my head to knock the thoughts loose and shift my focus back to Professor Nealy’s chicken scratch handwriting on the whiteboard.
A soft tap touches my shoulder from behind. “Marla.” A whisper. “Hey.”
I glance back slightly. I expect a classmate looking for a pencil or a piece of paper, something I can easily auto-pilot out of while still paying close attention to the lecture. What I certainly don’t expect is a man in navy blue beanie nestled beneath the hood of a black zip-up hoodie with dark shades over his eyes and heavy stubble on his chin — but it’s a man I instantly recognize despite his obvious attempt to obscure.
“Jonah?!” I gasp.
He smiles with his head dipped down just behind my shoulder but I can still make out the sly dimples on his chin. “Hey,” he whispers.
I spin forward, hoping I didn’t draw any unwanted attention. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I finished that song,” he says. “I want you to listen to it.”
And here come the butterflies.
“Okay, but…” I swat them down. “I’m in class right now.” I discreetly signal forward at my professor as he paces in front of the whiteboard.
“I know,” Jonah says with a shrug. “Rian told me you’d be here.” He scans the hall and finds Rian sitting two rows behind us and waves at him. “Sup, Rian?”
Rian points a finger gun at Jonah. “Hey, Jo,” he whispers.
I wince as Professor Nealy’s eyes drift in our direction for a split second. “I was gonna call you after—”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t wait, so here.”
Jonah presents a pair of earbuds from the pocket of his hoodie and he hooks one into my right ear before I can stop him.
“Jo—”
It’s too late. He taps the play button on his phone and my ear tingles at the now-familiar song. The panic in me steals my focus, making it physically impossible to concentrate between the lecture in front of me, my side-eying classmates around me, and the rock god hovering behind.
But once Jonah’s recorded voice starts up, everything else fades out as if he’s singing directly to me and commanding my undivided attention. I gently rest a finger on the bud to keep it pressed into my ear and his voice cuts even deeper beneath my skin.
I twist my head around, magnetically-drawn to the source of my torment. Jonah shows me another wicked smile, his face mere inches away from mine. He studies me as I do him — eyes, cheeks, lips, nose — and for one blissful moment, it’s all true. He is singing directly to me. He is commanding my attention. Because I’m—
“Ms. Gorchinsky!”
I startle forward in my seat and yank the bud out of my ear. Professor Nealy stands by the front row, his annoyed glare laser-targeted on my face ten rows back. Half the class has turned around in their seats to stare at me as well, their faces a caffeine-fueled mix of boredom and amusement.
“Is there something you and your guest wanted to add to today’s lecture?” he drawls.
“No, Professor Nealy,” I say, words stiff and breath held tight. “I’m very sorry. He was just leaving.”
His brow furrows above his eyes, firing me a purposeful glance like a warning shot across my nose. I exhale with relief as he starts to turn back to the board, happy that’s all the reprimanding I got for interrupting the lecture.
“What class is this?”
I jolt around to find Jonah leaning forward in his seat.
Nealy pauses. Another shot fired. “Excuse me?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Jonah sits up as I shrink down. “What class is this?” he asks again, this time a little louder to let his voice carry to the front of the hall.
“Strategic Management in Hospitality,” Nealy answers, hitting each word with an ice pick as he crosses his arms. “So, unless you have some nugget of expertise on the subject, I suggest you leave.”
“Jo,” I whisper, my eyes begging for him to be cool.
He ignores me. “Well, I might not have expertise on the subject per se but I do have some experience in this area.”
Nealy’s nostrils flair. “Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who exactly are you, then?”
Jonah flicks his black hood down and slides his sunglasses off, offering a cool wink that only I can see. “Botsford,” he answers. “Jonah Botsford.”
Oh, my god.
The remaining heads in the room instantly twist around with the mention of his name, eyes and mouths wide open. Those who may not know him as the bassist and lead songwriter from Criminal Records definitely know him from his last name.
Botsford. The royal family of all things hospitality.
Professor Nealy is the latter. His arms de-tangle from his chest and fall to his sides as
the class erupts in hushed whispers and for a second I think he might actually take a knee.
“Mr. Botsford,” he says, his adversarial tone long gone now. “My apologies. I didn’t recognize you.”
