Opening Act

by Sulheikha Snyder

  But she didn’t let him finish. Maybe she knew as well as he did that he had no idea where the sentence was headed. “Yeah, you care so much that it took Johnny sticking his tongue down my throat for you to say something.” She shook her head. “That’s not fair.”

  Fair? Nothing about this was fair. This was supposed to be a regular Saturday night playing a couple of songs, hanging out with friends, having a good time, thinking about anything and everything but the day shifts and doubles he had to pull at McAllister’s this week. Making music and making rent didn’t exactly go hand in hand. But he’d worked it all out somehow. He had a system. A balance. His best friend and his…his…Saroj…weren’t supposed to throw him a curveball.

  “Sticking his…” He winced. It was a mental image he never needed to revisit. Ever. “Kissing you wasn’t exactly one of Johnny’s better ideas. He had no right.”

  “He had every right! He’s single. I’m single. If we want to horizontal tango into next week, it’s our business.” Saroj pushed at his chest. It should’ve been a shove, but she was more attitude than actual power. A tiny, furious package…so tiny that Johnny Ray had no problem plastering her against that wall. Christ. He swallowed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. She wasn’t wrong. He had no say in what she or Johnny did. So why did the idea of them together make him want to bleach his eyeballs?

  “Adam.” The anger drained out of her voice, replaced by what sounded like a whole mess of exhaustion. Her palm flattened, stroking up to his throat, the side of his face. She’d touched him this way hundreds of times during end-of-the-night hugs. This time, it scalded. “Don’t overthink it. Don’t make it more than it is. I’m sorry I unloaded on you. Just let me go home. We’ll forget about this, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Maybe Saroj would forget. He wasn’t so sure he would. All he could do was think. And overthink. And rub his cheek against her fingers. Stubble against skin. Like her fingers were the match, and he was the box. One good strike, and they’d go up in flames.

  All of a sudden, the last thing he wanted was for her to walk out that door with Johnny Ray’s kisses on her lips. It was caveman, irrational, lizard-brain crap that had no basis in reality—more unfair than everything else that had gone down in the last twenty minutes—but he grasped her hip and tugged her closer…and brought his mouth down on hers.

  She made a little sound like, “Oh.” A moan. Surprise. And then she opened her lips, letting him in. Taking handfuls of his shirt and twisting them, pulling him into her. He didn’t know if it was self-preservation or stupidity, but he’d never really thought about kissing her before. Not beyond brief little pecks when they saw each other—it was no big thing, right? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

  This, all insanity and frustration, was completely different. It was the sharp-sweet tang of the orange from the rim of her beer. It was her stretching up on her toes and taking. It was sugary and hot, and his whole body was into it. It was good. So fucking good. Because of Saroj. Because he wanted her. For the first time ever, he was letting himself have her.

  “God, Saroj…you’re…” She was his constant. A constant ache. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She clutched the material of his T-shirt, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go…and then she pushed him away. The shove that hadn’t worked before, it worked now, rocking him back. And the look in her eyes…it almost knocked him on his ass. Sadder, angrier, than before. Broken.

  “Good night,” she whispered, before leaving him standing there alone.

  Chapter Three

  Coffee. Every sense cried out for it as Saroj gingerly swung out of bed, her feet blindly scrabbling for her sandals. No, scratch that, every sense but one. She froze, one flip-flop dangling, as she remembered the night before. In vivid detail. Adam had kissed her. Actually, Johnny Ray had kissed her, and then Adam had kissed her. That was, altogether, more kissing than she’d experienced in the last year.

  But only Adam’s mouth had made a real impact. Only his tongue had set her spinning. She’d kissed him back with everything she couldn’t give the Harrys and Johnnys of the world. She touched her lips, half expecting them to be burned or bruised or branded. But, no, they were just parted in shock, and her jaw felt tender from the friction of his beard stubble.

  It had actually happened. All of it. She’d spent most of the cab ride back to her apartment trying to convince herself she’d imagined the whole night—or at least the parts after the Brute Squad packed up their gear.

