by Amanda Faye
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the first date game?”
“It’s not really a game, or well, I’m making it one. I have a list of questions to ask on a first date. It’ll be painless. I promise. I’ll start out with an easy one. What’s your middle name?”
He gives me a skeptical look.
“Is that really what it says?”
I flash my phone at him, but too quickly for him to actually read the screen.
“Girl Scouts’ honor.” I was never in the Girl Scouts. “What’s your middle name?”
I actually already know this answer. It’s on his Wikipedia page. And isn’t that just a little surreal. But I figured I’d ask one I already knew the answer to, just to test the waters.
“Eli Jeramiah Summers.” I beam at him ear to ear. “Your turn. Same question.” My face falls.
“Now, you can’t go blaming me for what my momma named me. She’s a Southern beauty queen, still wears pantsuits with shoulder pads. Really, it’s better if I don’t say.”
He gives me a flat look.
“Natalie Blanche Abernathy,” I tell him, playful regret dripping from my voice.
He smirks, taking a sip from his cup, and points in my direction. Back to me, he seems to say.
“Are you a morning person or a night owl?”
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Night owl for sure. There was a time where I didn’t get up before noon unless it was to board a plane, and then I went right back to sleep again. Same question.”
“Night owl, absolutely. I can’t wait until I’m out of school and all my shows are eight p.m. matinees”
“Are you already auditioning?”
“No. I mean, I’ve done some work on the side, background vocals and such, but it’s important to me to finish my degree.”
He looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.
“Background vocals? Seriously, Natalie? You’ve finished your degree. Why aren’t you out there working? Like I said, I’ve heard you sing. You could have been headlining years ago. Why is the graduate program so important to you?’
My irritation spikes, and I don’t bother to try to hold in my sarcastic response.
“I don’t know, Dr. Summers. You tell me?”
He shrugs and takes another sip from his coffee. “I didn’t graduate from a traditional high school. Thanks to private tutors and a touring schedule before I hit puberty, I was through the master’s program before I was nineteen. It just made sense to finish it off, and a good portion of my studying was able to be done while on a tour bus.”
Oh. Well, I don’t remember reading that online. He points at me again.
“When I was younger, I thought I’d be a music therapist. Music has such a healing effect on people. I used to go to nursing homes with a karaoke machine. We’d play oldies, dance and sing together. One of the doctors told me after I’d leave, the blood pressures and oxygenation of the residents were always better. He wrote one of my letters of recommendation for Chanler.
“As I grew up, I realized I’d never be happy without the stage under my feet. I need to perform, otherwise I wither and fade. But I want the degree anyway. After all, aren’t all performances a little dose of musical therapy? Doled out three hours at a time.”
“Excellently said, Natalie.” A smile blooms on his face.
We’re silent for a moment, before he points at me again.
“Oh!” I unlock my phone. “Do you know any good jokes?”
He gives me a flat look. “Do I look like the joking type?”
Good point.
“Okay, here’s a good one. What do you like but are embarrassed to admit?”
Something flashes on his face, but I don’t know him well enough to read it.
“I have watched every episode of the Gilmore Girls ever released, including the new series on Netflix.” At my awed expression, he clears his throat. “I even signed a protest for them to do a second round on Netflix.”
I can’t help it, laughter rips from me, and I sense patrons at the other tables turn to face us.
“Your turn,” he says.
“Are you just going to ask me the same questions I ask you all night?”
He shrugs, a gesture I’ve already started associating as Eli and not Dr. Summers.
“I don’t have a list on my phone to pull questions from.”
Good point again.
“Give it here.” I scoot the next chair over so we’re sitting side by side instead of across from each other and make a gimme motion with my fingers. He rolls his eyes, but gamely unlocks his phone and drops it in my open hand.
First, because apparently with this man, there isn’t any line I’m not willing to cross, I put my number in his phone. Under title, I add girlfriend with a winky face, then elbow him in the arm.
“Smile,” I say, and lean in close so I can get both our faces in his camera. He doesn’t. Instead I snap a pic of me kissing his cheek and him looking bored into the camera.
Giggles bubble out of my throat.
“That’s an accurate representation,” I joke, when I show him the picture. That does make him smile.
After I send myself a text with a copy of the picture, I pull a different set of questions up on his phone and hand it back to him.
“Your turn,” I sass in his direction.
“Do I really have to do this?”
I give him my best puppy dog eyes, the ones that always made my brother help with my chores.
He gives me a resigned look and brings his phone into his line of sight.
“If you were to win ten thousand dollars unexpectedly, what would you do with it?”
I scoff. “Easy, buy an instrument. Lots of them.”
When he laughs, it lights up his face. Pleasure blooms in the pit of my belly and floods into my bloodstream. It is a very good look on him. Too bad it doesn’t last long enough.
I don’t need to keep looking at my phone. I’ve been looking at this stupid list all day.
“Where have you always wanted to visit but haven’t been able to?”
