“He’s already here in town, he’s been here at least a week.” I shook the paper at my hand with the phone, as if I were shaking it at Lydia. “How was I to know? I’ve already missed him once.”
“It’s not like you expected some psychic link and would be drawn to the right hotel when he arrived.”
I was silent.
She said, “Oh my God, you did, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.” I pouted. “So, I thought maybe I would have some sort of insight, wake up super happy and find him at my door. I don’t know,” I wailed that last part. “I just don’t think I can wait two more days, oh crap, can I lose another twenty pounds in time?”
“Do you need an intervention?”
“Yes, I do,” I whimpered.
I could hear her getting her keys and making muffled moving sounds.
“I need to fix my hair.” I was in full on panic mode.
“I’m on my way, do nothing drastic.”
I hung up. I paced. I could not think. I was ready to jump in the van and start randomly driving around downtown, as if I would drive past him. But I couldn’t do that— go cruising for a man with my kids in the car.
My kids? Oh, geez what was I going to do with the girls? I had every intention of hurling my body— not my kids— at this man. Hell, I really hadn’t thought about that. Would I ever introduce him to the girls? How was I going to deal with that one? It’s not like this had been an issue for me, no one to introduce them to. Should I consider it an issue now?
Just because I hadn’t yet started dating again, it didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in dating. If my girls were to meet any man I was to date, I would have to have been dating him for a while, and be completely certain that I wanted to take that relationship to the next level, the level that involved my children.
Richard had no problems introducing the girls to his many girlfriends. But I was not going to be like Richard and parade my line of random dates in front of my girls. I laughed out loud as a parade of boyfriends all resembling Mr. Ares Martin marched through my mind.
I didn’t even know if this would be a repeating event, I didn’t even know if this was going to be an event, let alone a boyfriend situation.
In any case, I was going to need childcare this weekend— I hoped I was going to need it the entire weekend. Amazingly enough, I had the mental clarity to walk to the refrigerator and check the calendar. The stars perfectly aligned for me, it was Richard’s weekend.
I began searching for the phone, I just had it. I could never remember where I put it down when finished with it. Basically, my phone searching technique involved spinning in a circle in whatever room I currently was in, going to another room and repeating the spinning motion. I might possibly pick up a few things to look under, these actions are repeated in at least one more room with some added cussing. This time I was saved the majority of my search— Lydia phoned me back.
“Okay, what exactly did he say about the color of your hair?” she asked.
“What?” I was confused, and not mentally changing gears fast enough. I was still mentally stuck on searching for the phone— that had been in my hand the entire time.
“Your hair, he said something disgustingly romantic about your hair at the Pig and Pen that day,” she explained.
“I didn’t think anyone heard that.” I blushed at the memory.
Ares had twined his fingers into the wild mess that was my hair, and leaned in close to comment on how the light played on it.
“Oh honey, my ears are fine tuned to romantic drivel, and that was a romance novel quality line he delivered. I may not remember the words, but I remember that much,” she drawled.
A warm glow spread and deepened my blush, it was a happy memory. “He said ‘when the light hits your hair just like it is now, a soft fire emanates from these tendrils.’” I remember how he looped his fingers in more, so they tugged my hair a bit when he tried to extricate his hand.
“Total romance novel drivel,” she proclaimed.
“No, professional poet,” I defended.
“Okay, soft fire, I’m picking up a few colors, we are dying your hair.”
Yikes.
Sitting in the middle of my kitchen with a sheet wrapped over my shoulders and ammonia-smelling goo in my hair, I felt more like a victim than a beauty parlor client. Lydia put away her “tools of war,” as she called them, and my children painted my toenails.
In reality, they painted the tops of my toes, fortunately the enamel mostly covered my nails. The girls were having a great time playing beauty parlor, so I didn’t fuss. At least not out loud.
Lydia arrived with a selection of five different boxes of hair dye, and her own personal collection of hair styling tools. We selected a shade with slightly more auburn coloring than my natural color, nothing drastic, just enough to add a “soft spread of fire,” as she pointed out, his description.
