This Changes Everything

by Gretchen Galway

  “You’re so full of shit.” She finished the first slice of pizza before grabbing a plate for her second and Sly’s first. “I have some bagged spring mix, but it smells like ass. Want some?”

  “You need to work on your marketing. Take it from the tech guru.” He gulped down half his pint glass, looked at it, then tipped it back for another swallow. Then a belch. “Ex-tech guru, that is.”

  She smiled. “You quit!”

  “You can’t quit when the company doesn’t exist yet.”

  “Sure you can,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, OK. I quit.” He drained the glass. “I’m unemployed.”

  “I’m so happy for you.”

  He shook his head, looking miserable. “I feel like throwing up.”

  “That’s because of the IPA. Let me get you a lager.”

  But he didn’t play along. “I’m serious. I think I made a mistake.”

  She took pity on him, in part because she’d been the one to persuade him to take time off from his relentless professional life. “You weren’t into the concept. You didn’t like that guy on the team. You hated commuting to New Jersey.”

  His only answer was to get another beer, load up his plate with pizza, and pad into the living room, where she’d already set up their bimonthly binge of TV. Lately it had been Battlestar Galactica. They’d been doing this now for four years. This whatever it was. This friendship based on pizza and immersive serial television. It was much better now that he didn’t pretend to be learning to play the piano. The first two months of their acquaintance, he’d sat at the bench of her upright piano and failed to play the simple tune any better than he had the week before. Finally she’d suggested they have a beer. The lesson had been much more enjoyable for both of them after that. Another month or two later, they’d ditched the piano altogether and added pizza.

  It was the most perfect friendship she’d ever had.

  “I owe you for the pizza,” she said, “but there’s no way I’m handing over hard-earned cash for that bitter swill you pretend to like because it’s trendy.”

  “This again? I refuse to take any of your tiny dollars. Do I need to make another graph comparing our net worths?” He saluted her with his second beer. “And you’d love ale if you’d let your taste buds evolve. How can a woman with so much personality be so damn bland about everything she puts in her mouth?”

  She grinned. Even when he was complaining about her, he snuck in a compliment. “You sweet talker,” she said. “How was Hugo?”

  “Didn’t get a chance to talk. Trixie came in with her dog.” He flinched. “It was horrifying, actually. All that blood. And I’ve never seen Trixie upset like that.”

  “After I hung up, I remembered who she was.” Sly often talked about his brilliant friend, Mark, and his family. “After all, how many Trixies can there be?”

  “This is the only one I know, and that’s enough.” He sank onto her old sofa and closed his eyes. “She has a romantic frame of mind.”

  Ooh, this sounded good. “She hit on you?”

  He looked at her without turning his head. “Oh yeah. Sucked me off right there in the car.”

  She hit him. And not as hard as he deserved. “The poor lady.”

  “The poor lady thinks you’re in love with me.”

  “Maybe I am,” she said, burping into her hand.

  “Obviously.”

  “Everyone thinks that. I mean, look at you. Seriously hot. Dark, smoldering eyes. Broad shoulders, tight ass, flat abs. Wavy hair that probably feels really good to slide your hands through.” Still holding her beer, she got up on her knees and patted his head. “You’re like a cologne commercial.”

  He snorted and swatted her hands away. “Settle down. Are we going to watch this thing or not?”

  Laughing, she flopped back down and reached for the remote on her coffee table. Well, it wasn’t really a table—just a shipping box with a blanket thrown over it—but it did have coffee on it occasionally.

  Sly dimmed the lights. They gingerly put their feet up on the box, eating their pizza and drinking their beer, and fell into their typically relaxed, comfortable, happy coexistence.

  When the show was over, Cleo frowned at the screen, unhappy with the ending because it left her hanging, wondering if she’d be able to wait until two weeks from now or if she’d sneak-watch the next episode by herself, like she sometimes did, and then have to pretend to be surprised when they watched it together.

