Maybe

by Amber L. Johnson

  I mean, I can admit that his nose is cute and straight and his lips are full. I can even acknowledge that a scruff-covered jaw probably makes some girls pretty happy. I could admit all those things if I cared. But I don’t.

  I swear I don’t.

  “How’s everything going?” he asks.

  “It’s great. I meant to thank you for securing my barre for me. I try to have it with me everywhere, but it’s not always an option. I would have said so sooner, but I don’t see you around much.”

  His eyes crinkle in the corner when he smiles. “I’m busy a lot after work.”

  I tilt my head to ask, “Hey, you don’t happen to know the asshole who plays his drums at all ungodly hours of the night, do you? I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time the past few days with the incessant beats rattling my door.” I hope he senses my sarcasm, but Tyler’s smile falls, and he stiffens.

  He taps the envelopes against his right palm before he answers. “Yeah, I know him. I’ll tell him you filed a complaint.” His tone is short and clipped, his demeanor changing in an instant. “I gotta go.” With that, he turns around and walks away.

  Which is when I see the drumsticks in his back pocket.

  My mom always said I had foot-in-mouth disease, but sometimes it isn’t funny. It makes me look like a bitch. Embarrassment floods my body, and I drop my chin to my chest when the realization hits me that I’ve just made my first enemy in Texas. Since the elevator still hasn’t been fixed, I opt for taking the stairs instead, just in case it breaks and Tyler leaves me there to die.

  It doesn’t make much sense when I think about it. Most musicians I’ve come across look the part—multiple piercings, tattoos, the hair, the clothes, the swagger. That’s not to say that Tyler doesn’t have the attitude. He definitely does, but my radar hadn’t gone off. Maybe I haven’t been paying as much attention as I should have, but it dumbfounds me that I have been dense enough to miss that he is my downstairs drummer.

  Why wouldn’t he be?

  It isn’t something I want to dwell on. We have minimal contact, and in a few weeks I’ll be on my way to a new place.

  Back in my apartment, an old familiar pull starts in my stomach and worms its way around my spine, beckoning me to change clothes and stand en pointe in front of the thin mirror affixed behind the barre. My wireless speaker pours soft notes, and the melody guides my arms above my head, urging me to flex and point, muscles pulling tight in the most beautiful way. I barely glance at myself in the mirror. Instead, I close my eyes and envision myself onstage. Rather than my gray shorts and white tank, I am wearing a gorgeous costume and brand new pointe shoes that shine with unblemished satin ribbons.

  When the memories of another time come flooding back too fast, I stop and drop gently to the floor, removing my shoes and lying on my back to stare at the ceiling. It wasn’t a blown-out knee that had changed everything. The man I loved couldn’t bear to see our promised future torn apart. I couldn’t be who I’d set out to be, and he couldn’t take the person I wanted to become instead.

  Not my fault. My therapist said so.

  I sit up and stretch my back, reaching up to pull my hair free of the elastic and watching it fall in waves around my face. At one time, I would have kept the dark locks long so they could be styled for performances. Now my hair just barely grazes my bra closure, and I don’t miss the extra length one bit.

  Lost in thought, I zone out for a minute and stare beyond the couch toward the window, watching the streetlights change colors below.

  That’s when the drumming starts. It’s fast and heavy, double bass pedal, cymbals crashing, angry beats. He’s started early. Usually it doesn’t begin until well after midnight, but it’s not even ten. This means only one thing to me.

  I can’t feel bad about what I said when he’s clearly being an asshole on purpose.

  Chapter Four

  From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy

  I met a girl.

  Her body is nice, but I noticed her face before anything else. Her lips are pink and bare, like she wants to be kissed, so she doesn’t wear anything just in case. Her eyes, though? Lightest blue-gray, with this ring of navy around the iris. I’ve never seen eyes like those before.

  And her hair smells good.

  But her mouth is faulty.

  This woman is in my building, doing ballet above my head and pissing me off with one simple sentence.

  An honest mistake? Maybe.

