by Layne Harper
Our first date was a nightmare (all me. Not him). I could be this emotionally distraught over nothing and completely putting the cart before the horse. I acted neurotic. We didn’t even finish our meal.
On one hand, I keep checking my phone hoping he’ll message me. Then, on the other hand, I’m terrified he will.
I’ve never felt this way before, and I’m completely out-of-sorts.
By the time I’m finished, the bottle of wine is empty and I’m beyond tipsy. I hit submit and stumble my drunk ass to my bed.
As I fall asleep, a mental picture of Aaron forms. He’s naked except for a loin cloth around his waist and a large pair of angel wings attached to his back. He’s a gorgeous statue sculpted by the masters.
I dream of fair-haired boys, flowery wallpaper and the smell of cinnamon. In my dreams, I have a witty conversation with him. I don’t get tongue-tied or say anything inappropriate. In my dreams, I’m Audrey Heburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s instead of a comedian trying to make a romantic comedy.
The next thing I know someone is banging loudly on my door. I turn over and look at the clock on my phone. It’s midnight. Shit. I’ve been passed out for a long time. Hoping that the knocking will stop, I grab the spare pillow and place it firmly over my ears and silently plead for Bella to find a new best friend. It has to be Bella right? Who else would show up on my door step in the middle of the night?
It continues.
“What?” I yell. Bella needs to go play with Nyall and leave me alone.
“MK, it’s me. Can I come in?” Aaron replies loudly through my thin front door.
What’s he doing here? Haven’t I made a big enough fool of myself to chase him away for good? I’m excited he’s come, but the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t know him well enough that he should feel comfortable showing up at my place in the middle of the night.
“Ugh,” I mutter to no one in particular. My head pounds and my stomach rumbles. I know I look like hell. There’s not a doubt in my mind that I also smell like a winery.
I drag my sorry excuse for a self out of bed and use my fingers as a comb to tame my hair. I’m dressed in fitted shorts and a tank with a shelf bra. The top was sent to me by one of my followers. Printed in orange letters across the teal shirt are the words A Girl Without a Man is Like a Fish Without a Bicycle.
I unlock the door and open it as I move to the side. He, of course, looks like a million bucks. Another fedora is in place, and he wears tattered old jeans with rub spots in all the right places, an AC/DC concert T-shirt, and an open flannel shirt as a jacket.
He steps inside and says, “You didn’t show up at Eddy’s.” The infliction in his voice and knitted brows indicate he’s confused.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to.” I walk around my kitchen island and open the fridge. I need food, and the pickings are slim. Damn him for keeping our leftovers from last night.
“You also left work early.” He stands on the other side of the island as he informs me of my movements.
How does he know this? My heart starts racing, and I immediately regret opening the door. It’s one thing to run a background check on someone and read my public website. That’s a part of dating these days, but knowing I left work early is troublesome to say the least.
“Quit stalking me,” I state as I rub my temples. I think someone may have shoved a knife in my skull while I was napping/passed out—whatever the terminology is.
Of course he ignores my accusation. “When’s the last time you ate?” He walks to my cabinets and opens them like he owns the place, and I stand there watching him, feeling like I’ve flown to another land where this sort of behavior is okay. He’s concerned about me, and he knew where I wasn’t this afternoon. He seems harmless . . . I think. Then I hear my mother’s voice that’s what every girl said right before she was hacked to death with a dull machete. “Where’s your food?”
Two can play the not-answering question game. “Look, I think it’s very nice you came over here to check on me since I didn’t show up for our phantom date, but now isn’t a good time. I’ll give you my number and you can text or call me like a normal person and ask me out. I’ll check my calendar and then get back to you. Now, it’s time for you to go home.”
It’s as if I haven’t spoken. He grabs his phone out of his back pocket and calls someone. “I need you to go grocery shopping. Get the normal things you buy. Diet Coke, chips . . .” He covers the receiver. “Anything else you want, MK?”