  Forget about it, Saroj. It means nothing. It’s just boys being boys. Just a game. Adam trying to “take her back” after seeing Johnny stake a claim. Like Red Rover, which she’d never quite understood…standing there in the elementary school gym, fresh from India, and uncomprehending of how important it was to break through the opposing team’s line.

  That was what Adam had done: broken through a line. Crossed a dozen of them. Made her hopes worse instead of better.

  She rubbed her eyes, swallowing against the alcohol-laced sourness at the back of her throat. Her cell phone lay on the edge of her nightstand where she’d tossed it before bed. When she passed her fingers over the touch screen, there were four unread texts in a row.

  I’m sorry.

  Of course he was sorry.

  Call me tomorrow?

  No. Not a chance.

  Please call me tomorrow!! We need 2 talk.

  No kidding. And, still, no way.

  Hey babe evr wanna make out again just give a holler.

  She burst out laughing, dropping the phone into the tangled sheets. Johnny Ray’s directorial skills were on point as usual; he’d picked the perfect way to make her laugh and get her moving.

  She padded out into the living room and the small, attached kitchenette. On a reporter’s salary—no Ma and Dad, no hefty Diwali gift checks required—she was basically All IKEA, All The Time. She’d put together the pristine, pale, Swedish-sensibility bookshelves and coffee table herself. No maddening men required. No Adam required.

  You’re my constant, he’d said, like they were characters on a TV show or something. You’re beautiful, he’d said, like he actually meant it. Like kissing her wasn’t just temporary insanity brought on by a basic male urge to mark his territory. She’d ached for the taste of him for almost six years, carrying her torch until it was practically burned down to the handle. And now he’d decided to see what it was like? Bullshit.

  She puttered around, measuring out spoonfuls of French roast and filling her coffeemaker with cold water. While it sputtered and beeped, she went off to brush her teeth. As if doing such mundane things would make her feel better, would somehow make their weird little nonménage equally normal.

  Despite Johnny’s comments about the Adam Harper Chastity Vow and her nunlike habits, she had a social life. She’d dated all through college, lost her virginity after an Indian Students Association celebration of Diwali, and even had an—admittedly disastrous—relationship with Hari “Call me Harry” Patel, an investment banker, for five months. Long enough for their parents to start hoping for desi grandkids…and long enough for her to realize it wasn’t about to happen if she still imagined babies having Adam’s bright blue eyes. In fact, she’d spent a lot of those five months imagining Adam. Particularly in bed.

  But, still, she’d tried. She’d put herself out there. She wasn’t living her life on pause. Now, thanks to one mind-numbing, soul-bending kiss, she was living it on rewind.

  Saroj could taste him in the mint of toothpaste, in the rich, milky goodness of coffee. In the air she breathed. He followed her into the shower, his hands ghosting over her body, and chased her from her bedroom, to the hallway, to the stairwell. Her phone buzzed in her purse, and she ignored it—too afraid to see more text messages from him…or worse, see texts that weren’t from him.

  She’d call in a couple of days. There was no sense in rehashing last night when it was still so fresh, when he was feeling some sort of mispla
ced white-knight guilt over her kissing his best friend. Saroj couldn’t help but grin at the absurdity of that line of thinking.

  As she hit the sidewalk, she finally reached for her phone. Anytime, Johnny, she wrote back. It’s a better use for your big mouth than talking.

  She wouldn’t actually take him up on any of his lewd offers, but he didn’t have to know that right now. It was barely eleven and he was probably passed out, asleep, in his bed. He and Adam kept practically opposite hours, which made them perfect roomies. Adam was an early riser, by the clock, always on time and on a schedule. Because he was so damn responsible and upstanding. If he wasn’t practicing with the Squad or at a gig, he was managing at McAllister’s and stepping in as a bartender whenever they needed the extra hands.

  Damn those hands.

  She shuddered and stepped up her pace. Her standing Sunday brunch date was just a few blocks away—the kind of place that was perfect for hungover bedhead when you were twenty-one, but just as comfortable for a dash of lip gloss and a pretense of class when you were hungover at twenty-four. And if there was anyone who could give her some perspective right now, it was the girls. Anu didn’t take shit from anyone, and Becca…Becca would probably give her a medal and buy her two rounds of Bloody Marys for kissing two guys in one night.