  It’s too bad. I bet she tastes good, too.

  —M

  Chapter Five

  “What are your plans for tonight?” I’m gauging Laura’s reaction to the question from across the conference room table while I pack up my messenger bag.

  Laura is suspicious. She’s always suspicious of my intent. “Why?”

  “I’m going to see my band and was offering to let you tag along. God.”

  Her smile is electric when she finally says yes. “I have to see these guys for myself. I hope I’m not disappointed.”

  A quick change at the apartment, and we are all back on 6th, weaving in and out of the people who are milling around without purpose. I have purpose, though. I have somewhere to be. We’re escorted into the venue, and the girl at the door points upstairs to a smaller, less crowded area. From there, I can survey the entire place and watch the gig from above. It beats being on the floor trying to catch a glimpse of the members from behind that one random seven-foot-tall guy who likes to stand in the front at concerts.

  There are so many people that I swear I can see the floor bend a little when they try to shove their way to the front. I’m lost in the excitement and buzz that’s already coming from the crowd—so distracted that I don’t hear Laura calling me from the table she’s snagged for us.

  “I asked for wine, but they only have beer and liquor.”

  “That’s okay. Technically I’m on the clock, remember?”

  “We’re not.” Grier tips his beer at me for emphasis, and I want to strangle him because I hate not being able to have a drink when I’m at a show. Sometimes a shot or two is a requirement to cope with musicians.

  Laura scootches over until we’re knee to knee, gazing over the balcony. “I see your wheels turning, Em. What’s happening in there?”

  I wave my hand toward the crowd. “Do you see them?” I try to keep my sarcasm between the two of us because it makes me look like an asshole to people I’ve just met. However, Laura is my sarcasm soul mate. We get each other.

  Her concentration is turned up to level ten, but she shrugs like she has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “Can you tell which girls are with the band?”

  Maybe I’m burnt out. Maybe I’ve had enough groupie and band girlfriend interaction. Even if both those things are true, I can tell who is who from a mile away.

  My friend treats it like it’s a game. Her eyes scour every half-dressed girl in the audience until she sits up a little straighter to point her finger. “Those two. Orange hair. Blond hair. Close to the speakers.”

  “You’re learning.” I lean back and take a sip of my water. “All they’re missing is a brunette, and they’d have a witches’ coven. A punk witches’ coven.”

  Grier coughs loud enough behind my back that I turn to see if he’s okay. He has some beer on his hands but is trying to wipe off his mouth anyway. “You can’t say shit like that, Em. What if they really are with the band?”

  “Then I’ll pretend I’m their third. Happy now?”

  The joke’s on him because I wouldn’t be caught dead dating a musician. I’d never stand at the front of a stage dressed like an extra on a music video set. I’d never be the only one who knew all the words to the songs because I’d been to every band practice and concert over the years. I’d most definitely never sit behind a merch table and sell overpriced T-shirts and CDs.

  Laura is staring behind us. She turns in her chair, raises her glass in front of her lips like she’s about to take a drink, and whispers,
“Guy staring at you. Ten o’clock.”

  I have no idea what that means, but when I glance over my shoulder, there is a guy staring at me. With blond hair and broad shoulders, his skinny jeans and tight blue T-shirt do nothing for me. Bars and clubs are great places to watch bands, but I can’t get involved while on assignment, even for a one-night stand. I take a deep breath and sigh and prepare to shoot him down. He approaches with a tentative smile on his face, but I stop him before he can even say the first word.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not interested. I’m not drinking tonight, and I’m here on business.” I’ve covered my bases. I’m not open for a date, for him to buy me a drink, or even for sitting down because I need to concentrate. This is the part of my job that makes everything worth it.

  His laugh is quick and loud, and when he throws his head back, I can see his upper bicuspids. He rakes both hands across his face and presses his fingers to his temples, which is when I see the wedding ring on his left hand.

  “I’m not interested. Sorry you can’t drink. I came to ask if you were from the magazine.” His focus is zeroed in my lanyard.

