We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “Are you trying to kill me?” I’m distantly aware of how labored my breaths sound. I’d be self-conscious if his chest weren’t rising and falling at the same speed.

  A laugh that creases the skin around his eyes. God, that’s cute. “Is it working?”

  “Yes. But you’ll have to explain to everyone how it happened.”

  He’s still laughing when he lowers his mouth to my newly exposed skin. Just an extra two inches, but it feels like he’s ignited all my nerve endings. Not wanting to be outdone, I push my hips against his, drawing this beautiful groan from his throat. The things that sound does to me… Yeah, we should probably stop.

  I lay my palm on his chest. “I have to get back.”

  Another groan, this one laced with frustration. I know, I want to tell him. Me too.

  I volunteer to head back first—since he’s, uh, not quite ready—and before I do, he pulls me close one more time and kisses my forehead. A soft sweep of his lips.

  Somehow, that’s the one that feels the most dangerous.

  16

  Maxine wasn’t wrong—it’s a lot of sanding.

  It’s my third time here since our first meeting, and I’m in one corner of her workshop, the sound box of a harp-to-be on the downdraft table in front of me. Heavy-duty earmuffs are clamped around my ears as I operate the handheld optical sander, the table sucking up the sawdust. The corgi club is just outside the workshop door, away from the loud noises.

  Already, I know more about wood than I ever thought I would. Maxine uses a variety: walnut, cherry, mahogany, koa, bubinga, spruce.

  “The harp is essentially three main pieces,” she said last time, showing me each one. “The neck, which is the curved top piece. Then there’s the pillar, which is the front piece, and the sound box, which includes the soundboard and the string rib.”

  “And what about this?” I asked, pointing to the back of the sound box.

  She smirked. “We just call that the back.”

  The wood has to be exceptionally smooth before Maxine applies the finish, which means hours and hours of sanding. About four hours for each sound box.

  And I like it, completely losing myself in the task like this. Sometimes my mind wanders to places where I can’t quite catch it, but other times I can turn off the noise—literally, with the earmuffs—and simply be.

  I’ve never spent much time around adults who aren’t my parents or teachers. Our vendors mainly work with my parents, and even then, we’re working together. Collaborating. Here I am very clearly a student, and yet Maxine doesn’t treat me like a child. There’s a middle ground, I realize, between the way my parents treat me and a way I’d hate to be talked down to.

  That middle ground is Maxine Otto and Emerald City Harps.

  After another hour, I switch off the optical sander and head into the studio. This is our trade-off: I sand, and then I get to play around on my favorite cherrywood harp after I finish tuning.

  I’m working on the Beatles’ “Yesterday,” which is full of lever changes. It’s very obvious when the lever isn’t right, especially with a song you know well, which makes this a good one to practice. You hear a natural instead of a sharp, and it’s immediately jarring. If one of my levers is wrong, I back up a couple measures, determined to recapture that fluidity I love about harp music.

  “Try crossing under with your second finger there instead,” Maxine says next to me, pointing. The dogs react differently to music, I’ve learned. A couple of them curl up at the bottom of the harp to feel the vibrations, though one of them, Gregor, whose tawny fur is flecked with the white of old age, whines a bit before eventually settling down. Maxine told me he doesn’t like anything in a minor key. “Otherwise you’re not going to be able to get to this string with your thumb. It’s all about the fingering.”

  I try and fail to hold in a snicker, and she shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m basically twelve.”

  The piece is still more staccato than I’d like, my movements a little staggered as I flip the levers. It’s a new kind of choreography for my hands, and it feels… powerful. Like I didn’t know my hands were capable of this, and now there’s a whole new skill set quite literally at my fingertips. Sure, I could have searched for this kind of music, but I wouldn’t have known anything about lever harps. I wouldn’t have been able to see their versatility for myself. Watching the instrument turn from nothing into something—it’s hard not to be inspired. I didn’t know playing the harp could be angry, rough, complicated. What I’m realizing is that it can be so many different things.