I stand there dumbfounded with my mouth hanging open. Who is this guy? He’s ordering someone at midnight to grocery shop on my behalf.
He waits for me to respond, but I don’t. “I think that’s all, Seamus. Thank you.” He ends the call and walks around the island, sitting on the stool I purchased for my cooking video with Tripp.
There’s probably only seven feet between us, and I need more distance. My racing pulse makes a whoosh noise in my ears. I try to stay calm. “Aaron, I asked you to please leave. I’m feeling very freaked out right now.” My phone is in my bedroom. I could yell, but no one would hear me. “My parents and sister love me very much. They would miss me if I was gone.” Slowly, I back away from him and toward my bedroom door.
His head tilts. “What’re you talking about?”
My heart pounds and adrenaline makes me shake. “Leave me your number, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”
Another step backwards.
He stands up, chewing on his bottom lip. “You’re acting like you’re afraid of me. What’ve I done to scare you? I thought having my assistant fill your house with food was a way to show I care, like giving you flowers but much more practical.”
I quit walking.
My body relaxes. I don’t think he’s here to hurt me. He’s just confused maybe? Doesn’t have boundaries? Still, I keep my distance from him. In three steps I can be in my bedroom grabbing my phone, and then locking myself in my bathroom while I call the police.
“I appreciate you ordering groceries for me. Although I will say it’s weird.” I pause for a second to collect my thoughts. “Aaron, I don’t know you. In total, I’ve maybe spent three hours around you. You show up uninvited at my house in the middle of the night when I never gave you my address. Ask to be let in. Inform me you know I left work early. Don’t explain yourself. Then, you call someone named Seamus and order me groceries. Your behavior is scary. I feel like you’re stalking me, and that makes me want to call the police.”
He removes his fedora, tossing it on my kitchen island. His hand goes into his hair, giving it a tug, while his chin tilts towards my hardwood floor. It looks as if he’s mentally beating himself up. “Shit, MK. I’m sorry. I can’t seem to do any of this right.” He looks up with large, pleading eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You have to understand I’m trying here; I just keep fucking up.”
My gut tells me he’s harmless. He’s maybe not dating savvy and he has boundary issues, and awkward like me. “How did you know I left work early?” My voice is controlled.
His smile is sheepish and really pretty cute. Hair partially covers his eyes, and I wonder if he uses it as a shield. “I called your office to see if you wanted to have lunch since I kept all of our leftovers—sorry about that. Some nice, older lady said you had left to meet a friend. I wanted to ask you out again and waited for you on the park bench where Seamus gave you the flowers. When you didn’t come down, I called again and the same lady said you were gone for the day. Is that stalkerish? If so, just tell what part I shouldn’t have done and I’ll never do it again.”
Exhaling, I touch my chest, but I still keep the distance between us. “That makes me feel much better. I appreciate you wanting to ask me out again after my mental breakdown last night. I thought we were donezo. However, please stay away from my job. It’s not stalkerish, but we don’t want to give the ladies I work with any false hope that I’m seeing someone. And here’s a future dating tip: If you don’t know someone very well, you don’t
show up at their door in the middle of the night. It’s creepy.”
He smirks. “Creepy.” Aaron’s face becomes serious again. “Are you still afraid of me?”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Not in the sense you’re going to murder me.”
“Can I come closer?” He holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering.
Giggling, I reply, “Sure.”
He approaches me cautiously, and I appreciate it. The conversation we just had was not an easy one. I told him exactly how he was making me feel. He listened, processed, responded in a non-defensive way, and still wants to be near me. For our first real confrontation, I think it went well.
He stops about three feet from me. “Can I give you a hug? Think of it as my way of saying I’m-an-immature-dating-fedora-wearing-asshole-who-feels-like-a-real-shmuck-for-making-you-frightened.”
