by Xavier Neal
She slowly tilts her head with lifted eyebrows.
“I’ve got four brothers. Every one of them is great at something. And the only thing I’ve ever been great at is reading a situation with a woman. I knew who they should ask to prom. I knew who wasn’t going to get to second base without three drinks and a Hail Mary.”
Abby fights the urge to laugh.
“Women enjoyed talking to me because I’ve always been able to be receptive to what it is they need. Truth is, most women aren’t looking for love in a bar or at a concert. They’re looking for a reason to smile. They’re looking to forget who fucked them over at the office or the shitty ex-husband who has their kids for the weekend. They’re looking for an escape, and I’ve always been willing to be that. They aren’t interested in what I do for a living or watching Parks and Rec marathons with me. They aren’t looking to invest in what I care about, so I take it for what it is. One night of fun and then back to reality. Back to doing work I love and hanging out with people who give a shit what I care about.”
A curious expression climbs onto her face. “What is it you think I need?”
I give her a sweet smile. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“I think I like you so much, Angel, because from the moment we met you’ve been determined to prove you need nothing from me. You don’t need anything from anyone.”
Abby lets confusion make another reappearance. “And you think that’s a good thing?”
“Yeah. It means when we spend time together you’re gonna be focused on learnin’ about the real me, the same way I’ll be learning about the real you and not just the cold shoulder version that exists to keep assholes, like the one you assume I am, at bay.”
She less than innocently looks away.
Some of her bitchiness, probably accidental. The other? A way to weed out the ones who aren’t willing to withstand the cold to see what it would be like to experience her warmth. As the man who currently has her hand in his, I have to say, their loss. Why does this action feel more intimate than being balls deep and having a woman cry out my name?
“You don’t need me to make you smile,” I give her hand another stroke and her eyes relocate to mine, “but I damn sure would love to be the reason for it.”
Abby presses her lips to prevent the very action from blossoming.
“Like I said before, let’s…take it slow. Dinner. Dessert. And at the end of the night we can decide what it is we wanna do together in place of sex.”
“In place of sex?”
“Yeah.” My hand curls around hers. “It would probably be healthy to channel all that pent up sexual hostility into something else we can do together that gets us sweaty with our hearts racing.”
Instantly, she shakes her head. “I’m not jogging.”
“No sex. No jogging. Where’s the compromise?” The teasing is rewarded with a full smile. Suddenly, my heart thumps so hard it knocks the air out of my lungs. “We’ll think of somethin’. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me more about your life’s work and how your day went at band practice?”
“Orchestra.” At the sight of my grin, she gives my chest a gentle push, “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“My brothers have been trying’ to tell me that since I learned to talk.”
Abby snickers, slips her hand out of my grip, and drops back down into her seat. Once I’m settled back in my chair, she proceeds to explain what it is she does now with my full attention buried deep in her eyes and not down her shirt.
Something different. No, neither of us really need the other one. We’re both self -sufficient. Established adults. But maybe we both want each other. Maybe wanting is better than needing. Whichever the case, I’m willing to give it a shot. It’s not like I have anything to lose. After all, I’ve done the fuck and forget over half my life. Why not mix shit up a little bit? What’s the worst that could happen?
I hate shopping. Why people do this for fun, I will never understand.
Dana holds up some bright red contraption against her chest. It has too many buckles and strings to be anything I would ever consider personally wearing. “Now that you’re dating you should invest in lingerie.”
My face scrunches. “I am not dating. We have been on precisely one date.”
She shoves the object back onto the rack. “Just one? What the hell, Abby?”
“It’s been a busy week!”
“Has it?”
“Yes.”
“Has it really?”
“Yes! Tuesday rehearsal ran late and then we were recording all day Wednesday and Thursday.”
Dana continues her stroll around the store. “For what again?”
“The soundtrack for some romance movie. I don’t remember the name.”
“Do you remember who is staring in it?”
“Some guy called Preston Wally or Kyle or-”
“Wyatt?! Preston Wyatt!?”
“Why are you shouting?”
“Holy shit!” Dana squeaks in front of me. “You’re recording soundtrack music for a movie starring the Preston Wyatt?”
“No. I was. We finished late last night.”
“Do you have any idea how amazing that is?”
If she wasn’t squealing about it, no. I have no idea who he is or why he is important or why it would be worth mentioning other than the fact he is in a movie. Lots of people are in movies nowadays. Lots of movies get filmed. Lots of music needs to be recorded. I want to tell her the piece was a little boring for my taste. Too heavy on the piano and not enough from the strings, but that seems like a good way to start an argument I don’t want to have.
