by Amelia Wilde
“I’ll get a card,” he muttered and trudged back to purchase one of the flimsy pieces of plastic for his very own.
“It’s a good thing I came with you,” Brandon said once we were well on our way across the East River. He spoke loudly so he could be heard over the roar of the tracks. “Maybe the people aren’t so dangerous, but I saw two rats who would eat you for dinner. I think they carried machetes.”
I smiled. “Oh, that’s nothing. My dad’s seen some in dumpsters he swore were as big as terriers.”
Brandon chuckled, but his face paled. “That’s disgusting,” he pronounced.
At that point, I laughed out loud, startling the other few passengers in the car. “You haven’t spent time around normal people in a while, have you?”
He narrowed his eyes, though they were still full of mirth.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I take the T to work every day.”
“You mean to the office that’s ten blocks from your mansion on the Commons?”
Brandon faked a double take. “You mean I can walk there? And here I’ve been going to Dorchester and back every morning. This is going to do wonders for my commute!”
I giggled. I couldn’t help it. When Brandon wasn’t trying to put the moves on me, he was very personable.
In Williamsburg, an inebriated pair staggered into our car and collapsed on the bench next to Brandon. They were probably a few years younger than me. They were also dressed for a night out and not for the weather: the girl wore an extremely short leather skirt paired with thigh-high black boots, while her date had on fashionably skinny jeans and a button-down shirt under a leather jacket. As soon as they landed on the seat, they were all over each other, shoving their tongues into each other’s mouths and pawing at the hems of their garments.
Brandon and I sat awkwardly, suddenly finding things like the subway map and the Spanish ads for laser hair removal incredibly interesting. We looked everywhere but at the couple and each other—I knew that one glance would make me break into fits.
The girl kicked one leg in her passion, hitting Brandon hard enough that he knocked into me too. He looked at me and mouthed, “Ouch,” forcing me to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. When she kicked him again, he scooted several inches closer to me, allowing the couple to position themselves almost horizontally on the bench.
“Skylar,” Brandon whispered loudly.
I looked up. “What?” I whispered back.
“Do you think they need a condom? Maybe some assistance?”
I stifled a giggle and shook my head.
“Then do you think you could move down a little bit so I don’t have an accidental threesome?”
I chuckled into my mittens and slid farther down the seats. Two stops later, after the couple stumbled off, Brandon and I both burst out laughing as soon as the doors closed.
“Holy shit!” I crowed. “I thought they were going to make a baby right there!” My stomach hurt from laughing so hard.
“I think I might have gotten herpes.” Brandon was also red in the face. “At least now I know why you like the train.”
I smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “I think you liked it. You should have offered to pay for her sex pad. She probably would have gone for it.”
Brandon rolled his eyes and shook his head. “One day you’re going to forgive me for that,” he said. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll convince you that I’m a decent guy.”
By the end of his statement, he wasn’t laughing anymore, and his wide blue gaze had me completely transfixed with its vulnerability and kindness. The train rumbled beneath us, and we stared at each other until I forced myself to remember the way he’d talked to me. I tore my glance away and renewed my study of the subway ads.
Brandon sighed. “This is frustrating. I’m not an asshole, Skylar. I still can’t believe I had the stones to ask you that.”
“So, why did you?”
I was curious now and wanted to believe I’d get a real answer. This guy, the one who could laugh at himself and who wanted to see a woman home safe, seemed like a good man. Not the type who would turn women into crude objects.
He shrugged, suddenly focused on picking an imaginary piece of lint off his pants. “I…it’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
He gave me a look I was starting to recognize—the one that said, “You’re not going to let it go, are you?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly. No, I definitely was not.
He sat forward, talking down to the ground while he balanced his forearms over his knees. “All right, fine. It’s been a while, if you have to know the truth. The last woman I was with seriously…well, it was pretty clear by the end she was only interested in my money. Anyone I’ve been with since has either been a one-night thing or nothing at all. Then I meet you. I really want…well, I guess I figured that I should probably give you what you’d want from the get-go. It didn’t even occur to me you wouldn’t want any of it. I’m sorry, Skylar. More than you know.”
My heart squeezed at his words. They weren’t flowery, but the slow cadence of them and the way his voice broke over the word “more” eroded my suspicion. I hadn’t stopped to imagine what he must have thought of me, an intern succumbing to his advances. He was the holy grail of legal and business connections in Boston, and probably a lot of eligible bachelor pools too. Why wouldn’t he have thought I had my own angle?
Slowly, I touched him lightly on the shoulder, but before I could reply that all was forgiven, the conductor announced our stop. The subway car jerked to a halt. I stood up and pulled my bag over my shoulder.
“This is it,” I said as the doors opened. “Come on, Casanova. You can keep apologizing on the walk home.”
We chatted easily down Ditmas Avenue. The truth was, Brandon was really good company. He was witty and smart, but also down-to-earth and surprisingly easy to talk to. By the time I stopped in front of a small nightclub, my side hurt from laughing so much. I turned eagerly toward the entrance, where the strains of a jazz trio hummed from within.
Brandon looked at me in confusion. “You live in a jazz club?”
