Heart Strings

by Melanie Moreland

  “Why were you waiting for me?”

  He pulled in his bottom lip, worrying it, then lifted his hand, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. His unexpected touch sent a shiver down my spine.

  “You’ve looked exhausted the past few nights. More than usual. I wanted to ask…” He trailed off, clearing his throat.

  “Ask?” I prompted.

  “Ask if you would let me take you for coffee? Get something to eat with me?”

  “Oh,” I breathed out.

  I wanted to. I wanted to go with him anywhere he wanted to go, listen to him talk. Spend some time with him. Get to know him. Still, I hesitated.

  “It’s a public place. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Logan.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, impatiently pushing the strands off his forehead. It was a useless gesture since they fell right back into his eyes. He glanced away, then met my eyes, his gaze sad, voice pained. “You don’t want to be seen with me? Is that it? A street musician?”

  “No!” I insisted. “That isn’t it at all!”

  He stood, extending his hand. “Then come with me.”

  I didn’t want to ask him if he could afford it, if he’d made enough money today to eat out again. I decided I would simply grab the check when it came. I let him take my hand and tug me from my seat. I had to lean back to see his face.

  “You’re really tall.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “I’m average.”

  He bent low, a smile ghosting his lips as he chuckled, his voice a low hum in my ear. “I would never call you average.”

  “I meant height-wise.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’ve always been in the top percentile for that statistic.”

  “I think you’re probably in the top percentile in many areas.”

  He grinned, tugging me beside him, keeping me close. His towering stature made me feel safe.

  “I guess you’ll find out, now, won’t you, Lottie?”

  I could only nod.

  Chapter 4

  Lottie

  He led me across the street to the coffee shop where I assumed he had watched me the other night. He was obviously a regular, smiling familiarly at the waitress.

  “Hey, Macy.”

  “Hi, Logan. Coffee?”

  He glanced at me for confirmation and nodded at her. “Two, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  We sat down, Logan setting his guitar case on one of the empty chairs. I looked around, curious. I had passed the place many times but never come in. It was a throwback to another time, when people congregated to share their day. Formica counters and tables, chairs with torn vinyl, and an aging linoleum floor made up the space. Despite its age, it was meticulous—counters polished, the floor spotless. There were some older men at the counter, drinking coffee, eating pie from cases that displayed the slices. Domed glass covers showed cakes piled high with frosting. The smell of coffee and the grease from the hot grill at the back permeated the air, making my stomach grumble.

  “Best cheeseburgers in the city,” Logan informed me, not even looking at the menu. “As long as you eat meat.” His lips twisted into a frown. “Are you one of those girls who only eats salads? Is that why you’re so thin?”

  “I eat meat. And I’m not thin,” I added, defensive.

  “You are. You’ve gotten thinner lately.”

  I crossed my arms. “Exactly how closely have you been watching me?”

  Macy appeared, setting down our steaming cups of coffee. “You eating or just coffee?”

  “Two specials, Macy. Extra cheese on both.”

  She walked away before I could speak.

  “Maybe I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Moot point, then. Besides, I saw you have coffee a couple times. You always add cream.”

  “Logan…”

  “Lottie,” he teased.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  He took a long drink of coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. The steam from his cup swirled around his head, his long fingers wrapping all the way around the large mug.

  He set it down, resting on his arms. “How closely have I been watching you?”

  I was almost afraid to hear the answer. “Yes.”

  He traced the handle of his mug a couple of times. “Close.”

  “Why?”

  His reply was slow. “Because I think you need someone to watch out for you.” He lifted his soulful eyes, the light shimmering in his whiskey-colored irises. “And you came to me first.”

  “I did?”

  “That day in the subway. I saw you walking—your shoulders were hunched, and you looked so sad. When you sat down, I felt this need to do something to make you feel better. So I started playing for you.”

  “For me? I thought it was, ah…” I stumbled, unsure how to say the words.

  “For money?” he guessed accurately.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s always a bonus, but it wasn’t the reason. I wanted to do something for you. You looked so lost, almost broken.” He slid his hand along the table and hooked my pinkie with his finger, squeezing it. “I wanted—I needed—to help you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I stared down at our hands. Mine looked so small compared to his. The way his palm rested against mine, almost encompassing it with its size. His grip was strong, the ends of his fingers calloused from playing guitar, and what I assumed were many years of hard work. His rough skin didn’t bother me at all. In fact, his touch brought comfort. I raised my eyes, meeting his gaze, finally plucking up the courage to say what I had been thinking for so long.

  “Your music brings me such peace, Logan. It’s the one thing I look forward to every day. I can’t begin to express how much it means to me.”

  “I play it only for you.”

  I had no time to respond.