  She flicked on the lights and saw that Sly had fallen asleep. Dark head tilted back, handsome nose in the air, strong jaw slightly less strong.

  He really was a good-looking devil. And fairly rich by now with a few successful start-ups under his Gucci belt. Trixie wasn’t the only person to assume she was in love with him. Her mother the ex-therapist was also a tiresome believer.

  Few, however, ever suggested he must be in love with her. She knew she was perfectly adorable in a geeky-tomboy, curvy-real-woman kind of way, but her type and his type seldom paired up in life or the imagination. Not even hers.

  And could she ever love a man who couldn’t even carry a tune?

  But she enjoyed his company and regretted the day he’d finally find a woman to spend his life with, because that would certainly mean the end of sharing their TV marathons and talking about their lives with uncritical ears and having a few hours every month where they could just be.

  Given how scarred he was about his parents’ cold war of a marriage, however, that day wasn’t going to be anytime soon. He’d never said it out loud, but Cleo knew he was afraid of making the same mistakes his parents—and his father in particular—had.

  Smiling, she lifted the empty plate out of his lap and set it on the cardboard table. “Sly?” she asked softly, leaning close. She hated to wake him. The past few months, he’d worked hundred-hour weeks, flying back and forth to the East Coast as he tried to make another new business a success. Yet he’d always made time for her, always kept their every-other-Thursday night date in front of the TV.

  But the strain had been too much. His eyes were sunken and shadowed, the lines around his full lips deeper than they should’ve been. The price of being a successful tech mogul was too high, in her opinion, no matter how many millions rained down upon you. As her incorrigibly idealistic parents would say, you can’t take it with you.

  His eyes opened and found her face close to his. “Am I dead?”

  “Almost. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “The sexy blond robot chick,” he said.

  “That doesn’t give us much to work with. She was in every scene.”

  “Actually, the last thing I remember is you,” he said, smiling. “You sneezed. Woke me up for a second.”

  “Sorry.” She patted him on the knee. “Well? Are you leaving?”

  His hand came down over hers. He stared at her, heavy-lidded, half-asleep. “You’re awesome, you know that?”

  “How much did you drink? Maybe you should sleep on the couch.”

  He squeezed her hand. “No, listen. I mean it.”

  Then the funniest thing happened. She blushed. “You’re embarrassing me,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  The perfect grin that disarmed employees, competitors, investors, strangers, and, yes, women, lit up his face. Seeing the Sly she knew so well, she couldn’t help but relax and smile back at him.

  But he continued to stare, his strong, warm hand over hers. She fought the urge to pull her hand away. And maybe pour a beer on his head.

  Then his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Her breath caught in her throat. What was the matter with him?

  He blinked, shook his head, and pulled away. “Man, I’m exhausted.” Yawning, he massaged his face with both hands, then jumped to his feet and pulled out his phone. “What time is it? Wow, only eleven?”

  She got up and busied herself picking up the plates, used napkins, empty glasses. For a second there, she’d thought he’d forgotten whe
re he was. Who she was. “I bet you’ll sleep around the clock. Want some coffee before you go home? You’re close, but it’s never safe to drive when you’re half-asleep.” She didn’t repeat the offer to stay over.

  “I promised Trixie a ride in the morning.” He tried to take the glasses from her, but she shook her head and fled to the kitchen, leaving him alone in the living room. “I’ll pass on the coffee. The sooner I get going, the sooner I can be sleeping.” His loud laugh sounded a little forced.

  “Let me know about her little dog, OK?” she called out to him. She heard the front door open. Waiting a little longer than she would’ve any other time, she strode out to say good-bye, catching him when he’d already stepped out into the hallway.

  “I’ll text you,” he said, reaching down as if to button his jacket, then seeing he was wearing her sweatshirt. “Oh. Forgot what I was wearing.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Give it to me later. I’ll go get your clothes—”

  “No, don’t bother. I won’t be needing them for a while. I’ll get them next time.”

  They stared at each other through the doorway.

  “Sure, of course,” she said.