“He is not going to notice.” I whined, as much as I hate whining. Considering the torture, I was being subjected to in the name of beauty, I felt I had a right.
“You are going to look like the idealization he has of you,” she said conspiratorially.
“As if he has an idealization of me. That was probably just romantic drivel as you said, seeing if he could have an effect on me.”
“Well?” She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.
“I meant immediate, not time delayed, this”— I indicated with my head, since I was unable to gesture properly wrapped in the sheet and with wet nails— “is a four month time delay.”
“Then he will either have idealized you, or forgotten you.”
“Great.” I was already invisible to men, I didn’t need to be forgettable as well.
“See mommy we’re done,” my oldest Cassidy, announced.
“Oh, how beautiful,” I exclaimed, in my best you-can-do-no-wrong mommy voice. Just to clarify, my children are brilliant and creative and can do-no-wrong. But sometimes their hand-eye coordination and craftsmanship could use work. In this case, a lot of work. I had more polish on the skin of my fingers and toes than on the nails.
“Look Lydia,” I said waggling my fingers and toes. “One hand is purple and the other is pink and red. Oh, and my toes are pink and purple.” My nails alternated in color.
“He will think you are an amazing mother when he sees those nails,” she said with a smirk.
“You are laughing at me,” I moaned.
“Yes, yes I am,” Lydia smirked.
I instructed the girls to put away the nail polish, and Lydia set them up with a movie before returning to help me clean off all the excess polish.
I was in a fashion panic. How was I going to lure in the bee when I was not a beautiful rose? And everyone around me was having a fine time playing beauty parlor.
The change in my hair was subtle, but small differences have huge results. Now, I no longer had just a hint of color, I had color. I felt great, and I think it even helped me to look less tired. I wish I realized how much improved my self-esteem would have been with a slight change in my hair color. I always thought that dying hair meant big changes. Lydia knew the finer workings of cosmetic altering— obvious changes as well as more subtle ones alike.
After some scrubbing my fingers and toes still alternated in color, but the polish was now limited to the nails themselves. Since my nails are short it ended up having more of a punk effect than princess party style, and it wasn’t so obvious that a four year old and a seven year old did my manicure.
The next day I floated through in a haze, doing what needed to be done, hoping that time would speed up. School, daycare, laundry, cooking it all took so long, and moved so slowly.
I confirmed with Miss Angie that she would pick up the girls Friday afternoon, and that she or Richard would have them home late afternoon Sunday, just as we normally did. Miss Angie was the quintessential southern lady. She could curse you ten ways to hell, all with a smile, and without you even realizing what had just happened,
and without a single curse word. And she loved the girls— it was mutual, she spoiled them appropriately and they were perfect princesses for her. She was also reliable in a way her son was not. Usually Richard would forget his weekends, or make sure he was not available, even though they were planned a year in advance. She took all of the time Richard missed, or gave up. She never was particularly fond of me, however, Miss Angie was fabulous in her support and help with the girls. Without her picking up Richard’s slack, I probably would have gone insane.
I barely slept Thursday night. I replayed every glance, every breath, every word I could remember. He was interested, he had been flirting, his kisses were real. As soon as I was convinced, I would replay every scene, but this time he really hadn’t been smiling, he really hadn’t kissed me. Remembering we met in a hotel bar, I decided I would try to seek him out before the show. I called the hotel and tried his stage name and his real name. No one was registered with either. This news combined with my imagination filled me with doubt, and added fuel to the negative version of my memories.
By Friday morning I could no longer remember anything accurately, and I was sick to my stomach. The overwhelming nausea didn’t leave me all day. Too many times I convinced myself this was a pipe dream, and I shouldn’t go. Yet, I kept acting as if it was going to happen, I packed an overnight bag with a change of clothes. I even bought condoms, hoping they would get used.
