by Anna Martin
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “He was the one who got me into playing music. I wanted it on my hand so I could see it every time I play.”
“What about the others?” I asked, gesturing to his bare arms. Once again, Chris had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, showing off the collection of tattoos on his forearms.
“Oh, they look pretty,” he said, smirking again. He allowed me to turn his arm over, inspecting the stars, the roses on his elbows, knuckle dusters (of all things), swallows and a ship and an erotically twisted mermaid.
“Siren,” he corrected me when I asked. “She’s not a mermaid, she’s a siren. A warning to men at sea: don’t get too close.”
“There are many ways to interpret that statement,” I said.
“And so you should,” he agreed.
“Are there more?” I wondered, thinking under his clothes.
“There are.”
“Can I see them?” I asked.
“I’m sure you will,” he countered. Winked. “I’m guessing you don’t have any?”
“Oh, God no,” I said. “My mum would kill me.”
Chris laughed, open, genuine laughter that crinkled his eyes and shook his chest. “My mom doesn’t like them either. She does like this one, though.”
He pulled his shirt aside to reveal a heart and a banner with the word “Mom” on it.
“Very traditional,” I said, smiling.
He hummed in agreement. “I like the old Americana style. It’s so bright and vibrant.”
“Like you,” I said without thinking.
The smirk returned.
“There’s something else you should probably know,” I said, taking his hand and tracing the brightly coloured skull on the back of it with my fingertip. I didn’t pretend to understand why he would want tattoos, but they were undoubtedly beautiful.
“Okay. Go on.”
“I, uh….” How to explain Chloe? “I have a daughter.”
My fingertip stopped its gentle stroking to give him a chance to pull away if he so wished. He didn’t.
“Oh.” Chris turned to me with an amused grin. “You had sex with a girl?”
I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “Yes. Once.”
“Now that’s a story I need to hear.”
Sighing, I settled back into my chair. “Once upon a time, there was a confused young man and a very pretty girl.”
“Uh-oh,” he interrupted. “I think I know how this one goes.”
I laughed, relieved at his easy acceptance. So far.
“Luisa was a very good friend of mine from high school. We went out on couple of double dates with friends, but I didn’t come out properly until I got to college. I didn’t want to humiliate her.”
“Understandable,” Chris said. I scowled at him. He mimed zipping his lips.
“The first Christmas we came home from college, she asked if I was sure. About liking boys. And I said yes. So she asked if I’d ever slept with a girl before. And I said no. So she said how could I be sure if I’d never done it before? So we did.”
“You got it up for her?”
“Yeah. It was… okay. I suppose.”
“Close your eyes and think of England,” Chris said seriously.
“Exactly. So, when we came home again for spring break, she told me that she was pregnant, and I asked her if it was mine, and she hit me. Gave me a black eye. Then I had the humiliating task of telling my parents that yes, I’m still sure I’m gay, but I managed to knock Lu up anyway and now I’m literally and metaphorically screwed.”
Chris frowned and turned our hands over, taking mine in his. “What did you do?”
“Luisa had the baby in the summer between freshman and sophomore year, then went straight back to classes. Chloe was raised by Luisa’s parents for a few years while we both finished our education. Then the three of us tried to live together for about a year, but that was a complete and utter disaster, so I took a teaching position here.”
“Where does she live now?”
“Lu or Chloe?”
“Both. I’m guessing they’re together.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Lu got married about four, no, five years ago now. Chloe has a little sister and another brother or sister on the way.”
“And a stepdad.”
“I don’t mind so much about that,” I mumbled. “I’m not the best father in the world.”
“Why not?” Chris demanded, looking upset for the first time since I’d started the conversation. “You made her, you should take responsibility for her.”
I nodded slowly. “I know that. But Chloe is nearly fourteen, Chris. She doesn’t like anyone these days, least of all an awkward, absent father figure. Mike is good for her, I know that, he’s a great dad.”
“Does she know you’re gay?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
“Well, that clears that up,” he said sarcastically.
“I don’t know,” I repeated. “Luisa may have told her. I certainly haven’t. She has enough problems to deal with without adding her absentee father’s sexuality into the mix.”
“Would you introduce her to me?” he asked.
I felt that this was some kind of test. How serious was I about our relationship? Serious enough to mix boyfriend and daughter?
“Yes,” I said. “If you would like to, of course I will.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
I excused myself to the bathroom and let him wander around the rest of the flat. When I came out, he was studying a painting of a church near where I grew up.
