The Sound of Serendipity

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  “Might be a little too much for me.” I just started indulging and he’s beckoning me to the calories, talking about them like sex.

  He holds up his fork and points at me with it.

  “I know it sounds intense but it’s delicious. I swear.”

  I set my fork down and sip my hot chocolate. There’s a little too much chocolate going on, not counting the chocolate brown eyes that are on me like I’m the only thing that matters. Am I imagining the way he looks at me?

  “How’d you know this was it for you?” I ask, looking for a way out.

  “What, the music biz? Producing?”

  I nod.

  He sets his fork down as well and gives his stomach a few pats. I want to roll my eyes because from what I saw earlier, he has nothing to worry about. That bit of cake is now evaporating into thin air unlike in my body where it’s settling right on my hips.

  “I guess I never bothered thinking this wasn’t it. You know?” He sets his chin on his fist, his elbow on the table. “I think when it’s real, you don’t have a choice. You do it or you die.”

  I’m fiddling with my mug, unable to say anything else. But I can’t take my eyes off of him.

  “At least, the part that makes you feel alive goes away. There are moments where I have to stop and tell myself that this is my life. One day it’ll end. But for now, all I can do is love every moment.”

  He’s so passionate in the studio and that passion is sparking at this table. I wonder where else that passion exists. Would it spark as our lips met?

  “Is that how you feel?” he asks me, and I have to focus on his words more than his mouth so I know what we’re talking about. I decide to answer honestly because, again, I could be attempting to pluck stars instead of sharing secrets.

  “I feel like I’m holding myself back.” Saying it out loud is so liberating that I may cry. And saying it to him? I couldn’t think of a better person. Someone who truly understands. I feel like tonight is happening in an alternate universe because I’m telling him things that I can hardly tell myself.

  “Why?”

  “I watched you today. You were brilliant. I can’t do that,” I tell him, and now I can’t look at him because the one thing I’m known for, I’m not the best at. Not yet.

  I’m not my best self yet and if I follow my dad’s plan, I never will be.

  “Okay. Answer this: how old are you?”

  I sit up straight, ready to hear his condescending response to the amount of time between my first breath and now, as if I had a say in the matter.

  “Twenty-three.”

  He takes a bite of cake and chews slowly before swallowing. He’s here but he’s not here. He’s thinking and when he looks right at me, I wonder what he’ll say.

  “Know what I was doing at twenty-two?”

  I shake my head but I’m still bracing myself for whatever he’s getting at.

  “Getting coffee for a bunch of overpaid assholes. Slipping CDs on their desks when I got the chance. Working at my apartment with my three shithead roommates and my cheap keyboard. Learning to play any instrument I came across.”

  Hearing his story makes me look down. Is he trying to make me feel like shit? Like I haven’t earned my place in the company?

  “I’m guessing you think I don’t belong so high on the Kingsley totem pole.”

  “Quite the opposite, actually. Even if I didn’t know how insanely talented you are, your dad doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d ruin his company just to give his daughter a hobby.” He stabs his last piece of cake. “Whatever musical genius favors your father, favors you as well.”

  My skin flushes under his praise, and I feel like I belong right here with Maddox. There’s magic in the air; a serendipitous breeze that makes me want to say more, so I do.

  “I want to do what you do. Build a song from nothing.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and briefly touch my earring. Before I have to do what I’m supposed to do. This is my last chance at making something of myself with my own name and my own efforts.

  “Music is an experience. We’re living in a moment and a song encapsulates that. It takes the moment you’re feeling and gifts it to the world. While we all hear the same song, what we listen to is different. What we feel…it’s different.” He pauses. “Dave Grohl said, ‘You can sing a song to eighty-five thousand people, and they’ll sing it back for eighty-five thousand different reasons.’ Doesn’t that blow your mind?”

  I want to give the world what I feel under Maddox’s stare. How I feel when he says my name. I want the world to know my unrequited infatuation, and I want Maddox to hear it and not know that every word pays homage to him.

  “I want to try something,” I say as I grab a pen from my purse.

  Maddox in song form is a synchronized mess of guitars and hi-hats with some snare. He has the kind of beat you don’t know whether to jump or dance to. And the lyrics….

  I can hear the music in my head. It’s the strangest thing, and I completely understand the tapping Maddox does. My mind tap-tap-taps with its own song. I grab a napkin and begin writing furiously. It’s an out-of-body experience where not even Maddox is pulling me from this moment.

  The gentleman that Maddox is, he doesn’t say a word. Once I’m through, I’m grabbing his hand and we’re heading out onto the street.

  “Where are we going?” he asks with a laugh.

  “I need to record this,” I tell him, breathless with anticipation.

  He holds my hand tighter and leads me down the road, flagging down a cab.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My place. I have a studio set up there.”

  Chapter 9

  The sound of keys entering a lock snaps me from my mental state; the one where I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’ll be in this man’s home. I’m drunk on my chocolate overdose and the alcohol is still making my belly warm and my life pliable. I am clay in Maddox’s company. He doesn’t know, but his cleverly creative hands could mold and shape me to whatever he wants. I should be ashamed, I think to myself as he pushes the door open. But I’m too far gone for that. We step inside and his apartment lights come on automatically.