  Grier shoots me a look and makes a sound like ‘mm-hmm,’ which I assume is his way of saying I need to tone it down and stop being a bitch. I ignore him because I’m already doing my best.

  “Occupational hazard,” I say to the new guy above the noise that’s growing louder around us. I lift my lanyard for him to see my credentials better while they spin in front of my face.

  “I figured. You’re the only one here looking that hard at the crowd. See anything interesting?”

  I want to say that I think the girl with the blond hair is dating the drummer or the bass player because she looks put out and territorial and keeps killing other girls with the laser beams in her eyes. I want to say that I have deduced that the orange-haired girl is probably banging the lead singer and often asks if she can sing backup so she can feel what it’s like to be onstage. And I am wondering why a three piece only has two girlfriends in the audience, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer already.

  However, my boss doesn’t pay me to be an asshole, so instead I say, “I was trying to see if I could pick out any of the band members in the crowd. We’re not allowed to see pictures beforehand.”

  He chuckles and steps closer to hold out his hand. “Jonathan Walters.”

  I shake it, but I’m unsure why he’s introducing himself.

  “Now you’ve met a member of Growl at the Badger.” His smile is huge.

  “Clever.” I smile back, grateful that this encounter hasn’t gotten awkward yet.

  “My wife is by the speaker. She’s our manager. I think you called her this morning, right?”

  I feel Laura kick me under the table because I was wrong, and I elbow her in response. “Hollis. She spoke with my boss, Rynn. I’m not allowed to talk to anybody.”

  “She’ll be excited to know you showed up. We’ve had a few who didn’t.” His gaze goes over my shoulder, and he steps closer to the railing. The woman in the red skinny jeans and leather jacket is looking up at him. He gives her a hand signal, and she glances over at me. She smiles as wide as her husband and gives a friendly wave before tapping her wrist like she’s telling him that he’s short on time.

  “Before you go, who is the girl next to your wife?”

  “Carrie. She’s dating the lead singer.”

  Now it’s my turn to elbow Laura. “And the other two hundred screamers?”

  “Honeybadgers.” Jonathan steps back and grins. “Gotta go. We’ll meet you here after?”

  I shrug like I don’t care, but I do. This means a lot to me, and I’m banking on the hope that they don’t suck. “I’ll be here.”

  Once Jonathan clears the stairs, Grier lets out the most obnoxious laugh ever. “You’ll get the hang of this one day, Em.”

  I respond by flipping him off and then flicking his face with water from my glass. “Their groupies are called Honeybadgers, G. Clever? Yes. Impressive? No.”

  The stage lights begin to dim, and I turn my attention back to where it should be. The audience moves forward in a surge, bodies pressed against bodies, not an inch to move unless the entire crowd participates. Without an introduction, three figures take their places on the stage, cloaked in shadow. Just as the singer lets out his first note, the lights dip and scan the stage, coloring his face yellow and green while they sweep in slow circles.

  The band begins to play a soft melody that joins the singer’s voice and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. I love it. It’s the best reaction I could have. The body knows when music means something. When it’s pure and worthy.

  The high-pitched screams from beyond the stage are almost louder than the music, but the sound guy turns everything up a little more so the band can be heard.

  I’m glad I can understand the lyrics.

  We’ve been here before

  Haven’t we?

  Settled this same score

  Haven’t we?

  A door slammed shut

  With an open palm

  You were the storm

  Before my calm

  The entire crowd is singing the words right back to them, and I’m impressed by their following, though it is easy to understand why they are so popular. The music is distinctly familiar—a type of rock I’d thought long dead had been resurrected here in a little bar in Austin, Texas. I move from my perch and rest my hands on the iron that surrounds the balcony’s edge to get a better look at the lead singer. He’s all sex and longing, lead guitar and charisma. Pretty standard as far as lead singers go. I smile when I see Jonathan playing bass behind him.

  But when the lights arc higher and illuminate the entire stage in a blinding flash of white, my stomach drops and rolls. “Shit.”