I rolled my eyes, but shivered in the cold. “Yeah, I live in a jazz club. The vinyl seats make for a great night’s sleep.” I turned back to where the doorman looked bored on his stool.
“Hey, Charlie,” I said. The big man shivered slightly beneath his tight black beanie and massive coat, but he managed to conjure a smile for me.
“Hiya, sweetheart,” he replied kindly as he leaned over to take my quick peck on his cheek. “They just started their second set. He know you’re coming tonight?”
I shook my head. “No, I thought I’d surprise him.” I pulled off my large wool scarf and handed it to him. “Here. You look like you’re freezing.”
Charlie accepted the scarf and tied it awkwardly around his neck, caring little that it was bright red and belonged to a girl about a third his size. “Thanks, sweetie. It’s colder than a bitch out here tonight.”
I turned to find Brandon watching, half concerned, half curious. The temperature had probably dropped another five degrees in the last hour, and I realized he didn’t have his car to climb into.
“My dad works here most weekends,” I told him. “I’m going to say hi before I walk home. It’s a good place if you want to wait for your car.”
He furrowed his brow. “Wait, what? Are you staying until the end of the set?” When I shook my head, he shook his back. “You’re not walking home by yourself. It’s not safe.”
I tried to protest, but Brandon laid a hand on my arm.
“I won’t try anything,” he assured me. “I promise. Besides, I’m pretty sure this guy will kick the shit out of me if I do. Right, man?”
Charlie didn’t reply, just glared at Brandon and waited for my response.
Brandon raised his hands. “See?”
I sighed, but was unable to mask my smile completely.
“Just come in, then,” I relen
ted, and we walked into the club to meet my father.
9
Nick’s was the kind of place I had grown up in, doing my homework perched on the stained bar top before he opened, and helping band members lug instruments in for sound checks. The slow pace rarely drew more than ten or fifteen patrons at a time, but that also meant that no one cared about anything but the music. There was nothing like it anymore in the bustling parts of Manhattan, where all the jazz greats once started out. The Blue Note was a Disneyland ride, but Nick’s still had the gritty hint of urban underbelly that always inspired good music.
Brandon followed me into the bar, gingerly stepping around clusters of tables, chairs, and barstools in a way that made me wonder again just how long it had been since he had gone anywhere that didn’t offer box seats, VIP reservations, or valet parking.
The club tunneled narrowly like a wormhole into the basement of a Brooklyn brownstone. It was lined on one side with small tables and red vinyl bench seats that likely hadn’t been replaced since the late seventies, and on the other with a worn bar top and stools. Stale alcohol practically glazed the air, along with occasional whiffs of Charlie’s cigarette smoke whenever the front door opened. At the back of the club was a tiny dance floor in front of an even tinier stage just big enough to hold Dad’s jazz quartet.
I slid onto one of the benches, where I wouldn’t distract the band while they finished their set.
“Do you want a drink?” Brandon asked, still standing in front of the table I’d chosen.
I looked up as I shucked my outerwear, scarf, and gloves. “Um…sure. I guess. Macallan Twelve with a splash of water. Just tell the bartender it’s for me. He won’t charge you.”
Amos, the willowy trumpet player from Trinidad, was the first to notice me with a wave while Doug, the bassist, grooved to a solo. The drummer was new. As usual, Dad was lost in his own world at the piano.
He looked the same as always, his slight form clothed in his typical performance attire: worn black pants and a white button-down rolled up at the elbows. I used to tease him that he looked like a waiter in that outfit, but he always shrugged and said that classics never go out of style. His floppy brown hair, gray at the temples and the base of his neck, matched the trim mustache. Eyes closed and head low, he bobbed to the rhythm set by Doug and the drummer, his fingers floating up and down the keys in velvety riffs.
I closed my eyes to listen, just as I had done all my life. It didn’t matter how long I had been gone—I wasn’t home until I heard my dad play.
“They’re really good.” Brandon sat down and slid my whiskey across the table. He draped his coat over the back of his seat and took a drink of something dark brown. “The piano player sounds like Bill Evans.”
“That’s my dad.”
I smiled at Brandon’s double take between my father and me. We didn’t look much alike, other than our slight frames. I had my grandfather’s flaming hair, my grandmother’s olive skin, and my mother’s green eyes. But Dad and I were both small, and I had definitely inherited his love of music.
“Well,” Brandon remarked as he took a sip of his drink. “So much for stereotypes. I can’t imagine him picking up garbage.”
I shrugged. “Some people do just have day jobs so they can do other things.”
Raising me had prevented Dad from ever pursuing his music to the fullest––well, that and a few other vices. He’d had a few offers over the years to play with some of the greats but always turned them down. But though he couldn’t take a little girl on the road with him, it didn’t mean his heart wasn’t one hundred percent dedicated to those black and white keys.
“Did he teach you to play?”
“A bit. I’m nowhere near as good, though.”
Brandon nodded, as Dad launched into a short solo. His hands dipped into spontaneous trills that were as smooth as water in a brook. The song melded into another, and we listened without speaking for a good fifteen minutes.