  I look around discreetly. Though I feel my eyes widen in their perusal, I still want to appear casual and in control. Maddox’s place is one giant space. His bed sits up on a loft, and I try my hardest not to stare in the vicinity of it as he takes his jacket off.

  “Wine?” he asks as he heads toward the island in the kitchen area.

  “Uh, sure,” I say, still looking around. My eyes catch the brown couch in front of me. His place is neat, in a lived in but put together way. His furniture is simple but his downtown demeanor is splashed throughout the place; art on the walls and instruments everywhere.

  It’s intense how at ease he is with himself and his surroundings as I sit here with my guts in a puddle. Dream Maddox would’ve lived in Tribeca or worked his way up to the Upper East Side. Not a penthouse because he isn’t douchey with his money but definitely something with a great view. Real-life Maddox lives wherever he wants and works the hell out of a studio apartment. It just so happens, wherever he wants is in SoHo.

  He hands me a glass of red wine and I sip, not caring what it’ll taste like. I’m not at that point in life where I know what wine is what or how it’s meant to taste. My summers between college only showed me that large amounts of wine meant sleepy Emmy. But I’m not trying to stick my head in the bucket that is my past.

  “The booth is a closet,” he says, wine glass in hand, pulling me back to the present. “But I put in a glass door so I hope it isn’t too bad.” I look toward where he gestures and smile. As usual, he’s made this setup from nothing. He’s such a force; someone who makes things happen…makes things exist that weren’t there before.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  I know I haven’t thought this through. For the first time ever, I’m going to be singing in front of someone. We sit down and work on the music. M
addox is enthusiastic, and while I pick things up from him, he picks things up from me as well.

  I learn that he leans toward actual instruments. He seems like a purist.

  I’m a listener. I listen to life and my music emulates that. I love nothing more than to sample things one typically wouldn’t use. I find sounds around his apartment, go out on the balcony and sample the city streets below, and we build and blend until its perfection. The purist meets the listener halfway and our worlds are in sync, at least for the song.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I tell him as I sip my third glass of wine. The more I drink, the better it tastes and the better I feel. I credit the wine for the way I’ve gotten uncomfortably comfortable around him, each sip, each second, got me here and before I know it, I’m brushing my hand against his and not pulling away as quickly.

  “Yes to whatever it is.”

  I scoff and set my glass down carefully. He sounds the way I do internally, offering me anything without question. Only, I’m hoping he does agree to this deal because it would help with my nerves.

  “If I have to sing, you have to sing.” I lay down the gauntlet, and he easily rises to the occasion.

  “Pick a verse. We’ll both tackle the chorus and hook.”

  I glance at my crumpled up napkin covered in my loping penmanship, partly because I don’t know which set of lyrics would be better for whom and partly because I don’t want him to see the excitement in my eyes.

  “Second.”

  “Done.” Two words exchanged and this is happening. He heads to the closet door and touches the knob before turning back to face me. “You ready?”

  I nod and he goes inside. After he gives me the okay, I start the music and a voice like melted chocolate starts singing. My words. About him.

  I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready to be slapped in the face with my own emotions. Hearing the way he sounds, so vulnerable and honest, has me staring at him openly.

  You hear but you don’t listen,

  I wonder what I’m missing.

  My eyes water and I blink in order to keep myself in check, but I can’t help the way I react to him. He sings all of his parts, skipping over mine, and I’m jealous that his first run through is without fault. He knows exactly what his voice needs to do to compliment the music. Not a second is flat and nothing is anything less than perfect.

  When he exits the booth, I’m pretending to be unaffected. My wine glass is back in my hand and I’m smiling.

  Can he see the fading pink in my cheeks, the glassiness of my eyes, the way my hand clenches around the glass to hide its shaking?

  “Your turn,” he announces before he sits down beside me. Inside, I’m a zoo and my heart is the main attraction.

  “Really, you could sing the whole—”

  “Go, Emerson.” I sigh and he takes my wine from me. His hand brushes mine, and I look down at where our skin met. “Go.”

  My eyes crawl slowly up to his face and then his eyes and he gently nudges me, his face telling me to go. I can’t say no, so I slip off my heels and I’m a good three inches shorter. I pile my hair on top of my head and rub my hands together, hoping it helps them steady. He’s looking at me, and I feel like I have to tell him why I’m so hesitant and afraid.

  “I don’t sing in front of people,” I explain.

  “The good thing is, I’m only a person.” He turns to face me and leans his elbow against his desk.

  Have you looked in the mirror?, I want to ask him. Only a person? Pfft. Only the most beautiful man I’ve ever stood this close to, and I’ve been around some of music’s finest. I walk inside the booth and all I can hear is my breathing. Because I don’t want to worry him, I get right to it and place the headset on and listen to his verse. Then the hook begins and I’m harmonizing with his already laid down singing.

  You arrest my senses,

  And I’m left defenseless.

  I want to tell myself not to cry, but I can’t because of the wine and because of the words. This song means too much not to cry. I only worry that I’m going to sob so hard that the words are unintelligible. Now would be a good time to look at Maddox and see if I’m doing all right, but I can’t do that either. I keep my eyes closed as I sing my love letter to no one and to him.

