by Selena Kitt
I had just finished my orange juice and was swallowing my second to last bite of French toast when Rob edged along the table toward me, reaching back for my hand. I had continued eating, as instructed—I was really hungry!—and hadn’t noticed the crowd gathering around us. There were far more people asking for autographs than the original six girls—a few older women, at least forty, along with several waitresses, some heavy metal guys with long hair and a myriad of tattoos and piercings. There were even a few white-haired grandmothers waving pens and notepads out of their pocketbooks!
“We’ve got to go now, I’m sorry,” Rob apologized. He had my hand and pulled me to him, tucking me under his arm.
The crowd expressed their disappointment and instead of moving away, they moved in. All I saw were bodies pressing together, hands waving. Rob had me in front of him now, arms around me like a strait jacket, pinning me to him.
“I’m sorry!” Rob apologized again, beginning to move through the crowd. They didn’t part though—they swarmed, touching Rob’s shoulder, his hair, as we passed.
I glimpsed Jodie to my right and met her eyes. I think she saw how scared I was, and she knew it when I mouthed, “Help!”
She nodded, heading through the crowd—they let her through, no problem. They were too focused on Rob to care. But then she was gone, and I didn’t know where. Rob’s arms tightened around me as he pushed into the crowd. There was no other choice. They were between us and the door.
“Okay, okay! Thank you, guys. I really appreciate it!” Rob’s voice rose as he edged through the bodies. It was practically the whole restaurant now, fifty people between us and the exit. I was trembling, seeing the light in the crowd’s eyes. The more Rob reminded them he was leaving, the more their desperate energy became.
Then a loud, repeating siren pierced the air. I nearly screamed, looking back at Rob. The crowd reacted, craning their necks around to see what was going on, distracted from Rob, and he used it to his advantage, easily threading his way through the crowd now with me practically strapped to the front of him. I saw Jodie at the front door, holding it open for no one.
“Fire alarm?” Rob asked as we edged past her and I realized she was holding the door for us.
Jodie nodded, dropping him a wink.
“Thanks,” Rob said.
“I’ll come back and pay you later!” I called over my shoulder to the waitress.
Jodie waved us through. “It’s on the house!”
We made it to the car before anyone noticed we were even gone. The fire alarm stopped as I was unlocking the car and I met Rob’s eyes over the hood.
“Hurry,” he urged, hopping into the passenger side.
I got in and started the car, seeing the pack of six girls leading the crowd out the door and into the parking lot. I put the Kia in drive, giving it a lot of gas, heading out of the lot and onto the street. Traffic was, thankfully, clear.
I was still shaking, but I kept driving, wanting to get away from that crowd. Who knew so many people in Leo’s Coney Island would be Trouble fans?
“You okay?” Rob asked.
“Yeah.” Even my voice was shaking. I felt his hand on the back of my neck, massaging gently.
“It’s scary the first time. I remember.”
I looked at him, surprised. “You were scared?”
“You learn how to handle it.” His hand on my neck was soothing. I hadn’t realized how tense I was, every muscle in my body drawn up tight. “But sometimes, when it gets out of control, it’s still scary.”
I nodded. “I was scared.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” His hand moved through my hair, stroking gently. It gave me shivers. “Where to now?”
He could have gloated. He could have said, “I told you so.” But he didn’t.
“Well, do you like art as much as you like music?”
He put on his sunglasses, grinning over at me. “Let’s find out.”
Chapter Seven
I forgot Sunday was family day at the Detroit Institute of the Arts and it was full of parents and kids. I looked at Rob as we paid our admission, worried we might have the same problem we had at the diner, but with his sunglasses on and the red baseball cap, it was weird, but no one seemed to recognize him.
It probably helped that we’d stopped at a little thrift store on the way, so he could buy himself a few changes of clothes and a little knapsack. He’d decided to mix decades by purchasing a pair of old bell bottoms, a “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt and a pair of scuffed up old motorcycle boots. Then he insisted on wearing them all at the same time, despite my protests, and it was weird, but I had to admit, the look somehow worked on him. When you added the sunglasses and the ball cap, it was a strange mix, but he still looked sexy as hell. It was a complete paradox.