  Before I launch back into the song, my phone buzzes. “Sorry,” I say, reaching into my pocket to switch it to do-not-disturb mode. A text from Asher, but I’m not in the mood to answer it. Not when I’m in my new safe space. “My sister. We, um, work together.”

  “Right, the family business,” Maxine says, and there’s a flatness in her tone I can’t interpret. “My daughter, Josie, used to help out in here. Even when she was little, she could never stop fidgeting. She was always tapping her fingers on something or bouncing her legs, and I was so convinced she was going to become a musician.”

  It’s unusual for Maxine to share so much about herself, and I revel in it. “I take it she didn’t?”

  Maxine smiles, but it’s not entirely a sad one. “She could have been really great. She played harp until she finished high school, and she helped in the shop until she finished college, and then she was off on her own path. Graphic design. Of course I wanted her to do what she wanted, but I can’t say I wasn’t a little disappointed. And Josie was always going to do what she wanted.”

  “Does she live here?”

  “Chicago. She and her wife eloped a couple years back. You have no idea how relieved I was. Her father, though…” She shakes her head. “He was livid. Or he just wanted to go to Hawaii—who knows. I gave up trying to figure out what was going on in his head a long time ago.” When I’m silent for a moment, she supplies, “Divorced. Fifteen years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m—” I’m sorry is what I was going to say, but what am I really sorry about? Sorry she isn’t married? Sorry something she may have thought was supposed to last didn’t?

  Fortunately, Maxine continues, saving me from stuttering out an end to that sentence. “I love living on my own. I had the experience of being married, and I never felt like myself, to be honest. And now… now I can do everything I want. I don’t think being married was for me. Being partnered up in that way… wasn’t for me. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how much happier I am now.”

  There’s an earnestness in her voice, and I feel lucky she’s trusting me with this information. My parents would have leaped to the conclusion that someone unmarried at Maxine’s age was something to mourn. Sorry is something my parents would have said, and it shouldn’t have been my gut reaction. The first time we met, I thought she was lonely, but I was so, so wrong. If Maxine is happier now, then I’m glad it ended too.

  Maxine changes the subject, and I get the sense that this was maybe more personal information than she wanted to divulge. “Let me see if I have some more sheet music for you.” She shuffles a stack of papers on a side table—hand-carved, of course. A brightly colored flyer sails to the floor, and I bend to pick it up.

  ONE NIGHT ONLY, it says. ACCLAIMED HARPIST MAXINE OTTO.

  “Just a little show I’m doing,” Maxine says, holding out her hand for the flyer. She says this casually, like she’s trying to brush it off, and I can’t quite understand why.

  “And I thought you didn’t play anymore.”

  “Not very much. I’m not officially retired, but I’m mostly holed up here in the shop. An old friend asked me to be part of this charity concert at the end of the month, and I told her I would. Really, it’s not a big deal.”

  “I’ve never been to anything like this. I’d love to go.”

  She regards me with an odd expression, white-blond eyebrows knit close together and—I think she might be nervous. “It’s been
a while since I played in public. I may not be very good.” At this, a small smile forms in the corner of her mouth, like she knows that’s impossible.

  “I’m putting it on my calendar.” It’s only when I pull out my phone that I spy the date on the flyer. A Saturday. It overlaps with the Stern-Rosenfeld wedding, a glam Jewish shindig we’ve been planning for a year and a half.

  I’ve never skipped a wedding, but I’ll come up with an excuse. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to see Maxine perform.

  Now that I’m holding my phone, I see the texts from Asher.

  Asher: Hey, where are you?

  Asher: Why is your phone off?

  Asher: Quinn?? Now I’m worried, call me asap.

  “Do you mind if I—” I ask, gesturing to my phone, and Maxine waves a hand as I hit my sister’s number.

  “Quinn? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. What is it?”