  Macy arrived, setting down plates loaded with massive burgers and French fries piled so high, they tumbled over the edge of the plate. We broke apart, and for the first time, I realized how close we’d been leaning into each other. It didn’t seem to embarrass Logan. He winked and picked up the ketchup bottle, adding a generous amount on his plate, offering it to me. I took it, putting a small squirt to the side of my plate.

  I studied the burger, unsure how to eat it without it ending up all over me. I glanced up to Logan, who was attacking his burger with gusto. Cheese and ketchup dripped from the corner of his mouth, and with a smirk, he wiped it away with a napkin. He tapped my plate closer.

  “Tuck in, Lottie. I want to see you eat it.” He took another huge bite, chewing it leisurely. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A handful of fries were dragged through the ketchup, shoved into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, as I watched, fascinated by his actions.

  He shook his head and leaned across the table. “Do I have to feed you?”

  I snapped out of my trance. “No.” I picked up the burger and bit down. Hot cheese, greasy meat, and fried onions hit my taste buds. I chewed and swallowed, my eyes closing on their own in pleasure. He was right. It was the best burger I had ever eaten.

  His chuckle made me open my eyes. He winked at me, offering me a napkin. I wiped away the ketchup on my chin.

  “It’s good.”

  “I told you it was.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  He bit and masticated, shrugging one shoulder. “I suppose I am. You have to be in this life.”

  “In this life? You mean in general or in, ah, your line of work?”

  He pushed the hair off his forehead, shaking his head. “You mean as a young, single guy in a big city? Or as a struggling street musician?”

  “Um…”

  “That’s what you see, right? When you look at me? Poor, struggling, in need of handouts, like the other night?”

  His eyes never left my face, and I felt
heat rush up my neck, blooming on my cheeks. “It wasn’t a handout.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “A thank-you.”

  “Do you toss a hundred bucks into every open guitar case?”

  “No. But…”

  “But, what?”

  It felt as if the conversation had suddenly drifted into dark waters. Carefully, I set my burger back on my plate, wiping my fingers.

  “Your music, it means something to me. More than I can tell you. It brings me peace. It–it’s the only thing I have to look forward to every day.” My voice rose. “And you never let me put money in. You let everyone else!”

  “They’re different.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He finished his burger, pushing his plate away roughly. He drained his mug and signaled for a refill, waiting until Macy brought him more coffee and left, taking his empty plate.

  “You’ve barely touched your food.”

  I looked down at my half-eaten burger and the large pile of fries that still sat on the plate. “Not that hungry. You want it?”

  “No. I want you to eat it.”

  “Tell me what you meant by that statement.”

  He scrubbed his face roughly. “I play for you. If other people listen and get some enjoyment, that’s great. They want to drop in money, fine. But my music is my gift for you. You don’t have to pay to hear it. Ever.”

  His words astounded me.

  “What makes me different?”

  “You make you different.” He bent low, extending his hand across the table, running his finger over my wrist. “Ever since I saw you that night, I felt this draw…this need to watch for you. I was heading home when I caught sight of you. You looked as if the weight of the world were on your shoulders. It reminded me…” He frowned, falling silent.

  “Reminded you?” I prompted.

  “It reminded me of how my father used to look. Worn-down, beaten. Stretched to his limit.” His eyes blazed as he stared across the table. “The corporate world killed him. He was dead at forty-two. He had a heart attack sitting at his desk. Just dropped dead.”

  I covered my mouth. “Logan,” I breathed out.

  “I was fourteen. I used to watch him, see how hard he worked. And it was never enough. If he gave ten hours, they wanted twelve. If he worked six days, they wanted seven. He struggled to be enough every fucking day—and he never was. He gave everything he had to a demanding corporation, and all he got in return was an early grave.” He flung his napkin on the table. “And all I got was one foster home after another, until I ran away.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She left when I was a kid. She hated the mediocre life she led. She kept telling my father she wanted more. She packed up one day and left without a word to either of us.” Logan closed his eyes for a moment. “My dad was stuck with me and a job he hated.” He huffed out a loud breath. “Some life.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Silence descended around us. Logan’s fingers drummed on the table in a restless beat, his leg swinging like a pendulum in short, rapid movements. He reached across the table, dragging my plate closer, and started eating the French fries. His movements were jerky and tense, and he didn’t meet my eyes.

  Finally, he spoke. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. I rarely talk about my past, but somehow with you, it just sort of came out.”

  “No, I’m glad you told me. What was your father’s name?”

  “William. William Logan.”

  “I’m sure he’d be very proud of you.”

  Logan brushed off my words. “Tell me about you.”

  “Not much to tell, really. I work at Prescott Inc.”

  “The investment company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prescott, as in your family?”

  “Yes, my father owns and runs it.”

  “No nepotism there, I see.”

  A shot of anger went through me. “Actually, no. I went to school and earned my degree. I had to work my way up, just like everyone else. I’m only a manager of one small group. If anything, I have to work harder, prove myself more than anyone else there because of who I am.” I lifted my chin, meeting his steady regard. “My father believes you have to earn your place, family or not.”

