Once Upon a Real Good Time

by Lauren Blakely

  “Sounds good,” he tells me. “How are things at The Grouchy Owl?”

  “Love it there,” I say, since Chris connected me with his cousin, who runs the bar. “Favorite place to play so far.”

  Though that might have something to do with a certain trivia-loving member of the clientele. I end the call and head into the kitchen, my nose up, sniffing the goodness.

  Samantha shoos me out, pointing to the living room. “You are not welcome here. Top secret, I tell you.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender, and she swats my back with a towel.

  “I mean it, Dad. Leave. Get out of here. I need to be in the baking zone.”

  “I’m going, I’m going. Don’t you see I’m leaving?”

  “Take your phone, go to the living room, sit down, put your feet up. Do your thing. Listen to your music or your podcasts, whatever it is that entertains you, but I need to focus while I am making our treat.”

  I do as I’m told.

  I kick back on the couch and grab my phone. But I don’t listen to a podcast, and I don’t crack open a book. I send a text to the woman I’m seeing on Saturday night.

  * * *

  Campbell: What did Beethoven do before composing?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Is this some kind of throwdown? The answer is dunk his head in cold water.

  * * *

  Campbell: How do I know you didn’t turn to Google?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.

  * * *

  Campbell: Because that’s like a violation of your basic world order, right?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Absolutely. I would never do that. It would be like if you lip-synched your songs. Now it’s your turn. Tell me some kick-ass songs I don’t know that I need to listen to.

  * * *

  Campbell: That’s a serious challenge. There are so many great songs. I would say if you’re not listening to the Righteous Surfboards, you should be checking out Arcade Fire, Sam Smith, and anything by The Rolling Stones, but hopefully you know that. Rilo Kiley, Jane Black, Johnny Cash. But really, I would think, based on your tastes, you’re going to like Top 40 pop music best of all.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

  * * *

  Campbell: Do you mean am I one of those music snobs who thinks listening to something by Katy Perry is a mortal sin? That to be cool you need to listen to only hip indie bands played on alt radio and college playlists, and liking Taylor Swift or Justin Timberlake is akin to ordering a wine cooler instead of Pabst Blue Ribbon on Sunday Funday?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: I would never order Pabst. Ever. Does that automatically make me uncool? I guess I’m cool with that.

  * * *

  Campbell: Uncool is in the eye of the beholder. I thought you were pretty cool with your Beethoven knowledge and your Broadway facts. In fact, I have a fun Broadway trivia fact that I’ll share with you on Saturday night.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Tell me now.

  * * *

  Campbell: It will be worth the wait. But here’s your hint—it’s about the fifth longest-running Broadway Musical.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Les Mis! Can’t wait.

  * * *

  Campbell: Know what I can’t wait for?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Tell me.

  * * *

  Campbell: I cannot wait to get my mouth on you again. And I don’t just mean your lips.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: *Fire emoticon*

  * * *

  “Okay, Dad, stop sexting with a woman.”

  I snap my gaze away from the screen, feeling a splash of heat on my cheeks. “I was not sexting.”

  Samantha laughs. “I’m right here. I know you’re not sexting. I was just teasing you.”

  Whew. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Anyway, I’m ready, so log in to Netflix.”

  I send one quick final text.

  * * *

  Campbell: I have been summoned to watch American Vandal by my daughter. Farewell.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: You must obey that summons.

  * * *

  I smile as I set my phone on the table, flicking the laptop open and digging the fact that Mackenzie didn’t give me a hard time about hanging out with my kid. Honestly, that’s one of the reasons I haven’t dated in a while. A woman I went out with more than a year ago, Amelia, didn’t like the fact that she was second best to my daughter. Whenever I told her I needed to take off to spend time with Samantha, she’d keep texting. Keep asking questions. Send sexy selfies. Like a shot of her boobs was going to make me ditch taking my kid to her soccer game.

  Suffice to say, Amelia didn’t last long.

  Samantha sits next to me on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and points to it. “This is my new recipe for the most extraordinary kettle corn in the entire universe. But it might also be the worst you’ve ever tasted.”

  “I’ll be the judge of it.”

  I dip my hand into the bowl and pop some kernels in my mouth. It’s sweet and salty and caramel-crunchy. “It’s the best kettle corn in the universe.”

  We settle in and watch the mockumentary, and even though it’s a satire about who drew dicks on cars in a school parking lot, I’m not embarrassed, and she’s not either, because it’s fucking awesome that she still likes to hang out with her dad.

  Chapter 11

  Mackenzie

  * * *

  The train rumbles into the station across town, and with my hand on Kyle’s back, next to his violin case, we exit the subway. As we walk along the platform to the stairs, weaving through Friday afternoon crowds, the recognizable notes of U2 sound from a saxophone. Even someone like me can recognize U2’s “Mysterious Ways.”