“Wild,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Absolutely wild. That is definitely one of the times you have a badass job. Playing for celebrities whether it’s their wedding or their son’s christening party or their next movie…That is so beyond the normal scope of amazing.”
I smile proudly.
Very rarely is that something people say when they hear what I do. In fact, besides her, my parents, and Blake, I can’t think of anyone outside the industry who has referred to cello playing as something special.
The thought of him widens my grin noticeably.
Dana stops searching for her size in a corset top. “So, you haven’t had a second date with Blake yet, but have you two talked since the first?”
Every. Day. After he left on Monday night, he swore he’d call me every morning to talk to me on my way to work. I expected him to abandon the idea when he found out I had to be out the door at 5 a.m on Wednesday and Thursday yet, he set himself an alarm, and groggily chatted with me on my way in. This morning I slept through the call, so he left a voicemail. He leaves texts for me during the day despite the fact I told him I probably wouldn’t be able to respond to them in a timely fashion. He insisted repeatedly as long as I answered at any point, he’d consider himself lucky. Last night, we actually video chatted briefly before I fell asleep. He said he had been missing my sweet face and needed something to get him through until the next time we were together. I warned him there was a high probability I would pass out during our call, which I did, but he said he didn’t care. All he wanted was a ‘real moment’ with ‘his Angel’. I don’t get it. Our first meeting he came off as this cocky, self-assured asshole, but ever since we actually talked during our first date, he’s been wonderful. Almost too wonderful. Like the type that will say or do anything just to get into your pants. Hm. Skeptical when he’s arrogant. Skeptical when he’s kind. Maybe my skepticism is the problem….
“Oh my gosh…” My best friend gets an excited look in her eyes. “You have!”
I nod slowly.
“You’ve actually talked to him since your first date?!”
Reluctantly, I repeat the action.
“Like once or twice?”
“Every day.”
“Every day!” Her victory punch in the air seems unnecessary. “You two are dating!” She bulldozes her way past my att
empt to argue. “This is so exciting! Are you going out with him this weekend?”
“He hasn’t…asked.”
“Have you?”
There’s an immediate glower from me.
“Abby, women can ask men out too. We’re not in the 50’s anymore.”
Nope. Not touching that one or why if we were in the 50’s me dating Blake wouldn’t even be a possibility.
“When we’re done shopping, you should call and ask him out. Or at the very least call and let him know you’re available this weekend. Which you totally are.”
“I am?”
“Well, I’m going to some charity event thing with Hugh, so we don’t have plans together, and if you say you’re going to spend the rest of your weekend sitting at home, alone, rehearsing for whatever you have to do for work next week, I will throw your cello off my penthouse balcony.”
My arms fold across my chest. “That’s an 8,000 dollar threat you’re making.”
Dana mimics my action. “I’ll call it an investment in your future.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Makes perfect sense, Abby. You have to realize there’s more to life than playing. Some part of you already knows that. It’s why you quit being a part of an elite band-”
“Orchestra-”
“To settle down and try to find love or at the very least happiness away from those strings.”
She has a very good point, but I refuse to acknowledge it out loud.
“Now, let’s get you away from those strings and more acquainted with these.” She motions her fingers towards the underwear bins.
“I have those types of panties. I’ve had to wear a number of evening gowns as you damn well know and hate lines just like the rest of the female population.”
“Are they solid black or nude colored?”
Why did she say that like it was terrible thing?
Dana giggles to herself victoriously. “Exactly.”
Unsure of how to rebut, I press my lips tightly together.
“We’re not leaving this store without you buying at least one pair of date underwear.”
“Date underwear? You want me to buy something specifically to be uncomfortable in?”
“No. We’re going to buy you something you specifically want Blake to see.”
“We’ve only had one date!”
“Doesn’t matter,” she brushes off. “What matters is when you two go out, you should always be wearing the type you want him to see because the truth is you never know when that’s going to happen. The absolutely most embarrassing thing is when you get into a sexual moment and you’re wearing laundry day panties.”
“We’re taking things slow,” I try to justify. “He will not be seeing my panties any time soon. Possibly never.”
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared.”
My hands fly into the air in surrender.