  “Well, see you.” He turned on the grin again. “Boy, I’m wiped out.” Shaking his head, he pulled the door shut between them.

  Cleo stood in place, listening for the sound of his departing footsteps but not hearing anything other than the hum of her cheap refrigerator. Her apartment building’s hallways were carpeted. She wouldn’t be able to hear anybody’s footsteps. Nevertheless, she walked to the door and, feeling ridiculous, looked out the peephole.

  He was gone.

  Of course he was.

  Laughing at herself, she finished the cleaning up and got ready for bed, wondering if she’d imagined it but knowing she hadn’t.

  Thank God he was finally taking a vacation. The strain of working too hard had obviously gotten to him.

  3

  Cleo woke early most mornings to work on her own compositions. She hooked up her laptop to her keyboard and lost herself in her music, with noise-canceling earphones embracing her head in a cocoon of sound. Her latest work was just for fun, mostly Europop with a hint of her new ukulele. It probably wouldn’t be her biggest seller—she had a small income from selling her work online—but she didn’t care. Teaching was her day job. This was for her.

  She hadn’t talked to Sly since he’d been over to her place the previous Thursday. She hoped he was feeling better. Stress could break the strongest of men.

  Her thoughts didn’t linger on him for long, however, preferring the stimulation and satisfaction of music. Knowing this about herself, she’d set three timers on her computer to go off in sequence to remind her she had lessons scheduled all afternoon, mostly with elementary school kids at their own homes. One timer wouldn’t be enough to break through her state of hyperfocus. Past experience had proven that she could ignore one, even two alerts. A third, however, artfully timed to go off ten minutes after the first two, usually broke through her fixation.

  In fact, one of them seemed to be beeping right now. She’d been ignoring it for several rings already.

  She looked up from her laptop and took off her headphones. It wasn’t a timer. It was her phone.

  The number was unfamiliar. “Hello?”

  “Is this Cleopatra Holt?”

  Telemarketer. “Sorry, I’m not int—”

  “My name is Trixie Johnson. I got your number from Sly.”

  “Sly?”

  “Sylvester Minguez? Some people call him Sylly, but I think he’s grown tired of that, don’t you?”

  Cleo had no idea why Trixie would be calling her. Her head was still wrapped up in her work, and she hated being taken away from it. But something about the woman made her smile. “I think he has too,” she said. “By the way, how’s your dog?”

  “Pitiful. She’s milking her cone of shame for all it’s worth. Thank you so much for asking.”

  “I’ve been thinking about her. I’m glad to hear she’s home.”

  “Didn’t Sly tell you? He played doggie ambulance for us. I sat in the back and made a fool of myself blubbering all over her. Sly was so nice not to fuss over the tears on his nice leather seats. Well, and worse. The accident has made Luna a little incontinent, but Hugo thinks that should clear up.”

  Her concentration on her music completely shattered now, Cleo saved her work and closed her laptop. It was time to get dressed anyway. “He can just buy another car. Don’t worry. He’ll be glad for the excuse.”

  Trixie’s laughter was light and girlish. “You’re just as nice as I thought you’d be. Most people would’ve hung up on me by now. Or at least demanded to know why I was calling.”

  “I am a little curious.”

  “Of course. But it’s nothing too surprising for you, I’m sure. I’m looking for a piano teacher.”

  “Oh,” Cleo said, relaxing. Sly’s comment about her being a matchmaker had made her worried about the woman’s motives. “Great.”

  “You do teach piano?”

  “I do. Usually to kids, but I love working with adults. Have you ever played before?”

  “Here and there. I have a piano in the house, but I’d love to get better. Do you think you have time for me?”

  “Sure, of course,” Cleo said. “I even make house calls.”

  “Wonderful. I was hoping you could come right now.”

  “Now?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Cleo looked down at her men’s boxer shorts and T-shirt. She was free until one, but… “How about in an hour?”

  “Perfect. Got a pencil? I’ll give you my address.”

