by Penny Reid
He leaned away, his hands shifting to grip my arms above the elbows, seemingly wanting to see my face as I relayed the rest of my thoughts.
“Do I want to teach? Write for record labels? Score soundtracks? I have no idea.” My stomach twisted with unease; my mother would be asking me about performing at her fundraiser and benefit again as soon as the holidays were over. Eventually I would have to make a decision.
Martin mistook my grimace of anxiety for nerves about switching my major, and said, “But you’ll make a lot of good contacts in the school of music, people who can help you figure out what to do next. Don’t hesitate to exploit them for their knowledge.”
“Yes. Exactly. I like the idea of expert unbiased input.”
His smile widened again as his gaze skated over my face, his eyes were positively glittering. “That’s a very Kaitlyn Parker thing to say.”
Of course I returned his smile, his happiness for me was heady and infectious. “So you mean it was an awesome thing to say?”
“Exactly.”
His coffee maker beeped or chimed or made some odd musical notation to announce that my coffee was ready. The sound was very official. Martin didn’t release me immediately and for a second I thought he might pull me back into another hug. Instead he sighed—a happy sounding sigh—and let go, moving to a cabinet and grabbing a coffee cup.
“You know, we should go out and celebrate.”
“Celebrate my switch in majors?”
“Yes. And hopefully other things, too.”
“Like what other things?”
He placed the cup on the counter in front of me, looking a bit distracted, pensive.
He hesitated before answering, but when he did his eyes were sharp and sober, and his tone told me he was a smidge frustrated. “It might speed things up if you read some of the interviews I’ve given over the past few months. Then when we have time this week to talk you’ll know…everything.”
“Sure. Fine. That makes sense.” I nodded, sipped my coffee.
This seemed to both relax him and stress him out. I watched him gather a deep, bracing breath. “Good,” he said, sounding like maybe me reading the interviews was both good and bad. Abruptly he pulled out his phone and frowned. “I’m late. I have to go.”
“Okay.” I gave him a reassuring smile because he seemed to need it. “I’ll see you later.”
Martin loitered, just looking at me, his expression unreadable. Again I experienced an involuntary reaction to his looking. And again I just accepted my body’s flutterings and warmings as one of life’s truths.
Then Martin nodded once, turned, and left.
He just…left, the sound of the apartment door shutting punctuating his abrupt departure.
I stood in the kitchen for a full minute staring at the doorway where he’d disappeared so unceremoniously. He hadn’t said goodbye.
The longer I stared the more the early morning silence felt harsh and loud, so I gave myself a mental shake—deciding he must’ve been in a hurry—and crossed to the counter where I spied the aforementioned box of muffins.
Grabbing one—and my coffee—I decided that now was a good time to start reading the interviews he’d mentioned. Now that I had food and caffeine, I didn’t need the extra time I’d allotted to secure both before my gig nearby. I left my breakfast on the kitchen table and returned with my laptop, figuring I had a good twenty minutes of reading before I absolutely had to take my shower.
I bit into my delicious banana nut muffin, pulled up my Internet browser, and typed Martin Sandeke interview into the search field.
What popped up made the delicious muffin in my mouth taste like sand.
Picture after picture of Martin and a redheaded woman wallpapered the results page—a very pretty, petite, smiling redheaded girl about my age or a little older. She was always smiling, either at him or the camera. The photos dated as far back as August and as recently as three weeks ago.
They looked so pretty, the two of them, so young and vibrant and suited.
My heart thundered between my ears and I forcefully shut my laptop, blinking rapidly at nothing in particular. This wasn’t like seeing him briefly with the brunette at my show last week. This was very different. All those feelings I’d been trying to avoid for the past nine months, the fear of irrefutable evidence that he’d moved on, seeing Martin with someone else, were finally realized and made my chest feel vice-grip-tight.
And yet, as I sat there, having my freak out, calming my breathing, and staring at nothing, a little voice reminded me that he’d texted me the day before and stated he didn’t have a girlfriend. He wouldn’t have lied to me, not when it would be so easy for me to discover the truth. And besides, Martin hadn’t ever knowingly lied to me before, he wasn’t a liar.
Perhaps she was a friend. A really good friend. A friend who he’d been photographed with a lot, since August. A friend he saw all the time.
Then another little voice asked me why it mattered, because he and I were over. And that little voice made me immeasurably sad.
I briefly contemplated opening the laptop and continuing my search. But instead, I decided I didn’t have time to contemplate Martin, the pretty redhead, and my jumbled feelings on the matter and still make it to work on time. I could always go back to the search later if I was feeling brave enough.
I gulped my coffee and threw the muffin away, then grabbed my laptop and clothes from where I’d discarded them earlier. I had all morning to consider my next course of action. There was no need to make myself late.
***
The tree-trimming party was fine.
I spent the entirety of the three sets obsessing about the pictures of Martin and the redheaded girl. But the time obsessing was ultimately productive as I came to the conclusion that I was definitely not ready to read his interviews or see the pictures. I knew my limitations, and seeing Martin happy with someone else—even if he didn’t have a girlfriend now and they weren’t together anymore—was not in my wheelhouse. Not yet.
