Must Love Jogs

by Xavier Neal

  Grateful for the intervention, I lean back into my seat and attempt to give the announcer all of my attention. He begins rattling off achievements of the orchestra and Abby’s parents’ responses don’t go unnoticed out of the corner of my eye. They’re shaking their heads. Rolling their eyes. Whispering. It’s almost as if what the man is rattling off isn’t up to their standards.

  Do they not appreciate Abby’s success with this ensemble? Do they not feel it’s up to some imaginary bar they have set because it doesn’t travel the world or play private parties for the president? Do they even care Abby was constantly miserable with Sparkcane or beyond worn out? Do they care there were nights she cried herself to sleep in exhaustion? Do they even care she’s actually happier with this composer and doesn’t dread going to casual social functions with a few of the other members? I mean, I don’t find them interesting or listening to them discuss ‘famous’ people I’ve never heard of, but I go anyway to show my support. To be supportive. How can her own parents not be?

  The music begins, and as soon as Abby plays her first note, the world around me vanishes. My mind is silenced and my attention is consumed completely by her playing. Her face while focused is painted with so much passion I can’t help myself from smiling.

  This is more than a pay check. This is more than a performance. This is the pure definition of passion meets profession. How can her parents scoff at any of this for a moment? She plays and it’s like the heavens have parted to grant you access to an angel. It’s mind numbingly beautiful. Hypnotic. Every time she plays whether she’s performing or rehearsing, it manages to strike something deep inside. Whether or not a person loves or hates classical music there is no denying she has a remarkable gift.

  By the end of the concert, I feel rejuvenated and ready to prove to her parents, I’m not only a great fit for their daughter, but for their family.

  Her father announces they will meet us at the restaurant, which grants me a few additional moments of peace.

  After the crowd has completely dispersed, Abby comes trailing out behind two other cellist I recognize, Harper and Donald. As soon as her eyes meet mine her entire face lights up and I know there’s not a damn thing in this world that can stop me from loving her.

  “You were amazing, Angel,” I compliment before pressing my lips softly to hers. “As always.”

  She sweetly giggles while adjusting the case in her grip. “Your opinion may be a bit bias.”

  “How so?”

  “You see me naked. You should say I’m amazing.”

  I tug her closer to me. “I used to say it before I saw you naked, remember?”

  Abby gives me another kiss, soothing the lingering anxiety her parents left behind. “Where are Mother and Father?”

  “They said to meet them at the restaurant.”

  She doesn’t seem worried by their decision not to wait for her. “Mind walking with me to my car first, to drop this off?”

  “Of course not. Want me to carry it?”

  Her face tilts at me sarcastically.

  Never. I am never allowed to carry her cello. Doesn’t matter that out of the two of us she’s clumsier than I am, it’s a rule. Only she is allowed to touch her instrument. Part of me believes it’s some weird music thing I’ll never understand. The other part of me wonders if she thinks my touch is too rough for something so delicate. Either way, I’m not welcomed to help with it, though she swears the sentiment is enough.

  We arrive at the posh steakhouse and I’m immediately thankful she encouraged me to wear a suit. After giving the woman behind the hostess stand her last name, we are ushered to the double glass doors where a different woman escorts us to our table.

  The laughter of her parents stops abruptly upon our arrival.

  Their change in demeanor doesn’t detour Abby from greeting them with love. “Mother. Father.”

  “Mable,” they greet in unison, eyes cutting me a disapproving glare.

  I pull Abby’s chair out for her and help settle her in.

  As soon as I’m seated beside her, the waitress introduces herself. “My name is Brittany and it will be my pleasure to serve you this afternoon. May I get you something to drink?”

  “Water please,” my girlfriend says with a polite smile.

  “The same.”

  My answer gets a sneer from her mother. “You don’t drink either?”

  “Yes ma’am, I do,” I begin to reply when interrupted by her father.

  “You just don’t feel comfortable drinking in front of us?”

  “I-”

  “Another glass of the Adriano Marco &Vittorio 2013 Sandaive for me,” Nina requests.

  “Make it two,” Charles swiftly states.

  Brittany excuses herself to retrieve our orders, which is when I finally have an opportunity to finish my sentence. “I’m not much of a wine person.”

  “They serve liquor as well,” Nina informs, leaning back in her chair.

  “I’m more a beer man, ma’am.”

  “Shocking,” she mutters louder than I hope she intended.

  What’s wrong with being a beer man?

  Before I can question the snide remark, Abby speaks up, “Thank you for coming to see me play.”

  They hum the familiar sound of disappointment and Nina sighs, “It was...not your best.”

