Summer Fling

by Jerica MacMillan

  I had it plastered on my wall when I was in middle school. A younger version of that face, that smile. Those intense green eyes.

  “You’re …”

  In case any doubt remained, Julia banished it completely when she finished my sentence. “Johnny B. Of Brash. I take it you were a fan, Gabby?”

  I spare her a quick glance and a nod as I swallow hard, feeling stunned by this revelation. But I’m not so lost in my own surprise that I don’t catch the grimace that flickers across Jonathan’s—Johnny B’s?—face. He introduced himself as Jonathan. So I’ll keep calling him that. But oh my God.

  I loved Brash starting when I was twelve. They were my favorite band for longer than they were really around. I got their CD for my birthday and played it so much it started skipping. My brother, Lance, took pity on me and bought me the album on iTunes and gave me his old iPod so I could still listen to them as much as I wanted.

  “Awww.” Emma’s voice cuts through my reverie, startling me out of my walk down memory lane. She continues in a stage whisper intended for everyone to hear, “I think our Gabby’s smitten.”

  She’s right, but not for the reason she thinks. Or not only for the reason she thinks. After our conversation, I like him. This guy. Jonathan. That I’ve gotten to know, flirt with, discuss music and books with. The fact that he’s also my first celebrity crush doesn’t matter. Or at least, it’s more of a nice bonus.

  Jonathan shifts, looking uncomfortable. “Well, hey—“

  I put my hand on his arm and turn to Julia and Emma, cutting him off before he can finish that sentence. His tone is too final sounding. Like he’s going to leave and never call me. “Why don’t y’all go ahead? I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”

  Emma looks like she might protest, but Julia’s brown eyes bounce between me, Jonathan, and my hand on his arm, and she nudges Emma, prodding her toward the door. “Alright. But don’t be late. I plan to raise your hand today and make a scene, see if I can get us to stick in Dr. Presley’s mind so he’ll quit looking on the opposite side of the room when he calls our names.”

  I laugh at that. “Alright. I promise I’ll be there before class starts.” We’ve been sitting in the same spot since day one, and Julia’s last name, King, is right after mine, Kane, on the class list. But our professor can’t seem to remember where we are. She warned me on Tuesday that she was going to try to make us more memorable today. I guess now I know her plan.

  She nods and ushers Emma away, leaving me alone with Jonathan again. With my hand still on his arm.

  I let go of him as soon as I realize I’m still touching him and bring my eyes up to his.

  He gives me that same practiced smile again, but now his eyes are distant, shuttered, instead of interested and warm like they were before we got interrupted. Picking up his messenger bag, he settles it across his torso, making his T-shirt pull tight across his pecs, and clicks the pen still in his hand. “So you want me to sign something?”

  The resigned, almost irritated quality of his voice makes me drag my eyes off his chest and back to his face. He has a nice chest. I was enjoying looking at it. His arms are nice, too, and I noticed the way the sleeves of his shirt clung to his biceps when he moved. The way his forearms flexed when he messed with the pen. I noticed a lot about him, and I’d like the chance to notice it again. Which was why I didn’t mind him interrupting me doing my homework and claiming the empty chair at my table. And now I’m glad that the coffee shop was crowded when he came in.

  But he seems irritated. And I’m not sure if it’s because of Julia and Emma or me. Or both.

  I bite my lip and decide to pretend like what they said doesn’t matter. Because it mostly doesn’t. I was looking forward to seeing him again before they dropped that bomb. And that hasn’t changed.

  With a deep breath, I give him my best smile. “Sorry about them. They’re kind of loud, but friendly enough.”

  He crosses his arms, which distracts me again. Because, biceps. Forearm. Strong hands with long fingers, clicking that pen. “Oh, um, sure.”