Obviously she has a bit more experience in this department than I do. She also hasn’t been wrong about things with Blake yet. She knew I should go over and talk to him. She knew we should have dinner. Chances are she probably already knows exactly when he’ll see my panties. Oh…Oh that’s an odd thing to think about. I’ve only had to care about what I feel comfortable in, not what’s sexy. He’s probably seen thousands of women in their underwear. Am I going to be judged or compared? Is he going to see me in mine and immediately regret being in bed with a woman who lacks sexual experience?
“You’re having a panic attack,” Dana declares swiftly. “Stop it.”
I let my eyes pierce hers. “What’s the point of all of this? I have no clue what I’m doing. I have no clue when I should be doing anything and to make matters worse he’s probably just sticking around so he can bag a virgin and win sex bingo or something equally crass and disgusting.”
My best friend’s hands land on my shoulders. “You have to relax, Abby. You are wound much too tight for good things to flow into your life.”
A heavy sigh seeps free.
“Make having fun with Blake the only goal. That doesn’t have to be sexual, but it doesn’t have to be innocent either. Do what feels right when it feels right and if you don’t wanna have sex with him or anything of the nature, then don’t. And if he tries to pressure you into it, knee him in the balls. That always teaches them.”
Her comment gets a small snicker out of me. “He’s actually okay with taking things slow. I accidently let it slip I’m a virgin.”
“He didn’t run screaming for the hills?”
I shake my head. “He actually suggested we do other physical things together that will get us just as sweaty and our hearts beating just as fast.”
Another wave of excitement hits her eyes as she coos. “Aw. He’s perfect for you.”
“If he were perfect for me, I wouldn’t have had to explain to him who Bach was, argue why my lack of knowledge about 80s hair bands is not a crime, and then listen to his favorite Taylor Swift song to engage in a discussion about poetry to music.”
Oddly enough his favorite by the ‘country turned pop sensation’, I now know more about than I feel an adult woman should, is ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’. Which he is. And I hate myself for enjoying the song as much as I am enjoying him.
“You listened to country music for him?”
The joy in her tone causes my scowl to return.
Dana girlishly squeaks, wraps her arm around mine, and tugs me towards the lacy under garments. “Tell me everything…”
For the next forty-five minutes, I recall every word I possibly can from of our conversations. Reflecting back on them provides me with more smiles than I predicted. In between arguing about the monstrosities she has the nerve to call lingerie, I find myself wrapped up in the unusual truth of Dana being completely right. I really do like Blake. It’s more than him being patient with my schedule and idea of going through things slow. It’s his ability to make me laugh. His desire to want to know what I like and to see if maybe he could learn to like it too. His encouragement to stretch the comfort zones I have and the promises he’ll be right there to hold my hand when I do. There’s a give and take aspect between us I’d be lying to say I wasn’t curious to continue exploring.
I shut my car door just as my cell phone begins to ring.
The sight of the caller has me hesitant to answer.
It’s not that I don’t love my parents, they just have an incredible way of always making me feel like whatever I do is never enough.
“Hello,” I answer politely.
“Good afternoon, Mable,” my mother greets.
They both refuse to call me Abby. The argument that ensued when I requested my college graduation announcements include the nickname made leaving the country almost like a vacation. Their claims vary depending on the day. ‘It’s not what they named me’. ‘My great grandmother would be appalled’. ‘Do not insult the great jazz artist Mabel Mercer who had historical admirers’. The last one often tempts me to remind them they chose not to spell it the same way she did, but again, arguing with them always makes me feel like everything I think or do or want is disgraceful.
“Your father and I are having dinner downtown in Highland tonight. He attended a three- day conference last weekend and wanted to spend this one discussing some of the latest decisions he’s made in regards to topics about his book. Would you like to join us or have you already scheduled your weekend? Perhaps with practice?”
Her assumption furthers my self-annoyance. All I do is rehearse. It’s always practicing for one piece then onto the next. Dana’s point bounces around the front of my mind. Part of the reason I joined the Highland Orchestra was to venture out and do more in life, although over the past year aside from Dana’s pushy moments I haven’t. It’s basically been the same shit I’ve always done except now instead of staying shut in a hotel room, I’m shut in my house.
“You should be practicing,” she continues, raising my expectation of a callous comment to soon follow. “The last tim
e we heard you play it was almost embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Yes. It was obvious you hadn’t been spending enough time practicing that week. Your focus wasn’t there.”
Last time the two of them saw me play was almost a year ago right after I caught the flu, which I played through.
“You know your father and I did not spend the money we did for you to throw your talent away. It’s insulting enough you are still with this ensemble, the least you could do is make sure the people who pay to hear you play receive their money’s worth whether it was hard earned or not.”