Storm clouds gather behind his eyes, but before I have a chance to apologize for the question, they clear, and he replaces them with a small smile. He rotates his shoulders, and I wonder if it’s a defense mechanism.
“Nowhere. I’ve been everywhere you could dream of.”
My chest collapses in on itself, and I moan out a sound of envy.
“I haven’t been anywhere. Hell, I still drive back and forth between here and Georgia.”
He smirks at me, bringing his coffee to his lips.
“Well, girlfriend of mine, tell me where you want to go and maybe I’ll take you.”
I giggle in embarrassed amusement, pushing my hair behind my ears, and forge ahead. “Tell me your favorite place to visit then.”
“Milan,” he says without hesitation. His eyes crinkle in genuine affection. “Italy is my favorite country in the world.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Cosa ci faccio qui con te? Sei così bello. I tuoi capelli sembrano bronzo filato al chiaro di luna.”
My jaw hits my chest as the language falls from his lips. The ground drops from underneath me as tingles burst from my spine and explode all over my body.
He mistakes my expression for surprise and chuckles at my reaction.
“Don’t speak the language then, huh?” he quirks.
No, I don’t. Not really. But I’ve been studying opera since I was twelve. I can sing in Italian, read it—and I understand it just fine.
What am I doing here with you? You are so beautiful. Your hair looks like spun bronze in the moonlight.
I roughly clear my throat, trying to gather my wits about me.
“No,” I breathe, body still processing what he’s said. “I don’t.”
“Shame.” He shrugs. “Sei così bello.”
You are so beautiful.
“So,” he says, humor dripping from his voice. “We’re high
as kites, not even able to walk a straight line, when we’re shoved unceremoniously onto the stage. We bow, take our positions, and he smacks a chord on the piano for me to tune from.
“It’s the opening chord for the Chopin piece we’re supposed to play, and also the opening chord for Smooth Criminal, if you close one eye and squint real hard.”
“Oh, no,” I gasp, and he throws his head back and laughs at my response.
“Oh, yeah. So here I am. Dumdum dumdumdumdum dumdumdumdum dumdumdumdumdumdum, and LaMarcus, man, he doesn’t miss a beat, just joins right in.
“The audience is into it. Surprised, but nodding in rhythm with the beat. The organizer is off to the side of the stage, losing her ever loving mind. She’s flailing her arms, stomping her feet. She looked like Godzilla about to rampage the city. I couldn’t see the conductor, but to this day, LaMarcus still swears he said ‘fuck it’ before half the orchestra joined in. They either all knew it by heart or were able to pick it out easily enough. By the end of the song, the entire audience was on their feet singing along.”
We’re sitting side to side, having migrated closer while we were talking. Or, we would be sitting shoulder to knee. His arm is thrown around the back of my chair, and he picks his empty cup up and gives it a shake, as if it’s magically refilled since the last ten times he’s done that.
I’ve turned so I’m facing him, one leg pulled into my lap, so my knee is resting on his thigh. The foot he has crossed over his knee is resting on my ankle.
I’m laughing, tipped into his lap, tears running down my face, and I think I feel him touch my hair, before I right myself and see the barista walking towards us.
“Hey guys,” she says, a regretful smile on her face. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave. We’re getting ready to lock up.”
The laughter melts from my face, and Eli and I turn together to stare at her, then look at each other instead. We both reach for our phones, confirming the ten-thirty time staring back at me. As if the international time keeping union, and Tanya (so says her nametag), are both lying to him, he twists his wrist up to check his watch as well.
“You missed practice,” he says, in a tone I can’t quite decipher.
“Oops,” I giggle out, then at his horrified expression, I burst into full-fledged laughter again. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not like it’s for a grade or anything.”
His scowl only makes me laugh harder.
The barista is still standing there, an amused expression on her face.
“We actually closed at ten, but Ms. Patty said that ya’ll looked so cute, we could let you stay until we’d finished the evening chores.”
Cute. She said we look cute together.
Sure enough, I glance around the room, and the tables have been wiped, chairs tipped upside down, and the closed sign is in the door. The only things out of place are Eli and I, sitting hunched together in the back of the room.
How did we not see it happening?
Eli stands, picking his bag up from the table. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, handing the barista a wad of cash. From the flabbergasted way she stumbles over her thank you, it must have been a lot of money.
He beats me to my saxophone, grabbing it by the handle and hauling to its wheels. I try to coax it from him, but he shrugs his shoulders and makes an after you, motion, gesturing for me to go in front of him.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says and looks to me for direction.
“Oh, yeah. I don’t have a car. I live a few blocks down from campus. I walk back and forth.”
The horrified expression is back, and I pull my lips tight across my teeth to keep from laughing at him.
“You. Walk?” he says, like I’m speaking in a different language. “Alone, in New York. What about when it snows?”
It’s my turn to shrug my shoulders.
He rolls his eyes and laces his fingers with mine, resignation coating his features like a sheet.
“Well then, girlfriend of mine. I guess I’m taking you home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NATALIE
October
I should not be doing this. I should not be doing this.