  The song ends, but I don’t want to leave the booth. Thankfully, my tears are gone with one swipe under my eyes. I look down and wonder what comes next because I can see all of the secret pieces of me scattered before me in this small closet. If Maddox sees them, I don’t know what that’ll mean. It’ll likely mean my embarrassment because there’s no way….

  “You can come out, Em,” he says, and I figuratively pick myself up off of the floor and join him. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

  I grab my glass and gulp it down. My hands are steadier by the time I’m through, and I take that as a good sign.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” is all I say. He nods and I don’t think he knows that I’m not just talking about the singing. Then again, why would he? I want to take every small moment we’ve shared and hold them to my chest. I want to go home with them in my arms and lock those moments in a safe, and on days where I feel like I need more, I’ll look back on the many almosts we shared.

  “Yeah? Well, what the hell do we do with the song now?” I hear something in his voice and I can relate to it. I wonder if other artists feel this way after they create a masterpiece. A little empty, a little shaky. Like somehow their life source is depleted. Like sharing a bit of your soul leaves you with less and less each time.

  “Nothing?” I need to sit and rest and maybe try to get back what I lost. But the more time that passes, the more comfortable I am with this piece of myself existing outside of my body.

  “No, no. This is too much to keep it to ourselves.” He hands me a copy of the song on a flash drive, and I toss it in my purse.

  He’s so intense right now, and I just want to lie on the floor and breathe him in. So I do. I squat down near his couch and let my butt hit the ground with a thump before spreading my limbs out. The floor is hard beneath my back, but I feel a little saner down here.

  He plays the song, and I can’t help but shudder when our voices sing together. How could anyone not feel something when they hear music?

  “You talked so much tonight. You do realize I’m never going to let you go quiet on me again, right?” I look forward to his coercion.

  He sits beside my body and I want him to touch me so badly. Always wanting when it comes to him, only to be disappointed when nothing happens. I’m drunk on his presence more than I am on the wine and before I know it, he’s lying next to me on his hardwood floor. All of this space and he chooses right here, nearly touching me. Does he feel the world slowing? Is he reaching out for my hand?

  “I love this. It feels so honest.” I hear the way he gulps after he says this, but he doesn’t know how honest it is. He doesn’t know that he’s gotten something from me that no one else has. We were at it for hours, the music making us numb to time, so I’m not surprised to see that it’s nearly three in the morning when I look at the digital clock on his wall. He’s so relaxed beside me as the song plays on repeat and we talk about random things.

  I can feel his body heat and I wonder, as he tells me he’s a Leo, if he knows that his pinky is so close to mine, I can almost taste the way it’d feel to touch him. I try to remember if it felt like this before, but the same way Maddox demands every part of me belong to him without ever even knowing, he erases what used to be. Funny, it took nothing from him to erase everything from me.

  I searched high and low for a way to forget the pain and he was here all along. All I needed to do was sit in his presence.

  Maybe it’s the wine but I could lay here forever.

  Except my bladder is pressing.

  “Bathroom?” I mumble.

  He lifts his head and points toward a door.

  “It’s so far,” I whine. I’ve only managed to lift my legs to press my bare f
eet flat against the floor and I’m already tired. I’m looking at the door between my thighs, and I don’t know if I can make it.

  “Just don’t pee on my floor, Em.” On second thought, maybe I should get the hell up.

  I groan and stand. The room isn’t spinning, so I may’ve met that magical moment when the wine is good but not so good that it’s bad. It turns out the bathroom isn’t that far away and once I’m inside, I’m impressed that it isn’t a mess.

  I’m looking for a towel to dry my hands with when I opt for toilet paper. I’m not in the mood to search when Maddox is sprawled outside the bathroom waiting for me. Just as I’m about to toss the toilet paper in the trash, I see it. A used condom.

  It shouldn’t hurt but it does. After all, we just recorded a song together. A song about him and it really feels like this was the best night ever, but I have to come back down to reality and now my carriage turns into a pumpkin. It’s time for me to go home before I do something stupid like fall for him in a way I can never come back from. Daydreaming is fun until it gets too real and it’s dangerously becoming that way for me.

  I walk out and he’s still lying on the floor, arms under his head. Those smooth biceps plump out just a bit, looking like excellent pillows. He looks up at me and smiles, and I have to remind myself. You just saw a used condom in the trash. If you want to be one of those used condom kind of girls, don’t go home.

  “I think it’s time for me to go,” I say before feigning a yawn that ends up turning into a real one. “I’m tired.”

  The ends of his lips tilt downward, but he stands and grabs his wallet and phone from the coffee table.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him when I see him grab his coat. “I can cab it alone.”

  “I don’t mind,” he answers as he stretches and I see a flash of flesh again, a sprinkle of hair. Used condom, I tell myself. I grab my discarded pumps and slip them on, one after the other. All while I put myself back together, I wonder how much of me Maddox has seen. Not the Emerson who shows up at work but the Emerson who collects quirky earrings and wears whatever color she’s feeling. The one who sings in front of him.