I respond by closing the gap between us and throwing my arms around his neck. He hugs me back, wrapping his arms around my waist. It feels so right to be pushed against his body. His breathing begins to slow as his hand moves to my hair, tangling his fingers in it while he scratches my scalp. I find a peaceful place in his embrace and it feels so good—so right.
He kisses my forehead—an innocent little peck. I could stay like this forever. He smells of ivory soap and cinnamon. His arms feel as if they were made to hold me. I’m happy, and I wonder if he is also.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks as his hand moves from my hair to rubbing my back.
It’s like I can’t help myself. “Your research on me didn’t give you an idea?’
He steps back, breaking our embrace so I look into his eyes. “No,” he answers seriously. “You don’t discuss music in your YouTube videos or on your website.”
“Joke, Aaron. I was being bratty.” I smile.
“Oh!” He chuckles. “Sorry.” He gets this small, half-smile which is so boyish it makes a grown man look sweet. My heart melts. “What kind of music do you listen to?” he asks again.
I think about his question for a moment. I’m not particularly musically savvy. And no one would accuse me of being a music snob. Shrugging and almost apologetically, I say, “I have to say I’m a radio kind of girl. Whatever is top forty. I also listen to country. Jazz, of course, because you have to have an appreciation of it to live in this city. Oh! And I love Britney Spears. She’s from Louisiana, you know.”
His nose crinkles as if just smelled something particularly rancid. “Britney Spears?”
“You asked.” I note I sound just like know-it-all preteen. “Her songs are fun to sing and dance to.”
Aaron looks up at the ceiling as his teeth catch the inside of his bottom lip. When our eyes meet again, he appears less disgusted. “Have you heard of a band called ACE?” He scans my face as if he’s lost something and trying to find it.
“Of course.” I shrug. “Everyone’s heard of them.”
“Do you like their music?” He rocks back on his heels. It seems like a defensive move. I’m confused. His body language doesn’t match such a mundane question.
“Sure. I guess.” His face is serious, and his eyes probing. “Quit looking at me like that.”
Aaron laughs as if he’s embarrassed, and his cheeks turn a shade of pink. “What’s your favorite of their songs?”
Why is he asking me this? Yes, I want us to get to know each other better, but I’m starving, it’s the middle of the night, and we’re playing Twenty Questions. “Umm . . . I’m not sure.” Then a light bulb goes off. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I like that one song. I think it’s called ‘Eyes of an Angel’ or something like that. I lip-synced it in my eleventh-grade talent show. The nuns were not pleased, but Mom just made a donation to the building fund and all was forgiven.”
“Hmm . . .” is all he says. Then after a few moments, he asks, “Is that it?”
I’m racking my brain. I know ACE has been around for a long time. I remember pop culture news about the band, but I can’t seem to pull any particular fact out of my head. I’m sure I have sung along to their songs on the radio.
I decide to go with defensive. “Why?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m not not answering your question.” He holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering, “But I’d like to share some stuff about me, and I want to hold you while I’m doing it.”
Now I’m confused. Does he still think I’m scared of him? I’m not. Being held by him has become my new favorite place to be so I don’t argue. This is going to go down as one of the strangest nights of my life.
I don’t invite him, but he follows behind me to my bed. Flopping down, I scoot to the edge, giving him room.
He sits down and removes his boots revealing white athletic socks which seem to glow in my dark bedroom. I don’t know why this image is so funny, but I immediately comment, “Leftover from high school athletics?”
“Shut up.” He chuckles. “Socks are socks. No one looks cool in socks.”
“David Beckham.”
“What?”
“David Beckham looks cool in socks.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” he tosses out there.
I try to sit to ask a follow-up question, but his arm slides under my head and then he manages to tuck me into his side. I rest my hand on his chest. We’re quiet for a bit while his fingers draw circles on my back. I decide to table the David Beckham follow-up question for a later time.
My room is lit with only the ambient light from the other room. Even though my plantation shutters are open, there is not an ounce of moonlight streaming in. His face is shadowed so I can’t decipher his mood.