  The look of hurt that appears in my girlfriend’s eyes causes my entire body to tense. “Oh?”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Charles agrees. “We’ve heard you play better.”

  Abby calmly counters, “Dylan, the composure said this afternoon was the best he had heard me play yet. He bragged how making me principal cellist was the best decision of his career.”

  “That I don’t doubt.” Nina rolls her eyes.

  “I thought you were terrific,” I smoothly interject, placing my hand on hers. “It was even better than your openin’ concert.”

  A bashful smile hits her lips. “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps it was better than your opening concert, but overall, we have heard you play better. This was subpar for you, Mable. It was as if your focus wasn’t there. As if you’ve been distracted,” her eyes shoot daggers at our connected hands, “and not rehearsing enough.”

  “If rehearsing at all,” Charles adds.

  The buzzing of my phone distracts me from the desire to put her parents in their place and lecture them on what it means to be supportive or fucking polite for that matter.

  I pull the device out of my jacket pocket to see it’s a text from Runt.

  Runt: Is there any way you can cover the rest of the event?

  Quickly, I type back.

  Me: Why? What happened?

  “Is someone else more important?” Charles’ voice snaps as the device slips back out of sight. “Is someone else worth being rude over?”

  “My apologies.” Another forced friendly smile arrives on my face. “Work.”

  “And it couldn’t wait?” Nina bites.

  Brittany’s arrival provides the pause needed to allay the pressure they were beginning to apply on me. She sets the glasses down, rambles off something about specials and is dismissed to give us time to look at the menu I have yet to touch.

  Not that there’s exactly been time to between our back to back trials by Mr. and Mrs. Judge Prudey.

  Abby doesn’t open hers, which causes me to question, “Do you already know what you want?”

  “She used to eat here often with us,” Nina announces proudly. “It used to be one of the only things she would pull herself away from practicing to do.”

  The jab at me doesn’t go unnoted.

  “How long have you two been…,” Charles lifts his glass, the word obviously difficult for him to say, “together?”

  “About seven months,” Abby answers promptly.

  “Wow,” her mother seems surprised. “Things are…serious?”

  My response is more callous than intended. “Considering the fact we live together, I would have to say yes.�
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  “You live together?” Nina’s shock continues however this time she’s not the only one startled.

  My eyes fall to Abby’s. “You didn’t tell ‘em we were livin’ together?”

  She twitches her mouth to answer at the same time my phone vibrates a second time.

  Once more, I pull it out to check the message from my brother.

  Runt: Ollie’s feeling worse than normal. She’s burning up. She’s dizzy. We think something is wrong. We need to take her to the ER.

  There’s no hesitation in my reply.

  Me: Be there soon.

  “I have to go,” I sigh as I look back up at Abby.

  “What?” Her voice tries not to seethe.

  “Work,” barely makes it out of my mouth before her parents are invading the conversation.

  “Work?” Nina echoes. “What is it you do that cannot wait? Or would you just prefer the company of your employer?”

  “At least he has a job,” Charles says yet the comment still cuts.

  “You told me you were off,” Abby tries not to bark. “You told me Ford would cover you. You promised me he had you on this one.”

  “Ollie isn’t feelin’ well.”

  “Is that this Ford person’s pet?” Nina stifles a snicker.

  Frustration flourishes, but I swallow it bitterly. With my eyes now on Abby’s mother, I reply, “Ollie is my youngest brother’s pregnant fiancé, ma’am.” My attention lands back at Abby. “They’re worried. They wanna take her to the ER.”

  “She’s probably fine,” Nina mumbles. “Pregnant women often overreact to the changes in their body.”

  How would she know? She probably conjured a spell out of dolls to create Abby and her sister like some more fucked up version of Pinocchio.

  Abby’s face softens proving she’s got an actual heart unlike her parents. “Go. Text me as soon as you know something.”

  “Absolutely.” Our lips momentarily lock, pulling away only seconds after the scoffing sounds. “I love you, Angel.”

  She nods and reassures, “I love you too.”

  With a deep sigh, I turn to her parents, “I’m sorry to cut our afternoon together short. Please enjoy the meal on me. I’ll leave Brittany wit’ my card.”

  “Quite alright,” Charles quickly denies. “We can pay for our meal and our daughter’s.”

  I rise to my feet. “I’m sure you can, sir. However, I was originally gonna pick up the tab and will continue to do so. Abby-”

  “Mable,” they gripe in unison.

  “-will insure my card is returned to me when I see her at home.” A smile slithers to my lips knowing despite whatever it is they say there’s nothing that can change that fact. It’s our home. We live there together even if they don’t like it or me. “Enjoy.”

  They bid me a quiet goodbye and I stop Brittany to do as I said I would.