  It wasn’t an honor Saroj deserved.

  It was just heartache, plain and simple. And would soon be a Bloody Mary-induced headache, too, thanks to the Subtle Knife’s killer unlimited cocktail brunch.

  “He’s bad for you,” Anu said, like it was a patient diagnosis. Dressed in scrub pants, devoid of makeup, and with her hair in the world’s sloppiest ponytail, she still looked effortlessly pretty. If Saroj didn’t love her like a sister, she would hate her. “After all these years, he’s finally paying attention? There’s something off about that, and it’s just going to hurt you in the long run. You’ve got to let this go. He’s not even that good-looking.”

  “No, he really is that good-looking,” Becca interrupted. “And if he’s finally buying a clue, I say she should go for it.” She was a third-year law student, and “go for it” had always seemed to be her motto. Like when she’d tried to rope Saroj into rushing a sorority their freshman year. Saroj had been too shy to rush anywhere except into her dorm room with a pile of premed texts that would see the recycling bin by the next semester. “What do you have to lose by taking a chance?” she asked. “He’s hot. He wants you. Get it, girl!”

  Anu wrinkled her nose. “You would say that, Becks. You’ve never met a pretty face you didn’t like.”

  “Hey, I’ve got to sit somewhere,” Becca deadpanned, causing scandalized spit-takes all around. Out of the three of them, she was the only one pale enough to really blush, and the least likely to. Saroj sometimes envied her ability to give absolutely zero fucks about anything. She said what she wanted, did what she wanted, and wouldn’t wait half a decade for anything. Certainly not for Adam.

  Anu, recovering from the one-liner to end all one-liners, patted sputtered mimosa from her shirt with a napkin. “Just ask yourself if this is worth it. Is he worth it? Do you have a chance for a future? I didn’t think Vince and I had a shot in Hell, but he proved me wrong. Do you really think Adam would do that?”

  The two men were as different as night from day. Anu’s boyfriend was a doctor just like her, and he had nearly twenty years on Adam. He had a career, a reputation, stability. He knew what he wanted and went for it. No one had trapped him into noticing Anu.

  “It’s pointless,” Saroj said, slouching in her seat and stirring the fancy green-bean garnish in her Bloody Mary. “An act of God wouldn’t get Adam to see me as a real choice.”

  Becca’s sculpted eyebrows went into suggestive overtime. “It depends on the act.”

  No. No, it really didn’t. It depended on Adam. And although she’d depended on him for years, her heart couldn’t say the same.

  It was why she’d worked so hard to take him out of the equation. To move forward. For God’s sake, she was sending out résumés and clips to online magazines in Chicago and New York and Philly. She hadn’t planned to stay here through her twenties. It was a way station. Adam was a way station.

  Not her destination.

  Never her destination.

  “Oh, Saroj.” Becca clicked her tongue. “Girl, you are in trouble.”

  Chapter Four

  Three days passed in a blur of postshow, prework, and during-work exhaustion. Adam didn’t even realize it was a Tuesday night until old man McAllister came in with the payroll checks for him to pass out to the rest of the staff. He wandered back to the bustling kitchen, the dark hole of the basement where Javi and Camille were doing inventory. He even found the busboys smoking in the alley out back. And, when he was left with just the one, with the neatly typed “Harper, Adam,” visible in the envelope window, he collapsed on one of the high stools at the bar, exhaling like he’d held in one breath for days. Maybe that was true. Maybe he hadn’t really breathed at all since watching Saroj walk out of the club.

  Good night, Adam, she’d said. Good night. Like a word that simple could follow what they’d done. What he’d done. What kind of moron was he for kissing her? For liking it? For wanting to do it again? That wasn’t their deal. It wasn’t who they were supposed to be. In ten years, she’d be hanging out with doctors and lawyers and bankers, not even looking back on the dumbasses she knew in college. It was only a matter of time before she quit idling in the middle class and going to every indie rock show she got a flyer for. She wasn’t a snob, or a princess…it just wasn’t her life.