“My stage name is Johnny Knite.” He says this so softly that I question if I heard him correctly.
The name is a familiar one. Where have I heard it? Maybe on the radio? TV?
Then it hits me. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the lead singer of ACE?” I try to sit up, but Aaron or Johnny or whomever he is uses the arm wrapped around me to keep me in place.
“I founded the band ACE when I was eighteen. I also started Johnny Records and have nine artists and bands on my label.”
“Of course you’re a rock star.” I ruefully laugh. My mind is reeling. Does he look like Johnny Knite? I have to admit, I don’t have a mental image of the lead singer of ACE. I thought rock stars were cool. Aaron seems more socially immature, goofier than a rock god. He’s a thoughtful guy. That goes against any preconceived notions of who he is. He certainly could have had sex with me last night, and he didn’t. Then, I start picturing how crazy his life must be: world tours, award shows, traveling all over. He’s married to his career just like Doctor Jared—the cautionary tale to my followers. Why am I not running for the hills? More to myself, I say, “I couldn’t fall in lust with a guy who works in oil and gas.”
“Oil and gas? Whatever gave you that impression?” he asks this as if I implied he was a terrorist.
“Callused hands, boots, flannel shirt . . .” I’m a bit offended that he’s so insulted. In New Orleans, you either work in the tourism industry, you’re a struggling artist or you make your money in oil and gas.
“You’re so cute.” He laughs and kisses my head.
I don’t bother defending myself against the “cute” comment probably because I’m still reeling that Johnny Knite, a famous rock star, is lounging on my bed. Maybe I did fly off to another land.
After a moment of comfortable silence, he says, “Do you know anything about me?”
“Umm . . .” I pause for a moment, trying to remember anything I can about Johnny Knite. “I think I remember you dating some blond-headed model and y’all got married in a desert.”
He chuckles. “Wrong rocker.”
“Oh.” I feel dumb. “Look. I don’t really pay attention to celebrities. I’m sorry.”
He kisses my head again. “Probably one of the reasons I’m so attracted to you.”
I press against his side. “Tell me what I should know about Johnn
y Knite and Aaron . . . I assume Emerson.”
I didn’t realize that Aaron was tense, but when I snuggle into him, he seems to relax. Even though I can’t see his face, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Yes. My real last name is Emerson.” He pauses. “I have a sister named Grace and a mom I adore. My dad was one of the wealthiest men in town. He owned most of it, and my mom worked as his secretary. They were never married, and Grace and I are the products of their twenty-year affair.”
“I’m sorry. That must be tough for you two.” My hand moves to his stomach, but I want to feel his skin, so ever so carefully, I inch his shirt up.
“We always knew who our dad was, and we also knew he would never be our parent. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Grace and I’ve never known it any other way. It’s my mom who has suffered the most. I think for a long time she thought he would leave his wife for her, but that never happened. He died when I was fifteen. His wife and their children sat on the front row of the church. My mom, sister, and I sat on the last. Even in death, he made it clear where we ranked.”
My fingers explore the ripples of muscles on his stomach. “Did the people in your town know who your father was?”
He gives a rueful laugh. “It was the worst-kept secret ever.” Aaron’s hand draws different sized circles on my arm and shoulder. He seems almost relieved to be sharing this with me. His tone is soothing, as if he’s telling me a bedtime story. “Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a musician. I learned to play the piano and guitar at church. I swept floors and did handyman jobs from the age of twelve at a small music school in town in exchange for voice lessons. I interned at the local radio station so I could learn the ins and outs of how songs get played on the radio.”
“Wow. You really worked hard.” I’m impressed by his work ethic. Growing up, I was surrounded by people who made their money off the backs’ of others. Friends from college, like my ex-boyfriend, were handed important titles and lots of money by their families. I’ve admired Tripp for making his own way when he could have lived off of family money. I like that Aaron is a self-made man and did it through his own sweat.