I had no desire to read about his relationship status via the Internet.
I decided that my questions about his business partner and her insinuations, as well as my new questions about the girl in the pictures, would just have to wait until Martin and I found the time to talk. I felt good about this decision. Less ragey—ragey because I couldn’t think of an equivalent real word to describe what I was feeling—and flustered. More in control of my mental state.
The show in Harlem with the entire band was also fine.
Although things between Janet and me were still frosty. Willis called us on it and wanted to know what happened. I think she expected me to air her dirty laundry—telling him about the drugs and her druggie friends—but I didn’t.
Instead I told Willis that she and I were having a disagreement about whether Jimi Hendrix or Jimmy Page was the most influential guitarist of the modern rock era.
He said he understood, as we both had good points, but that we needed to work through our differences like a knife cutting peanut butter…or mayonnaise…or something else that didn’t make any sense. He really had the nuttiest analogies.
Once he walked off, Janet turned her glower back to me, but it wasn’t quite as hostile. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“You know what.”
“Why would I? It’s none of my business. You want to ruin yourself, that’s your business. But I don’t have to watch you do it.”
Her glower softened into a suspicious glare. “Why are you so weird about this stuff? Did something happen to you?”
“No. But the fact you think I’m being weird because I have no tolerance for heroin is a bit distressing. The truth is, I have very little patience for people who choose to waste their potential and destroy themselves in the process.”
“Hmm…” The glare melted away, leaving only an uncomfortable frown. “See now, I completely disagree. Heroin helps me see the world differently, it opens u
p my mind. It makes me feel free. It doesn’t destroy me, it improves me.”
I shrugged noncommittally, because her words sounded crazy. I’d never done drugs, so I couldn’t comment with any authority on her personal experience. Plus we had fifteen minutes until show time; now was not the time to point out all the extensive research that proved heroin destroyed peoples’ lives. Plus, you know, it kills people.
Instead I pulled my bowtie from my bag, excusing myself to the ladies’ room. I could have affixed my bow tie in the backstage area, but Abram had just entered and I found his presence highly distracting. And agitating. I was avoiding him.
He liked me. I knew that. His suggestions I get a rebound guy notwithstanding, I wasn’t so clueless that I could miss the giant neon sign he’d dropped on my head last Saturday. According to Abram, he’d been waiting for me to see him, to notice him.
The more I thought about his words, the more they reminded me of similar sentiments expressed by Martin in the past.
It occurred to me that perhaps I’d been so busy hiding, trying to keep myself from being seen, that I hadn’t been paying adequate attention to the world around me. I was the one who wasn’t seeing others clearly. Maybe I needed to stop focusing inward and start paying attention to what was in front of my face, starting with Abram.
I was never going to be a jump-in-feet-first, flash-the-Mardi-Gras-crowd-for-beads kind of girl. I knew it would take me some time to actually do anything about Abram. But I was now willing to entertain the possibility.
***
Yes, I was spending the week with Martin on an island. But that was basically where the similarities to our spring break week ended.
After our pre-dawn chat Wednesday, I saw him zero times over the next few days. When I woke up in the morning, Martin had already left. By the time I came home, Martin was either already asleep or not yet home. I hadn’t talked to him other than a daily exchange of handwritten notes.
This started on Thursday morning, when I woke up and found a simple note on the kitchen counter,
Breakfast stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry. I’ll be home late. –Martin
Actually the fridge was stocked with every good thing. Because I had the time, I made myself eggs benedict and bacon, with a raspberry and banana fruit salad. I also baked chocolate pecan cookies, and was sure to clean up all my mess. Admittedly, I might have been stress baking. My drama-prone side wondered if Martin would be home late because of his redheaded friend. But my pragmatic sided quickly assaulted my drama-prone side and gagged her.
I left the cookies in a sealed plastic container on the same spot where I found his note with a message that read,
Eat me. –Cookies
When I arrived back to Martin’s apartment that night, I found his suit jacket on the arm of the couch and the door to his room closed. I surmised he was already asleep; but he’d left me a note on the counter that read,
I’ll eat anything you tell me to eat. –Martin
P.S. Did you read the interviews yet?
I noted that the plastic cookie container was empty. He’d eaten all the cookies.
Not allowing myself to get caught up in a marinade of uncertainty (where the ingredients were: my lingering feelings and resultant confusion, the unknown nature of his relationship with the pretty redhead, and his business partner’s mysterious insinuations) I jotted down a quick response,
Martin,
I have no time for reading interviews when cookies need to be made. Instead I’ve decided to wait until we have time to talk/discuss. I’d like to hear everything from you rather than the Internet.
-Kaitlyn
And so the next several days passed, and our note exchange proceeded as follows:
Friday morning
Parker,
Make me more cookies.
–Martin
Martin,
Here are more cookies.
–Kaitlyn
Friday evening
Kaitlyn,
What’s in these cookies? Magic?