  He wasn’t her constant. He couldn’t be. It was against the rules.

  So, he’d put her on this shelf. No, behind glass. And then broken it into a million pieces to get to her. What the hell was that?

  Adam couldn’t even blame her for ignoring all his texts. And JR had taken a huge amount of satisfaction in telling him, “She texted me back, man, saying she’d be happy go for a ride in the Morris-mobile anytime.” It took about ninety percent of his self-control to keep from yanking out the Morris-mobile’s battery. The other ten percent reminded him that he needed JR alive to pay half the rent. And that JR was allowed to flirt with Saroj. That she was allowed to flirt back. And she was allowed to hate Adam for messing with her mind.

  Now, here he was, holding onto a piece of paper, proof of what he’d actually earned, wishing for something he hadn’t worked for: her forgiveness.

  He stuffed the check back into the envelope, spreading it flat on the wood grain beneath his palms. College, he’d work-ed for. He’d grown up in a shithole industrial neighborhood in the shadow of an Ohio steel mill, watching his dad drink himself to a slow death after they lost his mom to a sudden one. Pretty much like living a John Cougar Mellencamp song. So Adam aced every test, grabbed every honor, and won a scholarship to a state school just so he could get the fuck out of that house, that town.

  And he had. He’d made it work somehow.

  He’d taught himself how to play the electric bass after playing the stand-up for orchestra in high school. He’d played for a bunch of cover bands until he found Graham and Jamie leading what would turn into the Squad. They’d wanted to grow. He’d wanted to grow with them, and he’d brought JR with him. Through it all, he kept up with classes and studied till his eyeballs were as blistered as his fingertips. And this gig at McAllister’s…it was all about stocking away cash so he could hit the books again in a year or two. Girls weren’t part of the plan—hadn’t been for months, because he was supposed to keep his eye on the ball. He’d worked it all out. He’d balanced it like his pathetic checkbook.

  But this thing with Johnny Ray and Saroj being all over each other, it upset the order. It didn’t make sense. Sure, they had a lot in common. JR came from old money—the very definition, at least on paper, of a fine Southern gentleman—and he was doing the artsy thing and driving his parents crazy before signing on to a lifetime of galas and gallantry. I’ll be damned if a si
lver spoon is the only thing I put in my mouth, bro. It was a world Saroj probably understood way better than Adam did. But they’d never been interested in each other before. Their hanging out had never bugged him before.

  Now…?

  JR could, conceivably, ask Saroj out. She could, even more conceivably, say yes. There was nothing stopping them. Unless he punched JR in the face…and broke both of his legs. Of course, Saroj would probably go visit him in the hospital, and they’d start seeing each other by default and probably be married next summer. And Adam would not be on the guest list.

  “Shit.” He slumped and rubbed his face with his palms. This was not good. This was so far from good. His neatly ordered—if crazy-busy—life had taken a serious turn for the bizarre.

  “Hey. Man. You all right?” Dave, the day-shift bartender, stopped running a rag across the bar, frowning at him in concern.

  “Yeah. Just beat.” Adam was quick to assure, to lie. And then he reached for his cell and typed out a few simple words.

  JR, touch her again and u die.

  Two minutes later, his pocket vibrated.

  Touch her where? I like specifics.

  He gripped the phone’s casing so tight that his thumb smudged the glass faceplate. He didn’t text back. Anything he had to say was probably too profane. Johnny Ray didn’t know Saroj like he did. First day of their first year, he’d run into her in the bathroom on their floor—this tiny girl with waist-length, dark braids who looked about fourteen…except for the three piercings in each ear. A little show of rebellion. She was horrified to smack into him, sputtering about her parents not realizing boys lived just down the hall. Clearly her parents weren’t the only ones.

  He’d waited for her just outside the door, walking her back to her room and straight up introducing himself to her mom and dad. I’ll take care of her, Mr. Shah, he’d promised. Or something similarly noble. Whatever a dumbass eighteen-year-old guy said when he was trying to be a man.