  Why not? She jotted down the street and her phone number and hung up, tempted to call Sly and ask him what he thought of Trixie Johnson asking her for music lessons. But he must know already since she’d called her. Just sending her new clients. Helping her scrape out her humble living.

  And so an hour later, she pulled her burnt-orange Honda Fit into the shallow driveway up in the Oakland Hills, checked the number on the old house, and went up to the door. Nice view. Between the trees she could see the Golden Gate Bridge and parts of Marin. Expensive neighborhoods up in the hills. Sly owned a house or two up here, although he lived in an apartment in Rockridge, squirreling away the rental income from the larger properties.

  Trixie threw the door open. “You made it. Come in, come in.” She held a bug-eyed Chihuahua swaddled in a pink sweater and wearing a plastic cone around her neck. Two other pint-sized dogs trotted around her feet. One of them was missing most of its hair and had a tongue that nearly reached the floor.

  “The piano’s nothing fancy, but it’s in tune,” Trixie said, sizing her up with a big smile. If she’d expected her to look like one of Sly’s girlfriends, fashionably coiffed and athletic, she didn’t show it. Many people who knew the dashing, acclaimed Sylvester Minguez seemed surprised when they met this great friend of his and saw she was just a normal person.

  “I’m sure it’s great,” Cleo said, following Trixie to an upright in the living room. “I brought you my brochure. It’s got my rates, my philosophy, other instruments I teach—”

  “Other instruments? Like what?” Trixie sat on the bench and looked up at her over her shoulder. She had short white hair and shrewd eyes.

  “I’m a big fan of the ukulele, especially for kids.”

  “I don’t think I want to learn the ukulele. I’m a piano girl.”

  “No problem. Why don’t you play a song for me so I get a sense of where you are, what I might be able to help you with?”

  Trixie nodded with enthusiasm, turned, and launched into an enthusiastic, passionate, and brilliant recital of “Ode to Joy.”

  When she was done, Cleo waited a long moment before asking, “So, how long have you been playing?”

  “About fifty-two years.”

  Smiling, Cleo sat on the bench next to her. “I think you should be the one teaching me.”
>
  “Don’t be ridiculous. I missed several notes just now.”

  “You did that on purpose so I wouldn’t get suspicious.”

  Trixie bit her lip, eyes dancing. “Suspicious of what?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with a certain tall, dark, and handsome businessman we both know.”

  “He is handsome, isn’t he?” Trixie asked.

  “Yeah, he is. Not actually that tall, but the ego fools you. Makes him seem bigger.”

  Trixie looked down at her hands and caressed the keys. “It was harder to flub that one than I’d expected. I should’ve picked a different piece. That one’s an old favorite.”

  “You played it beautifully.”

  Trixie sighed. “I don’t suppose you work with very young children?”

  “How young?”

  “She’ll be one next month,” Trixie said.

  “One? As in a baby?”

  Trixie nodded.

  “That’s a little too young. Just a little.”

  “Even for the ukulele?”

  “For another year, at least,” Cleo said.

  “OK, you got me.” Trixie got to her feet and turned to her. “I’ll learn the ukulele.”

  Smiling, Cleo stood. “I don’t think your heart is in it.” She glanced at a large antique wall clock. Her first real lesson was in two hours.

  She was curious. What had Trixie’s long-term plan been? What had she really been trying to do? “Trixie, pardon me for asking, but…”

  “He’s lonely. You sounded so nice.” Trixie picked up the funny-looking dog and nuzzled him. “But you’re not interested, are you?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Just friends?”

  “Just friends.”

  “Then you must see how lonely he is,” Trixie said. “Don’t you think it’s time he found someone special and settled down?”

  As much as Cleo didn’t want to lose him, she had to admit Trixie was right. “He’d never admit it.”

  “But you agree?”

  “I think it’s why he was willing to walk away from that start-up. He knows he’s unhappy. But he’s been single for so long, he thinks that’s his natural state. Other people get married. Sylvester Minguez doesn’t.”