  Laura is by my side, and she sees it at the exact same time that I do. “What are the fucking odds?”

  “Zero to none. This is the worst thing ever.” I take a step back and decide that it doesn’t matter that I’m working tonight. I need one drink to get through this. I order a rum and cola and nurse it through the remainder of the songs, not looking at the stage much while I try to figure out my plan of attack.

  Tyler and I are about to spend a lot of time together. My job depends on it. Now it’s awkward.

  When the set ends, I’ve finished my drink and am feeling a bit looser, until Hollis comes barreling up the stairs and breathlessly introduces herself. She’s pointing to the other band members when they appear one by one. Jonathan is followed by the lead singer, who is introduced as Shawn. His girlfriend, Carrie, is with him, although she barely makes eye contact.

  “Where’s Tyler?” I ask, craning my neck to look over Grier’s shoulder.

  Jonathan blanches and holds a hand to his ear. “Who?”

  “Tyler. He’s the drummer, right? He’s my apartment renovation guy.”

  Hollis narrows her eyes and scans my face to see if I’m lying. “Did you call him Tyler?”

  “That’s what he told us his name was, so yes.” I’m baffled by these people.

  She replies with a nervous laugh. “He likes to be called Macy. Or Mace. It’s just a thing, so you know.”

  “You’re in the building. You’re . . .” Jonathan’s eyes close while he exhales. “You’re the Georgia peach?”

  “Is that what he called me? I was wearing that shirt when we met. How do you know about me?”

  Jonathan takes another breath and presses a palm to his face. He whispers something to his wife, but he doesn’t answer my question, so I ask another one instead. I ask if there’s a more private room that we can use. Hollis points to a door in the corner, and we head over. The room is small, but we’re the only ones in there and I’m used to that kind of intimate space with bands. Laura and Grier decide to call it a night, which leaves me with four jittery people around me on couches.

  I wait and look at Jonathan expectantly. When he doesn’t make a move, I point to the door. “Are you going
to get the drummer? Mace? Macy? Whatever you call him, can you ask him to join us?”

  Shawn folds forward and answers for him. “You know, Mace isn’t big on hanging out after a set. He’s . . .”

  “Playing drums until 5:00 a.m. I know.”

  The silence is heavy, and I’m considering getting up and walking out because this is weird, not just Austin-weird. I’m about to grab my bag and tell them I’m not interested when Tyler clears the door, sucking on another Blow Pop, his hair wet with sweat.

  He smiles at his friends, but when his eyes land on me, his steps falter. “Hey.”

  I cock my head to the side and cross my legs. “Hi.”

  “Mace, this is Emily Portman, talent scout from Breakout! Magazine.” Hollis’ voice holds a tone that makes me think she wears the pants around here.

  “We’ve met. Care to have a seat?”

  He sits and looks away, clenching the white stick between his teeth. His knee bounces in a rapid staccato that makes me think of double bass pedals and cymbals in the night, and I’m suddenly lit up with irritation.

  “I’m pretty sure I understand all your roles here. Let me just say that the magazine is going to be thrilled to be able to cover your inevitable rise to the top. I’ll be here to document your South by Southwest performance and when you get signed. I have faith that you will be, since you’re fantastic. I have never been this excited to cover a band. Ever.”

  Hollis beams and clutches her husband’s hand.

  “I’ll be as noninvasive as possible, but I do need to set up some interviews and times to get photos of you all.”

  “They sent a photographer?” Shawn’s eyes are wide with excitement. He clearly loves attention.

  “You’ll meet Ethan after he gets here. He stays for about a week to do candids and then one big shoot for each group.” I try to catch Tyler’s attention. “He’s staying in a hotel instead of the apartments.”

  When Tyler bites into his sucker, the annoyance is plain on his face, and I’m internally thrilled. Just mentioning that we’re in the same building while I’m shadowing him has royally irked him. He’s tortured me for days. Now I’m getting a chance to get under his skin. He needs me.