Five
The smell of smoke and sick in front of the club did not improve my already nervous stomach. I was glad parking was so close, thoughts of being arrested for prostitution raced through my head the entire teetering walk from the van. I clearly had not practiced enough in these towering heels. The slip dress I wore was extremely short and clingy. At least it was not sheer, and for some reason, I only wore a wrap, not a coat, not a jacket, but a shawl.
I approached the will-call window and asked if anyone had left a ticket for me. The guy said no. I started to pull out my cover fee when I realized my Rockstar would not have used my name, he didn’t know it. “Hey, could you check again?”
The guy behind the window grunted.
“But this time, see if Rockstar left a pass for Invisagirl, or the Invisible Girl”
“Lady, you have got to be joking.”
“Just look,” I pleaded. I watched him flip through pages on a clipboard.
“Holy fuck, yep, right here.”
He shuffled some papers, marked a line with a black sharpie. “This has been sitting here since last week’s show,” he said as he slipped it through the cut out at the bottom of the window.
He pointed me to the girl on the other side of the doors. She took my ticket and stamped my hand.
The music was loud, almost to the point of not being able to hear it properly, almost, but not. The sound engineer was doing the job this club had been chosen for. I walked through a cloud of vape steam. Lights danced, changing colors. People crashed into each other or dodged around to make their way through the club.
Then I saw him.
He was bigger than I remembered. Sweaty hair plastered to his face, covering his eyes, his mouth was on the microphone. I made out the sounds of his low harmony as the lead singer, crooned and screamed out the melody.
At the same time, in a well-practiced move, Ares and the guitarist stepped back and, bowing forward simultaneously, they tossed their heads back, causing synchronized hair flying. Sweat arched from their hair in a shower, and the light caught the spray like a rock’n’roll version of a Vegas fountain and light show.
I could finally see his face. It was fierce and full of concentration. His cheekbones were sharper, and his lips looked so red. He was more beautiful than I remembered. Everything about him was more real than I remembered, he even appeared broader across the chest and smaller through the hips. He had clearly lost some weight. Not that I thought he needed to lose any, but he hadn’t quite been such an inverted triangle before. The waist I remember wrapping my arms around had the beginnings of middle-aged girth. That was all gone now. He was a god.
How was I supposed to get his attention? I was not going to brave the mosh pit. I could hardly walk in these shoes, forget about slamming about. I would break my neck, and most likely my ankle.
I stood there, halfway between the stage and the bar, on the edge of the mosh pit, in the dark. I felt ridiculous. I felt lost. I felt invisible. I looked like a cheap fool, in a dress that was too small, and shoes too young for me, trying to vie for the attention of the men on stage. I had to compete with leather- and vinyl-clad nubile, young succubae, and long-haired T-shirt wearing fans.
I was a fool, I should just leave. I was torn, but I didn’t want to run away and hide. I still had at least one more mental “what if” convincing me to stay. I pushed down the overwhelming sense of self-pity and pushed away any thoughts of crying. And went in search of a place to sit before I fell over.
A strategically placed stool opposite the stage sat unoccupied, waiting for me. With typical Invisagirl powers, I managed to not get a drink from the bartender, no matter how many times I asked. So instead I did what any adoring fan would do, I stared. I stared and pushed all of my will at him, to look in my direction, to see me.
Ares was a god, and this was his temple.
Fans threw themselves in sacrifice to surf over the mosh pit. They sang along with the band in the time repeated actions of prayer. All eyes were on the stage or closed in supplication. This was the adoration I thought he deserved the first time we met.
I must have come in closer to the end than the beginning of the set. They played only a few more songs. The last song went on for a while and in the middle of a musical jam, the singer introduced everyone on stage.
It was a bittersweet thrill to hear his name announced. Sweet to hear the name Mars followed by a roar of admiration. Bitter to know all my giddy butterflies and anticipation and hair dye had been in vain. He hadn’t seen me, never noticed I was there.