  Kyle’s smile stretches wide as he points to a twenty-something goateed guy blowing into the instrument. A young woman with long, silky black hair accompanies him on a cello.

  “Those two are so cool. They play all these old songs.”

  “Old?” I ask as we walk toward the duo playing on the edge of the platform.

  “You know, the kind people like you listened to back in the day. They’re the best,” Kyle says, his eyes a little glazed as he listens.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Old people?”

  He nods. “Yeah. People of your generation. The people who listen to oldies music.”

  I cringe. As a child of the 90s, it still breaks my heart that that decade’s music is now considered “retro,” and I will do whatever it takes to eradicate that ageist assumption.

  “For the record, young man, that’s not old. I was raised in the heyday of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and U2’s Achtung Baby, which was released in 1991, when I was but a wee second-grader.”

  “That makes you old, Mom,” he says, telling it like it is, like I haven’t already been insulted by all the oldies 90s radio stations and playlists. “But don’t let it get to you. I like music that’s way older. That’s centuries older. Would that make it older than dirt?”

  I laugh as we walk. “Touché.”

  He reaches into his jeans pocket and drops a couple bills into the open cello case of the young woman. She nods and whispers a quiet “thank you” as she continues to play.

  “That was nice of you to give her some money,” I say as we head upstairs.

  “She’s a student. She’s getting her BFA at Julliard.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My friends and I see the two of them there when we take the subway after school. She’s busking a lot at this station.”

  I wonder, as I have before, if that’s going to be his fate. Street performing isn’t a bad choice, I suppose. Buskers can be happy with what they do. But I’m also completely aware that finding success as a professional musician is akin to finding it playing professional sports. Will he be the exception? Can he nab a spot in
an orchestra or in the pit for a Broadway show? Maybe play jingles for commercials? I have no idea if he’ll be talented enough or driven enough.

  And that’s why I have to remind myself he’s only thirteen. He might have dreams and aspirations, but in the end, he could decide to be an environmental scientist or an artist or something else entirely. My role is simply to nurture his hopes right now. Whether they turn into his career is for the future to decide.

  That’s why I’m taking him to the first lesson Jamison set up with the new teacher. He emailed me about an hour or so ago to tell me the guy that Chris had been courting had an unexpected cancellation and could fit Kyle into his schedule today.

  His name is Mason Hart. The Mason Hart.

  That’s what Jamison wrote.

  The name only rang a minor bell for me—something about a boy band of brothers from years ago. But I can google him after the lesson to refresh my memory, since there’s no time to do it beforehand.

  We make our way through the Friday afternoon crowds in Chelsea and arrive at Jamison’s building a few minutes before one.

  I say hello to the doorman.

  “Hey, Mac and Cheese and Kyle the Machine,” Joey says in his Jersey accent, shooting us a lopsided grin. Joey likes to give nicknames.

  “Hi, Joey the Terminator,” Kyle replies, getting into the game.

  The uniformed man offers a fist for knocking. “You know it. Hit a grand slam in my softball game. Terminated the opponents.”

  “Excellent,” Kyle says approvingly.

  As soon as we arrive on the fifth floor, Jamison is waiting at the door, practically bouncing on his feet. “I am so excited. I cannot wait for you to meet the new violin teacher. Come in, come in, come in.”

  Once we head inside, Kyle takes his violin out of its case then rubs his hands against his jeans, a sign that he’s a little bit nervous. I think it’s a good thing to be a little nervous before you meet a teacher. Kyle excuses himself for the bathroom.

  I give Jamison a nudge. “So, you’re getting former pop stars to teach violin?”

  “Isn’t it wild? I loved his music so much. But don’t worry. He’s a terrific teacher. He cut his teeth on classical music well before pop, so he’s no one-trick pony.”

  “Is he a two-trick horse?”

  “More like a full musical stallion,” Jamison says with a wink.

  “Well, giddy up, then.”

  Jamison laughs and whinnies like a horse. “Neigh.”

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “All right, let’s meet this stud,” I say.

  Jamison practically trots over and flings open the door, as I drop my purse on the counter.

  “I am so delighted to meet you, Mr. Hart. Let me introduce you to Kyle’s mom.”

  “Great to meet you.”

  My spine tingles.

  That voice.

  Am I hearing things?

  I spin around, the hair on my arms standing on end.

  My jaw clangs to the floor, full-on Acme cartoon-style.

  I’ve already met the musical stallion, and he’s a thoroughbred, all right.

  He’s a champion racehorse with many tricks under his saddle.

  Chapter 12

  Mackenzie

  * * *

  Let’s try to apply logic to this Twilight Zone moment.

  How is it possible for the hottest one-night-stand-about-to-become-a-second-date to also be my son’s new music teacher?

  Am I being punked? How does being punked even work? And who would be the punker in this scenario? Fate?

  Clearly, this is that bitch’s idea of a real good laugh.