  This was not how I saw the afternoon going, but a small portion of me is relieved I don’t have to cringe through an entire meal of their cruel comments towards their daughter. Me they may never like, but her? She hasn’t earned the harshness they shove down her throat. She deserves to be appreciated and reminded how talented she is. I almost wish I could stay so I was the target of their hatred instead of her. One thing is for sure. I now understand why she’s terrified of what the world is always thinking about her and what she should be doing instead of what she wants to be. They clearly have a strong influence over her decisions. I just hope it isn’t as powerful as I’m presuming.

  Should I have volunteered to go with him? Would that have been the responsible thing for the girlfriend to do? Thankfully, there hasn’t been many ‘should be by his side’ moments to consider. This is probably the first emergency situation we’ve encountered. I probably should’ve gone with him to help him from worrying too much. I hope my mother is right. I hope Ollie is just overreacting and there’s nothing wrong with their baby.

  “We are very disappointed with you,” my mother’s voice invades my thoughts adding to the other reason I wish I would’ve followed him. “What are you thinking?”

  “She’s obviously not,” my father supports.

  The waitress arrives and is sent away again before she has a chance to speak.

  I fold my hands into my lap yet remain silent.

  They don’t actually want me to reply. They want to drown me in their disapproval and unfortunately my lifesaver just walked out of the building.

  “Mable, are you having a midlife crisis?”

  “Thirty, mother,” I quietly correct. “I’m only thirty.”

  She waves off my correction. “How the hell did you even meet someone like him? Does he even have a real job? He said he works for his brother. Doing what? Shoveling mesquite?”

  The sneer at one of my favorite things about him stirs the urge to cringe. “Just because he has an accent, mother, doesn’t mean he’s ignorant or low class.”

  “He is both,” my father argues forcefully. “Did you hear how he spoke? Where were the ends of many of those words? My guess is his vocabulary is on par with that of a twelve-year-old and his greatest achievement is finishing college.”

  “Oh God, tell me he at least finished his bachelor’s program, Mable, and didn’t attend some second-rate community college for an associates,” Mother groans.

  “He did-”

  “Not with honors,” Father jabs and the two of them chuckle shamelessly.

  I shake my head slowly and lower my eyes to the table.

  This is why I didn’t want them to meet him. If he isn’t well educated academically, financially well off, and from some prestigious family, they weren’t going to even entertain the thought we might be a good match.

  “You know the worse part isn’t even that,” Father speaks again lifting my eyes back up.

  My eyebrows lift in question.

  “It’s the simple fact his race is always doing this to ours.”

  The remark startles me. “Excuse me?”

  “Throughout history, time and time again, the white race tries to eliminate those of our race who are well educated and successful by tearing them out of their chosen fields, turning them into housewives they aren’t faithful to, and removing the competition from the equation. Every time a person of color gets a high-ranking achievement or position there is a play made to remove them. You think you’re the first black woman to have been seduced by a white man so she would give up her position to allow another white face to take her place?”

  His tangent drops my jaw.

  “Do not look so stunned, Mable,” my mother scolds from beside him. “This is how the world works. Equality is an illusion they’re still hiding behind. It’s nothing more than a word we are still fighting to give meaning and power to. And we do not approve of you being part of the problem.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “There are enough talented, successful, black men who will understand the trials and tribulations your people have gone through that you will choose from when you’re actually ready to start dating. We know several,” Mother assures.

  “We are pillars in the black community and you will follow in those footsteps. You will not become another embarrassment by chasing some hillbilly around and throwing away decades of cultivated talent.”

  The combination of racist remarks and vile beliefs sends my mind reeling.

  This can’t be real…My parents can’t be these people? How could I not know before now that they were? That they felt this way? Maybe because there was no reason for me to. I didn’t date. I didn’t even look at the opposite sex throughout grade school. I barely acknowledged those not in an ensemble with me. This topic never came up. They had us attend private schools, which were predominately white, but they never implied they had an issue with it. Or maybe it was something I just never had to deal with being such a loner. Have there been red flags I have missed along the way? Is this the reason they push me so hard to be better than everyone else? It wasn’t in fact that they wanted
me to be better, just better than my white counter parts? How much deeper does their detest go? Is this why they’re always insisting on me attending those seminars and lectures? Does it really have nothing to do with my father’s work, but their bigoted beliefs?

  After a lunch in which I am lectured on my choice of steak rather than chicken, praised for my weight loss then immediately scolded for it when I explain it was because of Blake’s encouragement, and offered countless alternatives to playing in a second-rate orchestra, I find myself staring desultory at the cello in my hands. Every time I lift the bow, my arm immediately tumbles back to the ground in defeat.