Jonah waves a hand. “The apology is all mine. I merely came to update Marla on a very important work-related matter. It wasn’t my intention to interrupt. Please continue.”
Now it’s my turn for my jaw to drop. Is he actually getting away with this?
Nealy nods. “That’s all right. We’re honored to have you here.”
Yes. Yes, he is.
And judging by that sinister smile on his face, Jonah’s going to milk it for everything it’s worth.
“You know,” he says, “I’d be more than happy to come up and answer questions for the class — with your blessing, of course, sir.”
The class erupts again with affirmative urges and begging eyes toward Professor Nealy. Yes, please. Please let him. Let our celebrity guest speak (and stick a fork in that utterly boring lecture from before).
It doesn’t take much of that to convince him. Nealy makes a wide gesture with his arm and steps to the side. “Absolutely. Come on up.”
Jonah shucks off his zip-up hoodie as he stands and hands it to me when he passes by. I take it and fold it onto my lap, welcoming the sudden olfactory tease of his cologne or his deodorant or whatever the hell it is that makes him smell so darn good. I lock eyes with a few girls a row or two ahead of me, each one of them with riddled faces as if to ask why me and the best I can offer them is a look of sheer humbleness.
Why me indeed.
Jonah rolls up his sleeves as he walks down to the front and I swear I witness the spines of three dozen ladies stiffen, along with a few men. A decade or so of playing guitar has toned his hands and forearms to near-perfection but it’s the presence of a little ink beneath this elbows that knock them to a perfect 10. I myself audibly gulp as Jonah casually hops up to sit on Nealy’s desk (a purposeful show of dominance on his part, I’m sure) and dangles his blue Chuck Taylors above the floor.
“So, who’s first?” he asks us.
Twenty hands shoot up into the air and he grins.
Me, I think to myself. Please, dear god, pick me.
For the next twenty minutes, the class fires a flurry of questions at Jonah Botsford.
Amazingly, they manage to stay on-topic with the business of hospitality. There are a few exceptions for the music fans in the room but Professor Nealy wrangles them back in if the conversation drifts too far off focus.
As for Jonah, he deserves more than a little credit for his performance. Not only does he exude the same god-like presence here as he does on stage but he also has genuine, thoughtful answers for every question, casually tossing around terminology I didn’t encounter until my third year here in the program. It’s a new side of Jonah I haven’t seen before; the purely Botsford side, dripping with money and power and destined to wear a suit in a corner office somewhere.
I lightly squeeze the folded hoodie in my lap, feeling the tangled wire of earbud headphones spilling out of the front pocket, and I’m not sure which side of him I like more.
The next class starts to gather outside the doors to the lecture hall and Professor Nealy is forced to cut the interview short. The class mutters with displeasure as they gather their things. Some quickly leap from their chairs to rush up and meet Jonah face-to-face before they absolutely have to leave. He shakes a few hands and takes some quick selfies while the new class piles in, his cocky smile never once fading from his mouth.
I wait until it’s just him and Professor Nealy left to go before tossing my backpack onto my shoulder and walking toward the front.
“Thanks again, Mr. Botsford,” Nealy says. “This was a welcome surprise.”
“Hey, I was happy to do it,” Jonah says with a shrug.
“Maybe we’ll get your father in here next time?” he hints.
Jonah laughs but doesn’t commit.
Nealy turns to see me and shows me a rare smile. “Ms. Gorchinsky, please feel free to bring your guest back again before the semester is over.”
I nod. “I’ll try my best, Professor Nealy.”
He tucks his briefcase beneath his arm and scurries out against the wave of new students flooding in.
And with that, Jonah slides off the table and plants his feet on the floor. He steps toward me, takes his hoodie from my hands, and slips it back on as if the last twenty minutes never happened at all.
Then, he looks at me, his face stretched long with that endless, magnetic smile.
“Lunch?” he asks.
Eight
Marla
I adjust the earbuds a little deeper into my ears so I can hear over the hum of the crowded food court. It’s the same simple melody from last night, made up of only the gentle strumming of Jonah’s acoustic guitar, but each new note adds to the wave of chills wandering up and down my spine.
Jonah’s constant stare does, too. He keeps his attention on me, studying my face for my reactions just like he did back in the lecture hall, while he absently chews on his turkey club and chips.