I walk through the vocal building, gathering alarmed and astonished looks alike. I can tell simply from facial expressions which kids have heard I’m dating Natalie, and which haven’t. The uninitiated scatter out of my way, frightened off by my less-than-friendly reputation. The rest linger, wondering what in the world she sees in me.
Luckily, there’s only a handful of students on campus this late.
Funny, I don’t think of Natalie as a kid.
She’s here, as usual. Except instead of practicing, she’s giving a private lesson. I know, because I’ve talked to her every day for the past month. We’ve texted—we’ve called. She’s dragged me to that stupid coffee shop half a dozen times.
We’ve become friends, as strange as that sounds to my ear.
I’ve spoken to Natalie more in the last month than I have to any other person in the previous several years. Maybe ever. Lord knows my last relationship wasn’t based on mutual discussion.
It’s the only excuse I have for walking up unannounced into her practice space.
She’s singing.
It’s a simple song, hardly a challenge for a musician of her skill. For all that, though, when she hits the high G during the first verse, I close my eyes to better savor the vibrato in her voice.
“See what I did there, Julie? Don’t force the sound out through your nose. Support it from your diaphragm. You should be able to feel the sound bouncing off your hard palate.”
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, ankles crossed at my feet. I’m strapped front and back with instruments, and I stick my hands in between me and the electric case, letting it support their weight. Natalie doesn’t know I’m here; her back is toward the door.
The child she’s with sure does, though, and her eyes flick to me every few seconds. I give her a hard stare, angling my head toward Natalie, encouraging her to pay attention. A blush rises over her cheeks, and she whips her head around with force.
At the weird behavior of her student, Natalie looks behind her, and a smile blossoms over her features.
“Eli,” she breathes, and the sound of it makes my heart stutter in my chest. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes widen at the sight of me. Hard-shelled cello case strapped to my back; cloth covered electric cello over my torso. Of course, she doesn’t know that’s what’s in here. It looks like a bass guitar. She’s probably wondering what the fuck I’m doing carrying half a strings section on my back.
“Almost done?” I ask, ignoring the question on her face.
“Yes, actually. We’re just waiting for Julie’s momma to get here.”
The girl jumps at the sound of her name, pulling a pink and glittery cell phone from her pocket.
“She’s here, Ms. Nat.”
I grin at the title. Natalie grins back. We stand there staring at each other until the child standing beside us clears her throat in embarrassment.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A heartbeat later, a woman who could be Julie’s older sister joins me in the doorway. I leave my post and wander into Natalie’s practice space, taking in the neat piles of sheet music, the stacks of CD’s and the keyboard shoved into the corner.
You can learn a lot about a person by the way they keep their inner sanctum. She’s neat, methodical. There’s everything from opera, Broadway, French, German. A Justin Timberlake CD mixes in with the soundtrack from Dear Evan Hanson.
I look up when the room quiets, and she’s watching me pick through her stuff. She grins, and the urge to scowl at her is strong.
I try. I do.
Instead, I smile softly at her, meeting her in the middle of the tiny space. We’re alone. There’s no one around to observe our relationship. Still, she rises on her tiptoes and places a gentle and sweet
kiss on the scruff of my cheek. Her hand lingers on my shoulder as she tries to maneuver around the instruments, weighing me down.
I bring my hand to her face, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
She runs her knuckle through her teeth, and the action, so fraught with anxiety the first time I saw it, sends all the blood in my body racing straight to my dick.
“This is a pleasant surprise.”
This was a bad idea.
“I have a gig tonight. I thought you might want to go.”
But I’ve never been one to let bad ideas stop me from what I wanted.
Her eyes widen in pleasure, and an adorable blush crests over her cheekbones.
“Really? Where? When? Is that why you have a guitar strapped to your chest?”
The urge to kiss her is overwhelming. My heart is pounding out of my chest. I play with the ends of her hair and swallow past the last of my pulse in my throat.
“It’s not a guitar.”
“Informative, thanks,” she quips, that Southern drawl thick with her thank you.
“If you want to find out the rest, I guess you have to come with me.”
She grins, and as it blooms into a smile I’ve come to crave, she leans onto her tiptoes again and graces my cheek with another kiss.
I drop my car off with the valet, and when it seems like Natalie is getting ready to join the queue outside the club, I entwine our fingers and pull her with me.
As we round the corner to the side of the building, I knock on the steel door. When it pushes outward, Natalie circles herself in my arms. She smells like flowers and oranges, and I wonder when she last had a cup of tea.
I keep our fingers linked as I drag her behind me through the club. Her eyes are wide as we make our way through a small kitchen, then into a back area filled with couches and amps and men laughing and drinking and smoking.
LaMarcus notices us first, and he smacks his neighbor hard in the gut, pointing in our direction. One by one, silence fills the green room as all eyes fall on Natalie. Someone whistles, and as the tension in the room mounts, Natalie smiles and gives a little wave.