  I force my eyes to meet his again. “So, since you clearly need to expand your musical horizons, there’s a faculty recital tonight in the performing arts center. You should come. With me.” With great effort, I clamp my mouth shut, stemming the tide of babble that wants to erupt. When I’m nervous, I babble. And I just asked a guy out who’s really hot and I think he’s into me or I did until about thirty seconds ago and he was in the band that I loved as a young teenager and I had posters of him all over my room and memorized his answers in almost every magazine interview he gave and I kept those issues forever and they’re still in a box under my bed back home and oh my God oh my God oh my God.

  He’s looking me up and down, almost squinting. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Did I say some of that out loud? Oh God, I hope not. “What what?”

  He places his hand on his chest. “I need to expand my musical horizons? Seriously?”

  With a little shrug and a crooked grin, I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. “Well, you’ve never heard the Bach unaccompanied sonatas and partitas. Obviously you need a more thorough musical education.”

  His mouth moves to one side, then he rolls his lips between his teeth like he’s fighting a smile. But he doesn’t answer, just looks me over again, like he’s wondering what the catch is.

  I give a dramatic sigh and put my hand on my hip, checking the time on my phone. “Well, I have to go to class. I promised Julia I wouldn’t be late. The recital’s at seven thirty. I would’ve asked earlier if I knew you’d take this long to decide.” I nod to the paper still in his hand. “You have my number. Text me if you decide not to show. Otherwise, I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven fifteen.”

  With one last smile, I turn, being sure to flip my hair like I’ve seen my older sister Marissa do a million times, and flounce out the door.

  I force myself to keep walking until I know I’m out of sight of the coffee shop. And then I stop, sagging against a tree for a second, letting the reality of the last few minutes wash over me.

  My roommate Lauren is going to die when I tell her about this. Since she doesn’t have a class right now, I briefly consider skipping mine to find her. But I promised Julia I wouldn’t be late. And it’s only the second week of classes. Skipping now seems like bad form.

  With a deep, steadying breath, I push thoughts of Johnny B—Jonathan—away. For now.

  Chapter Three

  Jonathan

  I pull out my phone at least ten times between this morning and seven o’clock to text Gabby and tell her I can’t make it to the recital tonight.

  But I can’t come up with a good reason to give her.

  Which is stupid, because if I’m honest with myself, the real reason I can’t cancel is because I want to go. I want to see her again.

  She’d looked stunned when that chick announced who I am in the coffee shop. But she’d ignored my offer of an autograph, even though she’d admitted to being a fan. Then she’d played off the whole exchange like they were nosy new friends butting into our conversation. And practically ordered me to come to the recital tonight.

  It’s an intriguing combination—innocence and brash confidence mixed together in one gorgeous package.

  But, shit. She’s just a freshman. Should I even go through with this? Pursue anything with her?

  I want to. I want to see where this might lead. Because I haven’t felt this kind of connection, these kinds of sparks, in … maybe ever.

  Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. Maybe we’ll burn hot and fast and turn to ash in a matter of weeks. Or maybe …

  I push that thought aside. No sense getting ahead of myself.

  So after eating a quick dinner at six, I take a quick shower and make an effort to dress up a little, putting on dark wash jeans and a button-down shirt, cuffing the sleeves since it’s still warm. Though at the tail end of August, the evenings are starting to get a little cooler, the breeze hinting
at the oncoming fall. Stepping away from my car, I pocket my keys and straighten my sleeves.

  Several people mill around in the lobby. A few of them glance my way as I open the door and step in, but I don’t notice any of them once my eyes land on Gabby.

  Her hair is pulled back away from her face with some clips, but hangs loose down her back. And she has on skinny jeans and a shimmery light pink top that’s cut in a deep V halfway to her belly button, leaving the inside rise of her breasts just visible. She faces the door, but her attention is on a girl next to her with auburn hair. The other girl looks up and sees me, then nudges Gabby, nodding my way.

  Gabby looks up, her eyes traveling over me, and my breath hitches when her gaze collides with mine. I give her a smile, and her cheeks turn ever so slightly pinker.