“Is this Edinburgh?” he asked. I nodded, going to him and wrapping my arms around him from behind. He leaned back against my chest and I guessed I’d been forgiven for our earlier spat.
“I used to be able to see that church from my old bedroom. I loved the gargoyles. They were all over the building, snarling at you.”
“Do you write?” he asked, turning in my arms. I shook my head. “You should,” he insisted. “You have a way with words.”
“I’ve written a lot of research papers,” I said, correcting my previous statement.
“That doesn’t count.”
“I’ve been working on a book for a long time,” I admitted. Walking backward to the sofa, I kept my arms around him, bringing him with me. “It’s still in the writing process.”
“What’s it about?” he asked, then huffed a breath as we slumped into the cushions.
“Kipling,” I admitted. “It’s not a biography, or a critical analysis of his work, but it has elements of both.”
“Maybe I’ll get to read it someday,” he said softly.
“Maybe.”
“I’m giving a lecture next week on scansion and meter,” I said. “It’s similar to what you do: rhythms and beats and flow and pace.”
“In poetry?” he asked.
“Yes,” I enthused. “Kipling was a master. He crammed so many beats into one line. It’s sort of like….” I searched for the comparisons to music that I’d used years ago, trying to find another level for my students to connect to. “In four-four timing, you have four beats in a bar, right?”
“Right,” he agreed.
“But the melody over the top of a four-four bass line may have many more beats in it.”
“That’s pretty normal, actually,” Chris said. “It’s the skill of the percussionist to be able to play different rhythms with each hand and foot.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So, okay, you’ve probably heard the phrase ‘the female of the species is more deadly than the male’. That’s a Kipling poem.”
“I’ve heard of it, yeah.”
“Even though that line has,” I counted them on my fingers, “fourteen syllables, metrically, it has four beats. Four bass-line beats.”
He thought it out, and I let him get it in his own time. “I think I get it.”
I tapped it out for him, repeating the phrase until he heard the stresses on the beats.
“All speech has natural patterns. And in poetry, there’s hundreds. But Kipling really knew how to manipulate meter and shove as many unstressed beats into a four-stress-beat line as possible.”
“It sounds interesting,” he said.
“It is,” I agreed. “But here’s where our worlds collide. I love to really dig into poetry, finding the stressed and unstressed beats, working out the rhythms and how that changes things, how it affects the music of the poem.”
“And this is your lecture.”
“Part of it,” I said, smiling. “You should come along.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, if you’d like to,” I said, an attempt at nonchalance. “I’d like to hear your opinion. There’s always a seminar afterwards.”
“I never went to college, Rob,” he said. “I doubt I’d have anything interesting to say.”
“That’s why I’m interested in your opinion,” I argued. “Because you don’t have an academic viewpoint, you have a musical one. That’s going to be completely different to what my students are used to hearing.”
He leaned in and kissed me on the nose. “I’ll think about it.”
I beamed at him.
“But if I come to your lecture….”
“Go on,” I encouraged him.
“I have a gig booked with a local theatre company. They’re doing Aida. Would you come?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall; in all the time we’d spent talking and eating and more talking, it had crept up to midnight. It was a do or die moment—I could ask him to stay, or we could end the night here.
Despite my more primal urges begging me to ask him to stay, I had some old romantic notion of wooing this man. I wanted to date him, to do things properly. It would be too easy to take advantage of the spark between us and act on it, letting it ignite a fire that could too quickly, and too easily, burn out.
I turned and found Chris’s lips, kissing him slowly, letting the spark smoulder between us until we were both angling for more. He broke it off with a laugh, then nuzzled into my neck and kissed the delicate, oh-so-sensitive skin there.
Then he stood, maybe understanding what I was thinking, that the anticipation we were building was delicious and should be savoured. I stood too and kissed him again, then silently followed him back to the front door.
“The lecture is on Wednesday afternoon,” I said. “If you want to come, just let me know and I can give you directions.”
“I’m not sure of my schedule, but I’ll be in touch,” he promised.
I sighed heavily, and my fingers twitched to touch him again as he layered back up in his leathers. Chris kissed me again before he left, the heavy motorcycle gloves clumsy on my face.
“Night,” he murmured.
“Good night,” I echoed.
After I’d locked the door behind him, I closed my eyes for a brief second, allowing myself to bask in the thrill of whatever this was, then crossed to the window to watch him swing a leg over his bike and roar off down the street.