We held hands and walked through the exhibit rooms, stopping now and then at pieces we really liked. I was no art connoisseur, but I loved the museum. To me, it felt a little like church. There was something reverent about it. Even full of kids, the place felt hushed and quiet. The children seemed to understand that there was something special about it too. They stared up at the paintings, wide-eyed and awed. That’s how I felt in the museum—like a child experiencing something amazing for the first time.
It was always interesting to see what someone was drawn to in the art museum. There was always something that would be captivating, whether it was one painting or a specific style. For Rob, it was the Native collection—the Navajo blankets and vases, the weaved sweet grass baskets. I squeezed his hand as we left that room, seeing him blinking fast behind his sunglasses.
“You okay?”
He nodded as we dodged a mother with a stroller. “My grandfather was Native.”
“Really?” I was surprised. I’d read a lot about Rob in the media, but I’d never heard that. In fact, I couldn’t remember reading much at all about his parents. It was like his life had started when Trouble made it big. Whenever journalists wrote about his childhood, it was to talk about how he’d started playing guitar at the age of twelve when he inherited his uncle’s, or that he’d played singing leads in all his high school musicals.
“Apache.” He squeezed my hand back. “What’s that?”
He pointed to the crowd gathering in an adjacent room.
“Puppet show.”
“Awesome! Let’s go!” He dragged me into the room like a little kid leading the way into Disneyland. Before I knew it, we were sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bunch of kids watching a shadow puppet show.
I had to admit, I got caught up. Using shadows as puppets was fascinating, and the story was compelling, about a boy transformed into a bird and a girl who ends up saving him. The kids watched, utterly enthralled, and I smiled, watching Rob’s face, seeing he was too. The parents around us finally relaxed, their kids finally sitting still.
I spotted the mother of one of my kids leaning against the wall on the right. I remembered her because we’d been at odds during parent-teacher conferences. Mrs. Gunderson kept telling me her son needed to “be supported,” and to her that meant still tying his shoes for him—Trevor was eight-years-old—and opening his carton of milk at lunch, none of which had anything to do with his education or his grades, which were failing. I looked around for Trevor and spotted him sitting kitty-corner from Rob, a row ahead. I was surprised he wasn’t on a leash or tied to his mother with a string.
Trevor had come a long way this year—no thanks to his mother. He tied his own shoes now and zipped his own jacket and opened his own milk—skills I’d taught him when it was my turn in the lunchroom or on the playground. Sometimes he even stayed after and washed my dry erase board and liked helping me put up the new schedule every month. As his autonomy grew, his grades and attention span improved. There seemed to be a direct correlation.
But I’d received several calls from his mother about Trevor’s progress. According to Trevor, who told me at lunchtime, she wasn’t happy with “that meddling do-gooder teacher of his
.” Those were her words. I’d taught the eight-year-old to tie his own shoes, but that was “meddling.” Both his classroom teacher and the principal had supported Mrs. Gunderson, telling me to “stick to my subject.” Of course, the “damage” was already done. Trevor had gained a measure of independence—a taste of freedom—I hoped he never lost.
I had a feeling Mrs. Gunderson had her reasons for wanting to keep Trevor a baby, although I had no idea why. He was her only child and she had no husband, even though she asked to be called Mrs. Gunderson, so that might have had something to do with it. I looked over at her, seeing where Trevor got those big brown eyes, his freckled nose. The frizzy, red hair she put back in a ponytail was cut short, almost to the scalp, on her son.
Rob glanced over at me, smiling and sliding his hand into mine. I loved how he constantly reached out to hold my hand. We’d held hands through the whole museum, always connected. I didn’t want to let go of him. That was the truth. I couldn’t help looking at him, checking to make sure he was here, that he was real, and I wasn’t dreaming this.