I was content just to sit; I didn’t like talking to people when I was at a show, and especially not when Dad was playing. At the end of the last song of the medley, Amos said something to Dad, who then found me, mustache stretched over a grin.
“I think you’ve been discovered,” Brandon said.
I could already feel my cheeks turning red. I was counting on going incognito until the end of the set, rather than what usually happened when I was spotted in the middle.
“Sorry about this,” I mumbled. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“What?”
Before I could explain, Dad spoke into the microphone at his shoulder.
“We’ve got a little surprise for you, folks. My daughter, the very beautiful and talented Skylar Crosby, is visiting us from up north. Let’s see if we can get her up here to sing us a little song. Hey, Valentine’s Day’s in just a few weeks, ain’t it?”
That was my cue. As the few people in the bar gave a couple of lackluster claps along with loud hoots from Nick, the owner, I stood up. Brandon’s mouth hung open while I sidled through the tables and chairs and took a seat at the piano.
“Hey, Pippi,” Dad greeted me with my childhood nickname and a brief peck on the cheek. “Nice lookin’ date over there with you. Should we make a dedication to someone special?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s just a friend, Dad. Let’s get this embarrassment over with.”
We launched into the familiar riffs of “My Funny Valentine,” playing it Chet Baker-style in the arrangement Dad had written for us when I was little. Doug and Amos chimed in with their parts, having done this many times before. When the drummer finally caught up with us, Dad nodded at me.
I wasn’t a great singer, but the song fit the naturally low timbre of my voice, and Dad chimed in several times, like we had done countless times. I let my fingers remember the familiar movements of my solo on the keys. I never had a talent for improvisation; Dad had the good ear.
I found myself avoiding the table where I was sitting before, instead focusing squarely on the keys. I wasn’t normally shy about performing with my dad. It was easy to pass our little act off as a cute father-daughter thing when I messed up, and when I didn’t, people seemed to like it anyway. This time I felt unaccountably nervous.
We crooned into the mic together at the end, and I waited as Dad added a few final flourishes in tandem with Amos’s buttery brass notes. The song finally ended, and everyone clapped, enthusiastically this time. There was even one couple in the back who had been inspired to slow dance, so I figured it wasn’t the worst version we’d ever done.
“Thanks, Pips,” Dad said, his eyes already half shut as he toyed around with the keys. Doug tuned his bass while Amos and the drummer made some crass jokes to the crowd. “You guys going to stay until the end of the set? We’ve got another hour left, but I know the guys would love to say hello.”
“Not tonight, Dad, sorry,” I said. “We’ll finish our drinks, and then I’m heading home. I’m beat. Will you tell the guys I’ll stay next time?”
He nodded, starting a riff for the next song. “Sure, sweetheart. Love you, kid.”
I kissed him on the cheek and walked off the stage. I sat down and fiddled with my glass. Brandon hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d left, and now he was practically staring a hole through my forehead. I drained the rest of my whiskey.
“Most people do that before they get up on stage, not after,” Brandon remarked. “But then again, it usually makes them fuck up. Nice pipes, by the way. And you lied when you said you suck on the piano.”
I finally looked up and was struck by the awe beneath his nonchalance.
“I didn’t say I suck,” I said as I looked back at the quartet, which was now covering “So What.” “I said I’m not as good as he is.”
“Well, I guess that’s what happens when you major in music at NYU, huh?”
I shrugged. “Mostly I studied classical. I’m too much of a square for jazz.”
“What makes you say that?”
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I nodded at my dad, whose eyes were completely closed again while he hunched over the keys, moving to his own rhythm while he played. I smiled. Try as I might, I could never quite lose myself the way he could. “Look at that. Does that seem like disciplined to you?”
“So, you like discipline, huh?”
I pursed my lips, pondering the question. “I like control,” I said. “Or, at least I like to know what’s coming. Jazz is all about improvisation, all about the moment, whereas with a classical piece, I always play it the way I want, the same way, every time.” I shrugged. “I guess I’m a stiff.”
Brandon smiled, but this smile was calmer, less blinding, and nakedly appreciative. It was slow and gradual across his face, and I watched one dimple, then two appear. He leaned over the table and circled the edge of his glass with his finger.
“Skylar,” he said, blue eyes wide and magnetic. “I don’t know much about you, but I know you are definitely not a stiff.”
I snorted. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” Brandon conceded. “You made every single person in this place feel every word you were singing, every note you were playing. Anyone who can do that is no stiff.”
We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes. If this was a game he was playing, I had to admit: it was a damn good one.
“Skylar, honey?”
A familiar, gravelly voice broke our standoff, and I looked up to where Nick stood over our table, polishing a glass with a worn bar cloth while he glared at Brandon.
“Hey,” I said to Nick, who immediately turned to me. “How are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good, honey,” Nick replied. “How you doin’, sweetheart?” He was born and raised in Brooklyn, with the kind of old-school New York accent that made De Niro sound like a phony. “Who’s this fella?”
I shook my head. “Just a friend. Brandon and I work together in Boston.”
Nick regarded Brandon with a raised brow, and the thick muscles of his arms flexed a little more as he polished his glass. He was one of those men who could make any number of kitchen chores look like a threat.