  But she smiles back, crossing the lobby to meet me in the middle.

  “You made it.” Her voice is pitched low, the warm alto sliding down my spine like a caress. God, I love her voice. I thought it was perfect this morning, and I like it even more now, seeing her again.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t show?”

  Her gaze drops, and one bare shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I wasn’t really sure. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I murmur, stepping closer to her.

  A throat clears next to us, and I blink, suddenly aware that we’re in a lobby. With other people. And her friend is standing to my left.

  Gabby blinks too, like she’s equally surprised to realize her friend is there. Then her eyes clear, her smile turning more polite. “This is my roommate, Lauren. She’s a music major too.”

  I give Lauren my signature smile, and the look she gives me in return is a cross between a sarcastic eyebrow lift and a dreamy smile. It’s an odd combination, turning my practiced smile into something more genuine. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And it’s very nice to meet you.” She leans on the very, which makes me look at Gabby again.

  “I take it you told her?”

  She nods, looking a little chagrined. She spreads her hands in a helpless gesture. “I couldn’t help it. I had to tell someone. But don’t worry, Lauren’s good with secrets. Aren’t you, Lauren?” Her question has an edge of warning to it.

  In response, Lauren mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

  Gabby chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Oh, good. That means she won’t talk for the rest of the night. Thank you, Jesus.”

  “Hey!” Lauren protests and nudges Gabby in the shoulder. “Don’t be mean.”

  Still laughing, Gabby turns to the entrance to the recital hall. “We should go get seats.”

  Lauren follows her. “Yes! I can’t wait to hear the sound in this hall. I don’t think there’s a bad seat in the house.”

  Hands in my pockets, unable to stifle the grin at their antics, I follow them into the recital hall. A blond guy in khakis and a green button down shirt hands us programs as we file in. The door opens into an aisle that unevenly splits the audience, the smaller section on my left, the larger section on the right. It’s a small venue, intimate, with large, plush seats upholstered in light gray fabric. The stage is all blond wood, with the same wood paneling on the walls behind it. A grand piano sits in the center of the stage, a chair facing the audience in front of it.

  Gabby leads us to an open row about halfway down on the right. Lauren goes in first, then Gabby, leaving the aisle seat for me. Even though there’s a generous amount of leg room, I appreciate the ability to stretch my legs a little more here.

  We’ve apparently gotten seats just in time, because I barely have time to open my program and glance down, much less say anything to Gabby, before the house lights dim.

  Soon after, the door at the back of the stage opens and polite applause starts. A tall, thin man carrying a cello and dressed all in black except for the red slash of his tie walks on stage from a door in the back. He’s followed by a woman with a streak of white along the front of her shoulder length hair, wearing all black as well, but her sequined top shimmers under the stage lights.

  The man stands next to his chair and waits for the woman to take her place next to the piano. With a glance at each other, they bow low from the waist, acknowledging the applause, which tapers off. The man settles into his chair, adjusting the cello and messing with his bow. The pianist waits, her hands poised over the keys, a young woman I didn’t notice come in sitting in a chair on her other side.

  At the cellist’s nod, the pianist starts to play, the notes filling the space in the recital hall. No amplification needed. You can hear all the nuances of the music, the changes in volume, the way the pianist, and then the cellist when he comes in, leans on certain notes, giving the music shape and substance. It’s beautiful and emotional, and I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.

  It’s different than I’m used to, that’s for sure.

  My mom was going to be an opera singer until vocal nodes ruined her career, but she played opera for us growing up. She loves Verdi and all those Italian guys. So I’m not completely ignorant of classical music.

  But it’s not something I go out of my way to experience these days.

  I’m much more used to a different type of concert. More energy from the crowd.

  The applause at the end is just as polite as it was at the beginning, though maybe a little louder. There are rules that everyone seems to know about how often to clap and for how long. I want to lean over and say something to Gabby, but her attention is focused on stage, and other than the rustling of programs and the sounds of people shifting in their seats, there’s silence between performers.