The song comes to its natural end and I instantly feel cold, as if my only blanket just slid off my shoulders on a snowy night. Has it been two and a half minutes already?
Jonah taps his phone screen to stop it from repeating again and leans in an inch. “So?” he asks. “What do you think?”
I pull the buds from my ears and swallow hard. “Well...”
“It’s rough, I know,” he says. “I want to try and tighten the bridge a little and maybe add another verse between two and three, but...” He goes quiet and waits for me to speak.
“It’s... great,” I say, hating the brevity of my response.
“Be honest, Marla,” he says. “I trust you to tell me if it doesn’t work.”
“I am being honest. Jonah, this...” I exhale. “It’s some of your best work.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s catchy and truthful and... a little brutal. And it doesn’t need another verse, I think you say everything you need to.”
He sits back, letting it sink in. “Brutal, huh?”
I nod. “A little.”
“I was going for that.”
“Well, you got it in spades. What’s it called?” I ask. “You did promise to tell me today.”
Jonah bites the tip of his tongue as if to keep me waiting for as long as he wills it. “Unique Utopia,” he finally says.
There goes another chill.
“I love it,” I say. “I really do.”
“So do I.”
I press my lips together. “But...”
Jonah perks up. “Here we go. Let it out. Be honest with me.”
I pause, trying to think of the right way to phrase it. “Honestly... it doesn’t really sound like a Criminal Records song,” I say.
Jonah nods slowly, his eyes sinking beneath the shadow of his beanie. “You noticed that, too?”
“Excuse me...”
We break our stares and turn up to notice a young woman beside our table.
She giggles at Jonah. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you the guy from Criminal Records?”
Jonah flashes a genuine, boyish smirk. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, my god.” She flutters and blushes and hops on her toes. “Will you take a selfie with me?”
“Sure.”
He stands up and raises his arm, giving her a place to stand close while she raises her phone up high. I watch, feeling invisible next to the leggy blonde but I’m more than a little used to that kind of thing.
“So, what are you doing here?” she asks him as soon as the picture is taken.
Jonah looks right at me. “Having lunch with my friend, Marla,” he answers as he sits back down.
“Oh, cool.” She gives me a nod. “Well, thanks a lot.”
“Take care.” He waves at her as she scuttles away. “Sorry,” he says to me. “That happens a lot.”
> I chuckle. “Yeah, I know. I work the night desk.”
“That’s right. You see things. You hear things.”
“That I do. Or... did, I guess.”
Jonah tilts his head. “That’s what I like about you.”
I swallow hard. “What?”
“Well, you’re arguably my biggest fan,” he says.
My cheeks flush. “I don’t know about that...”
“And yet, in all the times we’ve stumbled across each other at the hotel, you never once hounded me for a picture or an autograph or anything. Why not?”
I scratch a nonexistent itch on my arm. “I worked for your family. Figured I’d get the opportunity eventually, maybe.”
He nods. “I see.”
“Being a speckle of dust among the Botsford legacy was enough, I guess. Though, I did ask Hayden to sign a baseball for me once.”
“You like baseball?”
“No, my uncle does. It was for his birthday. Hayden actually threw in a few tickets to go along with it. It was really sweet.”
He bows his head in brotherly affection. “Yeah, that sounds like Hayden.”
“Good guy.” I nod. “I mean, you’re all good guys. Fiona didn’t raise no fool.”
Jonah laughs. “What?”
I look down at my barely-touched sandwich. “That’s just something the staff says sometimes. Never mind.”
“Fair enough.” He pops a chip into his mouth and scans the food court. “Hey, what are you up to later tonight? Are you babysitting again?”
“No,” I answer. “My mom will be home.”
“You should swing by the hotel then,” he says. “Bronson and Knox are coming to hang out. Thought you’d like to meet them.”
My chest flutters with excitement. “Meet them?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“You want me to meet Bronson and Knox?”
“No, they’re just fancy incentive to get you back to my hotel room.”
My gut plunges. “What?”
“Okay, that didn’t come out right. Let’s try this again…” He clears his throat as the corners of his mouth twitch. “Marla, I haven’t written a song in eight months. A few chats with you and I did this in a day.” He taps his phone twice. “My career more or less depends on my ability to do that and, for some reason, you make it easy so I want you to write songs with me.”