–Martin
Martin,
No, not magic. But I do use unicorn blood to make them chewy.
–Kaitlyn
Saturday morning
Kaitlyn,
Unicorn blood? You can find that in Manhattan?
–Martin
P.S Make me more bloody cookies.
Martin,
You can find everything in Manhattan…except affordable rent.
–Kaitlyn
P.S. Here are your bloody cookies.
Saturday evening
Parker,
Move in with me. I’ll accept unicorn cookies as rent payment.
–Martin
Sandeke,
I haven’t seen you in so long I’m beginning to think you’re a figment of my imagination, except that you keep eating my cookies. Are you avoiding me because I smell like denture cream?
–Kaitlyn
Sunday morning
Kaitlyn,
Merry Christmas Eve. Do you have to work tonight? I thought I might take the afternoon/evening off if you’re off. Do you want to hang out? If you can’t today then how about tomorrow?
–Martin
P.S. I didn’t want to say anything about the denture cream, but yes. The smell is why I’m avoiding you.
Martin,
Merry Christmas Eve to you as well. I have shows today from 2 p.m. until 1 a.m. But, miracle of miracles, I have nothing on Christmas except for a short late afternoon gig that’s over at 4 p.m. We should hang out tomorrow morning. Also, know that I have burning questions you haven’t yet answered. We could make food, then eat it…since we have no tree maybe I could pick up a Yule log?
–Parker
P.S. I will stop using the denture cream, but then you will have to chew my food for me…
I was actually grateful Martin and I hadn’t seen each other for several days. The notes allowed us to settle into our friendship without all the looking at each other getting in the way and making things tense. He was still so completely and brain-meltingly lookable, as my pants liked to remind me whenever we shared the same space.
As well, it gave me time to contemplate and accept the very real possibility that the girl in the pictures had been his girlfriend. I decided I should feel happy for him, that he’d been able to move on so completely. I decided this, but I didn’t feel it. So I worked on feeling it, I worked on moving on as he’d obviously moved on.
Therefore, I stopped avoiding Abram.
And once I stopped avoiding Abram, he and I actually had a fantastic time together. We hung out backstage and discussed mostly music and our childhoods.
We ate meals together between shows and sets, and I learned about all his (visible) tattoos, what they meant and why he’d had them done.
After gigs I played a few of my compositions for him and he played a few of his for me. We were talking and enjoying each other’s company and it felt so very, very good to let myself like someone. Almost liberating.
As the week drew to a close I was feeling like things were moving in the right direction. Martin was my friend. Abram was my maybe future more-than-friend. Though I still had bucketfuls of residual feelings for Martin, all-in-all it had been a good week.
The plan was to head back to New Haven on Monday. I’d found a good price on the train ticket; tickets on December twenty-six were almost three times as expensive as they were on Christmas day.
Christmas Eve morning was actually my first and only chance to explore the city. I made a list of places I wanted to check out and crossed my fingers they’d be open. On the way I called my parents and wished them a Merry Christmas. It was a nice conversation, as they both sounded happy and relaxed.
My first stop was an independent record store in Greenwich Village that also served beer. Since it was only 10:13 a.m. when I arrived, I abstained from the beer, but I dug into the vintage collection of vinyl.
I found a few treasures to add to my record collection
. As I was checking out, a discounted cover caught my attention. It was an original edition of Stevie Wonder’s album In Square Circle, dated 1985. I checked the song list on the back and was gratified to see Overjoyed.
Not wanting to overthink the gift, I added it to my purchases then left the shop. My next stop was a book store, also in the Village, that was supposed to have antique medical textbooks. I’d already sent my dad his Christmas gifts, but he was always looking for wall hangings for his office.
Again, after finding something for my dad, I stumbled across something for Martin. Actually, it was a signed edition of The Princess Bride, one of my favorite books and movies of all time. I was caught up in the desire to share my book joy with him and since the hardcover wasn’t a first edition I could actually afford it.
Then I went to a candy store famous for saltwater taffy. I bought more than I needed, deciding to wrap the extras up for Martin.
On my way back to his apartment, I passed a craft store and maker’s space that had handmade Christmas stockings in the window. Again on a whim, I ran in and purchased a stocking with a crew boat and eight oars on the front in a very unusual black graphic design on red cotton. They also sold ceramics; I grabbed him a Hobbit soap dispenser for his guest bathroom that looked like a garden gnome with big feet.
Then spotted an awesome, handmade coffee mug with the picture of a bass guitar that read, All about that bass. It made me chuckle so I picked it up for Abram.
Before checking out I found some cool stationery; the desk set that immediately called to me had a fishing pole in the right corner and read at the bottom, I’m not lazy, I just like to eat fish. So, of course it was perfect for Martin. So, of course I grabbed that, too.
I maybe spent more money than was prudent, but I figured Martin had let me stay in his home for free; the least I could do was pick him up a few cool things for his apartment. Plus, I felt strongly compelled to buy him these items. I saw them and I felt an undeniable compulsion to give them to Martin.