  Take the best sex of my life, add in a great post-coital conversation, layer in a few tender moments, spice it up with some fun text message exchanges over the last few days, then shake it in a blender with some “sorry, sucker” seasoning that ruins the whole milkshake.

  And I really like milkshakes.

  My shoulders slump, and all my hope of ever having another chocolate milkshake is dashed by the worst stroke of luck ever. Like, in the entire history of the universe, since letting myself have a second date is a very big deal.

  Correction: was.

  There will be no second date because the universe is screwing with me.

  Or else Big Ike and her cousin are having a good old guffaw at my expense. I can’t believe the guy her cousin recommended as a teacher is also the guitarist in The Grouchy Owl’s band.

  Campbell stares at me with a stoicism in his green eyes and a stern set in his features that tells me he must be shocked too. He’s doing everything he can to hide it. He doesn’t want to let on in front of Jamison, and I could kiss him for that.

  But that’s not saying much. I could probably kiss him for anything. He’s insanely kissable.

  “Hi-i-i-i-i,” I say, and it comes out dry and comprised of five syllables. As I shake his hand, I try to form words again. “I’m . . . Mackenzie. Kyle’s mom.”

  “I’m Campbell Evans. Nice to meet you, Mackenzie,” he says, his voice a little gravelly, as if he’s trying to figure out how this mix-up happened too, even as we both do our best to sweep our little clandestine history under the rug.

  But honestly, I do want to know why he’s two people. Why he’s here to teach my son, and why his naughty texts are on my phone. We stare at each other for another few seconds, saying with our eyes that what happened in my kitchen stays in my kitchen.

  Jamison is not one for awkward introductions though. He jumps in and grabs my arm. “Mack, aren’t you excited? Is that why you’re all awkward? Oh wait.” He clasps his hand over his mouth for a second then points at me. “You totally had a teen crush on him too.”

  Bug-eyed, I snap my gaze to Jamison. “What?”

  “You had to have had a crush on Mason Hart of the Heartbreakers. That’s why you’re all flustered, right? You told me as much in college.”

  I crease my brow. “I did?”

  Poster.

  My bedroom.

  That man.

  Oh, my stars. It’s all coming back to me. I was a freshman in high school when his teenybopper band was the rising star of radio, and he and his brother were stone-cold foxes.

  My eyes widen, and I stare at the man who plays guitar like he fucks and fucks like he plays guitar.

  Wait. That’s not helpful, brain.

  “You’re the Mason Hart?” I croak out. “Teen singing sensation, part of the young singing duo-turned-trio who played with his brothers and had three platinum albums?”

  Campbell shoots me a lopsided grin, and it’s a smile that charmed millions two decades ago. I slip back in time and images flicker in front of me—the too-handsome-to-be-real brothers in their music videos, in teen magazines, all over the radio.

  “Yes, but I don’t go by that name these days, to be honest. You can just call me Campbell, and I’m totally happy to focus on the present.” His tone makes it clear—Jamison needs to back off the hero worship.

  That’s not the only thing we’ll have to back off from. We’ll have to back off from . . . everything.

  Before the moment becomes swollen with any more feet in its mouth, Kyle emerges, a shy smile on his face as he strides up to Campbell.

  “Hi. I’m Kyle Markson. Nice to meet you.” He extends his hand to shake.

  Campbell turns away from me, giving all his focus to Kyle. “Campbell Evans. Great to meet you. I hear you’re quite a whiz on the strings. Why don’t you play me your favorite song so I can see what we’re dealing with?”

  And that’s how the music teacher defuses the tension bomb—by focusing on the student. The two of them head to the living room, and Kyle picks up his instrument and gets to work.

  Jamison and I leave the apartment to give them space to do their lesson without us hovering.

  “Can you believe he teaches music?” Jamison asks as we hit the street. “He can play the violin like a maestro.”

  No surprise. He played my body like a goddamn St
radivarius.

  “He does know how to teach, right? Please tell me you didn’t hire him because you had a crush on him in middle school?”

  Jamison rolls his eyes. “Puh-leeze. Give me some credit.”

  “Well? I barely heard a word about his credentials.”

  Jamison stares at me as we walk along his block. “Darling, can’t a man get excited about something? Yes, obviously Campbell Evans has big, fat credentials. The man has a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Julliard, for crying out loud. I wouldn’t have hired him just because he’s a rock star, or because he knows Big Ike. But hello! He is a rock star! Those are two pretty impressive qualifications.”

  I huff. He’s right. I really shouldn’t be doubting the man’s résumé. He possesses some serious music chops. “I just want to make sure he can teach violin,” I say, because that’s true. The things he did to my body aren’t proof that he’s competent at anything but bestowing earth-shattering Os.

  Admittedly, though, he’s a god with the guitar. That I know for a fact.

  “Yes. Look up his bio if you want. He started playing violin at age four. He plays nearly a half-dozen instruments, Mack. He’s one of those all-around musical superstars. He definitely knows what he’s doing.”