  He held up his hands in supplication. “Sorry, I was only teasing. I’m sure you’re great at what you do.”

  I shrugged, picking up my mug. “I try to be.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  My gaze drifted around the diner and settled back on Logan’s face. He lifted an eyebrow, studying me. “If you have to think that hard about it, I would say the answer is a resounding no.”

  “I’m not sure anyone actually likes their job.”

  He pursed his lips with a fast shrug of his shoulders. “I do.”

  “Not all of us can wander the streets and play music for fun.”

  He indicated my plate. “Are you really not going to eat that?”

  “No.”

  He pulled it closer and picked up the burger, demolishing it in moments.

  I worried about how often he was able to eat. He was lean, but he didn’t look undernourished. He was well muscled and in shape.

  He caught me staring and chuckled, waving Macy over. “More coffee, please. And a piece of the spice cake. Two forks.”

  She filled both our cups and took away my now-empty plate.

  He wiped his fingers and mouth and balled up his napkin. “I can see what you’re thinking. I assure you, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Oh, ah…”

  Macy set down a large piece of cake and the two forks.

  “Enjoy.”

  Logan speared a piece and bent over the table, holding his fork. “You have to try this cake—it’s amazing.”

  I let him slide the fork into my mouth and sat back, enjoying the richness of the cake. It was dense, moist, and the flavors of the cinnamon and nutmeg burst on my tongue.

  “Delicious.”

  “My favorite.” He hummed, taking a large bite. “I have it every time.”

  “Do you come here a lot?”

  “Enough. I’m not a very good cook—unless it’s brunch. I rock scrambled eggs.”

  “And, ah, you have a place to cook?”

  He laid down his fork and bent closer. “I’m not destitute. Just because I don’t have an office to go to or wear a fancy suit doesn’t mean I’m homeless. But no, I don’t live alone. I have a place I share with some other friends. I, in fact, have a job. I even have a bank account and a credit card.” He smirked. “Not everyone measures their success by what they do for a living.”

  Embarrassment colored my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “You didn’t. I simply want to correct your thinking when it comes to me. I understand we’re opposites in our views on success, and about how we live our lives. But you know what they say about opposites.”

  I frowned in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re part of the corporate world. You work endlessly, trying to please an unpleasable master. I choose not to be a slave to anyone. I come and go as I please. I don’t answer to anyone.”

  “We all answer to someone. You have to be accountable.”

  “I’m accountable to myself. I live a simple existence, and I like it. I don’t need all the trappings of what is considered a normal life.”

  “But what if you get sick…or hurt?” I asked, thinking how often I heard of muggings in the subway. “What if someone stole your guitar—how would you live?”

  Macy laid the bill on the table, and I grabbed it. Logan frowned and reached for it from me.

  “Don’t even think about it. I asked you for coffee.”

  I held it to my chest. “No. I want to.”

  “Don’t insult me, Lottie.”

  “I’m not insulting you. Please let me. I can afford it.”

  His eyes darkened.
“And you, once again, assume I cannot.”

  “I…”

  “Give me the damn bill.”

  Stubbornly, I shook my head.

  “You’re making me angry.”

  “I want to pay.”

  He stood, digging in his pocket. He flung a couple bills on the table and grabbed his guitar case. “There. You already did.”

  He strode away, and I looked at the table, recognizing the bills. They had been smoothed and straightened, but were badly wrinkled, as if they had, at one point, been balled up tightly. I was certain they were the bills I had tossed into his guitar case the other night.

  Macy came over, frowning. She picked up the bills with a sigh. “He always leaves too much.”

  “He comes here a lot?”

  “He has for years. Three or four times a week—and even when he was going to school to get his degree. First time he has ever brought anyone with him, though.” She studied me. “He must like you.”

  “School?”

  She pocketed the money. “He’s a teacher. Didn’t you know that?”

  I shook my head, my mind reeling. A teacher? Why was he playing for money in the streets if he was a teacher?

  I stood, pulling on my coat, feeling sad. I had upset and insulted him, so now I would never have the answer to that question. I doubted I would see him again. My heart grew heavier and my eyes stung as I realized I would probably never hear him play either. His music, his presence would no longer be there at the end of a long, grueling day. I gripped the top of the chair as emotions swelled.

  He was right. I had made assumptions about him based on what I saw. Because he played music in the subway, I assumed he was homeless, jobless, and broke. That he needed my help.

  The truth was, I needed his help.

  Wearily, I made my way home, my footsteps slow and dragging. Once in my condo, I brushed my teeth, changed, and slid into bed, completely drained and feeling ancient.

  Logan’s words kept echoing in my head. I knew he was right. I made assumptions about him without actually knowing him or his story. He did the same to me when I told him where I worked. Most people did when they heard my name in connection with my father’s business.