When the show was over, and everyone stood and started putting on their coats, Rob helped me up from the floor—I was in tennis shoes and jeans and a t-shirt today, far more casual than high heels and fishnets—pulling me to him and surprising me by kissing me full on the mouth.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, breathing him in, not caring who was watching. When Rob kissed me, everything else disappeared. I lost myself in him completely. It was like we dissolved into each other, and it wasn’t just our mouths, but our selves entirely.
“Miss Taylor.”
It was Rob who broke the kiss—I couldn’t have. My eyes fluttered open to see him in his hat and sunglasses, but he was looking down at something else.
“Hi Miss Taylor!” It was Trevor. He’d recognized me and had come over to say hello.
And here I was kissing a man. Right in front of him.
“Oh, hi Trevor.” I smiled down at him, taking a step back from Rob, but he took my hand as we parted, making it clear we were a couple—as if the kiss hadn’t been proof enough. “Are you having fun?”
“Totally! I loved the puppet show!” He grinned, pushing his round, wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. His complexion was pale, almost ashen, and his face still had a little bit of baby roundness he would likely lose next year or maybe the year after.
“Me too,” Rob agreed.
“Who are you?” Trevor cocked his head, looking suspiciously at Rob’s sunglasses and red baseball cap. Inwardly, I groaned, praying Trevor wouldn’t recognize him, although I knew the odds.
“I’m Rob.”
Trevor nodded, a knowing look coming over his face, and I knew what was coming. I dreaded it, but there was no way to stop it.
“Rob Burns?”
“Uh… yes. I am.” Rob raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How’d you recognize me?”
“Those sunglasses and that hat don’t fool me.” Trevor laughed.
I hid a smile behind my hand.
“Besides, Miss Taylor talks about you all the time.”
Inwardly, I groaned, but I couldn’t do anything except stand there and smile like an idiot.
“She does?” Rob turned his head and lowered his sunglasses to look at me. “Really?”
“I think your Mom’s calling you, Trevor,” I lied, rocking back on my heels. She was on her phone, obviously momentarily distracted.
“Miss Taylor played us your songs,” Trevor explained. “She taught us how to count beats, one, two, three, four…”
Trevor stomped his foot on the floor, singing along to “You Can’t Break a Broken Heart.”
“Awesome!” Rob laughed, watching Trevor belt out the lyrics. Then he started stomping too, singing along. I watched, aghast, as Rob started from the beginning and the two of them sang a duet. Rob was too good not to draw a crowd and Trevor was a little ham, belting out the chorus so loud he wouldn’t have needed a microphone even if he was on stage.
Trevor’s mom was off the phone and stalking over as the song ended.
“Good job, little man!” Rob laughed, giving him a high five. “You rock!”
“Thanks, I know.” Trevor grinned.
“Come on, Trevor.” His mother stood a little back, looking askance at me. “It’s time to go.”
“See you tomorrow, Miss Taylor!” Trevor waved, heading toward his mother.
I was worried someone else would recognize Rob, especially after that performance, but the crowd broke up and no one even asked him for an autograph.
“Maybe those sunglasses are magic,” I mused as Rob took my hand and we started out of the room.
“Music teacher?” Rob looked sideways at me, ignoring my teasing. “You’re a music teacher?”
“So?”
“So, why didn’t you pursue your real talent?”
“My real talent?” I blinked at him.
“Oh, come on, Sabrina.” Rob swung my hand as we neared the front of the museum. The ceilings were high, one whole wall painted with the Detroit Industry Mural by Diego Rivera. We’d stopped at it in the start, taking it in from beginning to end, and then from a distance. It was magnificent.
“Okay, so I can sing.” I shrugged. “A lot of people can sing. But you know, very few people get to the level you are. Not everyone can be a star.”
“But you could be.”
“I don’t think so.” I laughed, blushing, shaking my head as we neared the front entrance. “Hey, where are we going?”