  There’s a shuffle on the other end, and then, when she speaks again, her voice is a near-whisper. “I’m currently doing a floral consult in Capitol Hill with Genevieve and Preston. Alone.”

  Oh. Shit.

  “Where are you?”

  I glance around the studio. “I’m—at Julia’s. I had my phone off and we lost track of time. I’m so sorry, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Twenty, max. Capitol Blossom, right?”

  “We’ll be done by then.” Her voice is crisp. “Just don’t let this happen again, okay? I looked like a total idiot telling them I was waiting for you when apparently you weren’t planning on showing up.”

  We never talk to each other like this—but then again, we haven’t talked to each other very much at all lately, not about anything that isn’t wedding related.

  “Okay,” I say quietly, and then we hang up.

  “Everything all right?” Maxine chirps.

  “Yeah. I… should probably go.” Even if I’m not needed, the guilt is enough to send me home.

  “You should take it with you. The harp.” When I just stare at her, she adds, “So you can practice more.”

  For a moment I’m overwhelmed with a feeling that soothes the anxiety of the call with Asher. “Because I need the practice, or because you’re doing a nice thing for me? This is worth thousands of dollars. I mean—you know that, obviously.”

  “For harp makers, it’s a huge compliment to have a musician they admire play one of their instruments.” And then I get another rare Maxine smile.

  Whatever that feeling is—I ride it all the way home, where I hide the harp in my closet and wash the sawdust out of my hair.

  Tarek: So that reality show couple is doing their final tasting at Mansour’s this week.

  Quinn:

  Tarek: Is anyone from B+B planning to be there?

  Quinn: Yep, the youngest B. Aka me.

  And mainly for the food.

  Tarek: I was hoping. That one’s my favorite.

  Quinn: What a coincidence, the youngest M is my favorite too.

  Mainly because of the food.

  Tarek: I was thinking of making some baklava, if that’s something you’d be interested in.

  Quinn: I really shouldn’t eat on the job.

  Tarek: So that macaron last week?

  Quinn: I was tricked!

  Tarek: Or that piece of mango?

  Quinn: Do not even *think* about mangos in my presence.

  Tarek:

  I’m so sorry, I had to.

  Quinn: Thanks for being there.

  At the urgent care, I mean.

  I probably never said that, so… thank you.

  Tarek: To be fair, you were too busy telling me with your eyes to go fuck myself.

  But you’re welcome.

  Quinn:

  Tarek:

  Quinn:

  Tarek: So hypothetically, if I had some baklava sitting on the counter at Mansour’s…?

  Quinn: Then I’d make sure it was given proper attention.

  Tarek: Good.

  Quinn: Good.

  Tarek: In case I haven’t already made it clear, I’m glad you’re going to be there.

  And I really liked… everything that happened on Saturday.

  Quinn: Oh, I could tell.

  And… I did too.

  17

  I am leading a double life.

  In one life, I am Quinn the obedient daughter. I attend fittings, consults, rehearsal dinners. I smile. I say of course and not a problem and yes.

  In the other, I’m Quinn the stealth harpist, who rushes home to shower off the scent of sawdust, who plays the cherrywood harp only when no one is home (after nearly breaking my back hauling it up to the tower), who sneaks out of her house to a harp maker’s studio whenever I can.

  It’s exhausting, but I love that second life so much that it’s worth it.

  Today I am the first Quinn, on my way to Mansour’s on a Wednesday afternoon to finalize Victoria and Lincoln’s menu. Instead of another torturous pencil skirt, I wear a vintage peach dress with tiny dogs on it I got on a thrift store trip with Julia last summer. I haven’t worn it nearly enough. I pin my hair back on the sides and add a swipe of red lipstick I almost never wear, and I don’t hate the way that looks either. Maybe it’s not B+B-approved, but my parents won’t be there.