Chapter 4
Of course I went to his performance. I wasn’t going to miss it for the world, whether or not he came to my lecture. I didn’t own a tuxedo though, so I had to go down to the rental place that Marley told me about. Chris had laughed at me when I said on the phone where I was going, then told me in a low voice that he couldn’t wait to see me in it. He, of course, already had a tux for occasions such as this. I couldn’t wait to see him, either.
I left the shop with a suit bag over my arm and butterflies in my stomach. It was only an evening at the opera. I’d been once before with my mother, so I knew what to expect, but the added complication of Chris made the experience new and strange in a wonderfully welcome way.
He texted me just as I was parking the car. Unsurprisingly, he was smoking around by the stage door. His dark-suited figure glowed in the light from a window high above him and I only noticed his nervous energy as I approached.
“Hey,” I said softly, placing my hand on his upper arm.
“Hi,” he said shortly, and threw the glowing butt of the cigarette away, for my benefit, I knew that.
I caught his hand as he brought it back to his body. Turning his palm over, I studied the smooth, even colour of his skin. Chris caught my expression and smiled.
“Makeup lady got to me,” he said by way of explanation. “They don’t mind what I look like on the street, but there’s a certain level of decorum around here. They covered up the one on my chest as well, just in case the colour shines through under the lights.”
I nodded as if I understood, but deep down it bothered me that that little, vibrant part of him was being covered up. Chris watched me, frowning, as I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and rubbed at the thick layer of makeup that obscured his tattoo. The white came away with an orange smudge, and a small patch of red was then visible, just by his thumb.
Chris’s frown relaxed into a smile, and I lifted his hand, pressing the softest kiss into his red ink.
A tinny voice rang out over a metal speaker bolted to the outside wall: “Ladies and gentlemen of the orchestra, this is your call to the stage, please, your call to the stage. Thank you.”
“I need to go,” he said apologetically. I let go of his hand and nodded again.
“Me too. I’ll see you after.” My eyes darted to the stage door, where a bored-looking man read a newspaper, studiously ignoring us. I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his.
“For luck,” I explained.
Chris nodded and kissed me back, then disappeared back into the theatre.
I had to rush back around to the front of the building; the usher on the door scowled at me, and I knew I’d left it too late to be admitted to the auditorium. I could already hear the orchestra tuning up. I was in luck, though, and the ticket that had been reserved for me was a private box, so I could sneak in without disturbing anyone else.
The view from the box was obstructed so I couldn’t see the whole stage. I did, however, have a perfect, uninterrupted view right down onto the rhythm section. Chris walked through a door that probably couldn’t be seen from the auditorium, not looking up and going straight to his instruments, touching each of them in turn, checking that they were in the right places.
Only then did he look up, searching for me. I didn’t ever find out if he saw me, leaning eagerly over the balcony, trying desperately to catch his eye; just then the house lights started to dim, and I was forced to sit back to watch the show.
Not that I actually paid attention to anything that happened during the performance. My eyes were fixed on the man in the black suit, his face furrowed in concentration as he flipped page after page of sheet music and watched the conductor for cues. It was hard to correlate this intense, serious musician with the wild, laughing man I was learning to adore.
Chris had called me on Tuesday night to apologise because he wouldn’t be able to make it to the lecture the following day, and I tried not to be too disappointed. The band, who he had rehearsal responsibilities with, were half of his source of income, and they needed to rehearse and promote like crazy to build up anticipation for their upcoming gig.
I also had a feeling he was afraid of not fitting in at the university, even though he didn’t say as much. His earlier confession about not excelling in school had touched me, in a way; I’d always taken my academic success for granted, studying came easy to me, and I had a genuine interest in my subject that fuelled my career.
My line of work certainly exposed me to others who weren’t as lucky. My students were not easy to categorise, and doing so was often a fruitless task. There were those who were forced into taking my subject by the parents who were funding their education. Those who saw it as an easy ride. Those who took it because they were good at it, or perceived it as a good career move, or because they didn’t know what they wanted to do with their life and English was a solid base fro
m which to move forward.
Chris didn’t fit into any of those categories. He hadn’t followed a traditionally academic path, but he was still clearly very successful in his own career.
At the end of the first act, I went to the bar and ordered a whiskey, neither enjoying nor tasting the liquor as I sipped at it absently. I wanted to know what Chris was doing backstage. If he was outside chain smoking—that was the most likely scenario—I knew I didn’t have time to race around the side of the building to go and see him. Not if I wanted to be back in my seat again for the beginning of the second act.