“I’m hungry.” He rubbed his stomach under his denim jacket. I was still shocked he was wearing denim in the middle of February, but he didn’t seem to get cold. “Let’s go eat.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I was still kind of full from breakfast, but that had been hours ago. We walked to the car and I thought he’d dropped it, but as soon as I was driving, he asked again.
“So why didn’t you ever pursue music… for real?”
“Teaching music isn’t for real?” I rolled my eyes, giving the car some gas as the light turned green. “Someone has to teach the future stars.”
“Come on, Sabrina.” His hand moved through my hair. He not only had magical sunglasses, he apparently had magical fingers. Every time he touched me, I melted.
“Let’s just say I had very practical parents and I was an only child.” I rounded the corner, not looking over at him, but I felt his gaze on me. And his hand, still stroking my hair.
“Huh.” He slipped his fingers under the collar of my jacket, seeking skin, his hand cradling the back of my neck. “It’s a good thing I never had those.”
“What’s that mean?” I did look at him then, as I pulled into the parking lot and started digging quarters out of the Kia’s drink holder.
“So where are we now?” Rob got out, watching me feed the parking meter.
“I hope you like Thai food,” I said, as he took my hand, swinging it as we walked around the side of the building.
“I love Thai food!”
“This is the best Thai food you’ll ever have, anywhere.” I boasted, opening the door of Bangkok Café for him. The smells instantly made me salivate, although I could have sworn a moment before I wasn’t hungry. It was sweet, sour and spice, mixed with an undertone of hot oil.
“That’s a very bold claim, Ms. Taylor.” Rob glanced around, seeing how small it was—it held maybe thirty people, tops—and took off his sunglasses, tucking them into his jacket pocket.
“Come on, it’s seat yourself.” I nodded at the sign, leading him toward one of the intricately carved wooden booths.
That was my second favorite part of this place—after the food. The booths were wide and roomy and had three sides and a wooden, slatted canopy top. You stepped up to get into one, so you felt like you were entering your own little world, even though you could see through to the booths in front and behind. There were six of them against one wall, and tables and chairs on the other side.
“This is cool.” Rob looked around
at the Thai decorations, the framed print from the Detroit Metro Times giving the restaurant “Best Thai Restaurant of the Year” four years running. “But the best Thai food I’ve ever eaten? You do realize I’ve eaten Thai food in Thailand?”
“I’ll stand by it, a hundred percent,” I said firmly as the waitress came over to our booth. They were all Asian and barely spoke English but most of them were sweet and tried hard. I usually just ended up pointing to the number on the menu, if I went in to eat, but most of the time I just got take-out.
The girl who brought our waters and our menus was one of the best English-speakers and she smiled at us and asked if we needed a minute. Rob told her we did, picking up the one-page menu and looking it over with skeptical eyes. I sipped my water because I already knew exactly what I was going to order, looking around, wondering if any of these customers would stampede us on the way out.
I hoped not.
“So, what’s good?” He put the menu on the table, taking a sip of water.
“I get the Pad Thai,” I said. “And you have to get the hot and sour soup. It’s my all-time favorite food.”
“Even better than stuffed French toast?”
“Yep.”
“That’s saying something.”
“You didn’t even taste the French toast.”
“I was too busy writing autographs.”
“Touché.”
“Are you ready to order?” Our waitress appeared, a tiny young woman, probably not quite five-foot, notepad in hand. They all wore an oriental smock and had their hair pulled back and adorned with chopsticks. I always watched them, amazed how easily they weaved in and out of tables in the small space with trays balanced perfectly.
I ordered my usual—hot and sour soup and a fresh roll to start and Pad Thai for my entrée.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Rob said.
“Make it two?” the waitress asked, still writing.
“Yep, make it two.” He gave her a wink and she blushed, smiling back at him. Not that I blamed her. A wink from Rob Burns did something to the female psyche. He got under your skin and he didn’t even have to try.