  Mansour’s isn’t a storefront, just a large kitchen space downtown with state-of-the-art appliances and pristine white countertops. Of course, when Victoria and Lincoln arrived, they asked a hundred questions about the framed articles on the walls detailing how Murad and Zainab met. There’s the two of them on the set of a national morning show, pages from People and the Washington Post and Cosmopolitan. Then they bonded over having love stories that took place partially in the public eye, which led to a discussion about living in “the age of social media” and how “nothing we do is private anymore,” according to Murad, while Tarek caught my gaze and rolled his eyes.

  The upside of working today: food. The Mansours have prepared each appetizer, entrée, and dessert for Victoria and Lincoln, which they arrange on the counter in front of us. And as Tarek promised, there was baklava waiting for me when I got here.

  “You have to try this,” Victoria says to Lincoln, holding out a golden potato croquette. “They’re so crisp but also so light? I could eat about a hundred of these.”

  “You guys knocked it out of the park,” Lincoln agrees. I haven’t seen him as much as Victoria, but he has this relaxed, easygoing personality that’s impossible not to like. He’s tall, Black, wearing Seattle hipster glasses and a short-sleeved button-up with tiny sharks all over it. Tiny animals will never not be the best pattern. He tries a croquette, then another. “I can’t believe there isn’t any dairy in these.”

  “Make sure you try them with a little of the sauce,” Tarek says, pushing the bowl toward them. “Sweet sriracha mayo. Vegan mayo, I should say.” It’s a kosher menu, and Mansour’s even has relationships with some of the local rabbis we work with.

  “We get it. You made the sauce,” Zainab says, like this is something they’ve been joking about all day.

  Tarek flushes, and it’s adorable.

  “And it’s excellent,” Victoria says. She takes a fork to the roast chicken, one of the mains. “We’re so glad you could accommodate those last-minute changes.”

  Zainab waves a hand. “Please. Not last minute at all. We completely understand wanting to swap out the rack of lamb for something… a little more attractive to be eating on camera.”

  “The cameras,” Victoria says flatly. “Right.”

  “Very exciting,” Murad says. This publicity is a big deal for them, too. “We really are honored to be part of it.”

  “It’s just a lot of pressure. Not that I didn’t get torn apart enough the first time I was on TV,” she says with a brush-off kind of laugh.

  I remember the breakdown she had the episode before the season finale, how she cried facedown on her hotel room bed while a producer rubbed her back. She liked both men so much, could see a
life with each of them… but the one she couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to was Lincoln.

  Now he’s the one rubbing her back, stroking her long curls, telling her it’s all going to be okay. “People are going to be watching because they’re happy for us,” he says. “Which in itself is still surreal.”

  Victoria straightens and puts on a smile. “Really, I’m fine. It’s just the regular your-wedding-is-in-four-weeks-and-will-be-on-Streamr jitters.”

  “Very common,” I assure her. “All our brides go through it.”

  At that, I think her smile might turn real.

  They don’t end up making any changes to the menu, which I think is a relief for all of us.

  “Five o’clock,” Zainab muses once they leave, gesturing to the wall-mounted clock next to a framed photo of young Mansours shaking hands with young Berkowitzes.

  “You say that as though time means something when you’re in the catering business,” Murad says, sweeping plates into their industrial-grade dishwasher.

  “I can close up here, if you want,” Tarek says. “I know it’s been a while since you guys had a night off.”

  Zainab pauses in the middle of wiping down the counter. “You’re sure? That would be wonderful. Thank you,” she says, moving over to him and kissing each of his cheeks. “Wow, a night off—I’m not even sure what that looks like.”

  “Whatever it ends up being, please don’t tell me.” Tarek waves them to the door, and god, I think I love his parents.

  That realization comes with a stab of jealousy. They’ve always been open and loving, supportive of what Tarek wants regardless of whether it’s what they want too. I’ve never been able to figure them out—if they’re faking a romance for the rest of us, the way I’ve always assumed my parents are, or if what happened at the Eiffel Tower really did lead to a genuine relationship. It was the grandest of grand gestures, and yet somehow it worked. And it’s been working for more than twenty years.