  Weird.

  At our concerts, there was always noise. Not the quiet rustlings of people waiting politely in their seats. No. Noise. Sound. Roaring crowds. Screaming fans. People jumping, moving, pounding their impatience on the floor, on the seats. The crazier ones trying to cross the barrier separating the audience from the stage. Thousands of voices singing together when you play their favorite songs.

  It’s exhilarating. Thrilling. The biggest rush ever.

  These people all look like they’re about as excited to perform and the audience to listen as I feel attending a lecture. Polite interest. But that’s about it.

  The chair in front of the piano is whisked away and the piano’s music shelf folded down. The polite clapping starts again as a different man comes and sits at the piano. He runs his hands through his dark hair, adjusting the height of the piano bench and testing the distance to the pedals, scooting back to make more room for his middle-aged paunch and longer legs.

  The applause quiets down. This piece is much different than the cello one. Louder. Almost angry. His hands drift away from the piano after each strike of the keys, like they’re floating, the energy returning as he attacks again.

  It’s fascinating. The difference between the performers and the audience. Between these performers and this audience and what I’m used to. Even the smallest venues we played weren’t this small, this silent. Even these days, when I only play for friends at house parties, there’s always something going on. When people clap, they whistle, they shout. They sing along to the songs that they know.

  The recital is short, only an hour. A little over halfway through the program, the pianist and cellist from earlier return, along with another woman carrying a violin. Gabby leans over and whispers, “That’s my violin professor. She’s amazing.”

  I make an effort to pay special attention as they play a piece by Clara Schumann, the short note underneath the piece in the program informing me that these professors take a special interest in compositions by female composers. Interesting.

  But I’m distracted by the fact that Gabby never centers herself in her seat again after letting me know her professor is on stage. She stays close to me, leaning on the arm rest between us, her shoulder brushing my arm. When she eventually shifts away, I follow, leaning closer, making contact between us once again. My arm now on the armrest, I let my hand
hang off the end, my fingers brushing against her leg.

  We exchange a glance, but she doesn’t move away. In fact, she seems to press her leg closer, making it easier for me to touch her. So I do.

  And for all it’s an innocent touch, in public, surrounded by a hundred other people, it lights me up.

  When the last piece is finished—a brass quintet—all of the faculty members file out on stage, taking a bow together as the audience stands, one by one, giving them a standing ovation. Which is funny, since the audience didn’t seem especially carried away by the performance while it was going on, but whatever.

  I stand too, glancing at Gabby, her program pinned under her arm as she claps, her face radiant in the low light.

  The performers bow once more and file off through the door at the back. The house lights come up, and the space is finally filled with the quiet murmur of voices, people gathering their things and starting to make their way to the door. Gabby and Lauren are both looking around as though trying to find someone.

  Lauren says, “There,” and points across the aisle toward the back and Gabby nods.

  Reaching up, Gabby gives my arm a squeeze, her face turned up to mine. “We have to go get our programs signed so we get credit for being here. You can tag along, if you want, or we can meet you in the lobby?”

  I give her a wide smile. “You didn’t want my autograph earlier, but you’ll get one of these tonight?”

  Lauren gasps behind her. “You didn’t tell me he offered to give you an autograph,” she hisses.

  Splitting her attention between me and her friend, Gabby looks a little flustered. “I didn’t think he was serious. And that wasn’t the point.”

  “I’ll take your autograph,” Lauren says to me.

  I open my mouth to respond, but Gabby hushes her friend. “Seriously? You promised you’d be cool. This is not being cool.”

  “If he’s offering, I see no reason to turn him down. Wouldn’t that be rude?”

  Gabby just shakes her head, giving me a look like see what I have to put up with? Tugging Lauren behind her, Gabby squeezes past me. “We’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m pretty sure I heard someone say there’s cake.”