As the song wrapped up Ares said, “we’ve got one more.” His voice was deep and large, and sent a shiver down my spine. He continued, “we’re in town recording some new shit for you. We’re gonna play this one now.”
He and the guitarist approached the drummer like TV lawyers approaching a judge’s bench. I got a great view of his backside, sigh. The band returned to their microphones, with one false start they launched into a new song, one that was obvious they hadn’t played live before.
The benefit of this was that I could understand the words better as the singer picked his way through the melody. It was a rock ballad. A love that never quite happened song.
I stared at Ares, and to my thrill he stared back. At me. At first, I thought it was just in my general direction, but no it was at me. I had confirmation when clearly in the middle of the chorus, he stopped singing and said, “I see you.”
My smile was going to break my face. I could not contain my thrill and exhilaration.
The song wrapped up with the chorus, and I knew this was my song as the band crooned, “I want to be the invisible man, because I’m in love with the invisible girl.”
As the rest of the band did the typical throwing up of their arms and fist pumping of the sky with their “thank yous,” and “good nights,” Ares handed his bass over to the guitarist and jumped off the stage. He was immediately swarmed, but soon the fans parted before him like the splitting of the Red Sea.
Ares stalked in long predatory strides right to me. Without a word, he slipped his hand up to cup the back of my head and kissed me. All of my senses stopped functioning properly, my world went dark and smoky as his hair fell in a curtain around us.
As if from far away, I could hear muffled sounds of whistles, cat calls and jeers. Lights behind my eyes flared like fireworks. I don’t know if I was breathing. His lips were all there was. They were soft and warm. He tasted of salty sweat and alcohol. His tongue was warm and strong as he slid it between my lips deepening the kiss. He claimed my mouth, my will, right there
in the middle of the club, in front of all those people. And I didn’t care. Ares Martin remembered me and kissed like the god he appeared to be.
I must have hooked my hands on his wrists during the kiss since I was holding them when he took his lips away. He licked my lower lip and rested his forehead against mine. I felt his hot alcohol-laden breath on my face.
“You came.” His voice was deep and husky, a little raspy from heavy use.
My brain was numb, and I responded honestly, without sarcastic intent, “Almost.” Then I realized what I said.
He chuckled and I opened my eyes. His face was so beautiful, all that ferocity he had on stage was gone, now I saw slightly slanted eyes, lightly outlined in makeup, he had a rosy glow from the exertion of the set.
“Are you,” he paused, his eyes searched my face, he still cradled my head in his large hands. “Can you stay with me?”
I couldn’t dare believe I heard uncertainty in his tone. I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I was in shock, still reveling in the thought that he remembered me. His lips curled into a smile exposing just a hint of his teeth. It was the first time I saw that smile, it was full of promise and danger.
“I’m staying at the Extended Stay Suites on Ellington and West End. You know it?”
I nodded.
Someone yelled at him. He turned his head back toward the stage. “Okay, okay,” he yelled back.
He dropped his hands to my shoulders, one hand rubbed up and down on my arm.
“Heh, you’re wearing a slip, a Freudian Slip,” he said with a chuckle. He leaned in and kissed me quickly on the forehead. “Give me one hour, meet me in the lobby.”
Then he turned and left. He simply dropped his hands and left. I felt abandoned, to have his presence so swiftly removed almost physically hurt.
I watched him sign a few autographs, and leap with the grace of a gazelle back onto the stage, then he disappeared backstage. I just sat there. Stunned. Like a lump. My other superhero power Fangirl: Puddle of Goo had taken over. My head spun. He remembered me, and he wanted me. At least I was going to his hotel. I mean for all I knew he just wanted to play poker or Risk, but I doubted it. I was letting myself doubt what was obvious to everyone else in the club. Mars just marked me as groupie of the night. A few other patrons cat called at me as I floated out of the club. I heard a few appreciative “day-yum gurl” comments, and more than a few “bitch,” “slut,” and “whore” comments. Who cared? He remembered me.
Ballad Ares Page 4
