“I’m happy to help,” Diane spoke, ignoring Maureen’s sexual innuendo. She returned to the kitchen as the baking timer sounded. Slipping on oven mitts, Diane pulled the set crust from the heat and placed it on the counter. “How’s everything else with the restaurant coming along? Right on schedule?”
A few yells and a crash of what sounded like something large and expensive breaking, startled both of them. Diane looked over Maureen’s shoulder and cringed. A cloud of sawdust and drywall particles drifted through the air in the background.
Maureen spun around. “We were on schedule,” she grumbled. “Not sure any more.”
“You might want to go check on that.”
“Yep,” Maureen sighed, storming across the restaurant. “That’s my cue. We’ll talk later.”
Diane blew Maureen a kiss and ended their call, turning to the warm, chocolate crust waiting for its fluffy mousse filling.
***
The fire crackled. Feet on the coffee table, computer on her lap, Diane enjoyed the warmth from the gas fireplace and hot pages filling her book. Despite her work space’s hectic appearance—notepad loaded with scribbles, pens, highlighters, and papers scattered around her on the couch cushions—Diane’s creativity was working like a well-oiled machine. Sixty-five hundred words since lunch. She was on a roll. After delivering Sawyer’s pie to the food truck—a perfect choice judging from his mouth-watering reaction—Diane returned home and had one of the best writing days she’d had in a while. Perhaps she’d been motivated by how close she was to the final chapter—the foggy ending becoming clearer as the chapters added up. But Diane knew the real culprit had been Maureen’s taunting jabs about her questionable work ethic and pie-induced procrastination.
Maureen lit a fire under her fingers.
It wasn’t as if Diane hadn’t been productive recently. “Simply…pleasantly distracted,” Diane mumbled to herself. She cocked her head and read the last line on the page. Either way, the words came effortlessly all afternoon and, nearing nine o’clock, Diane was satisfied enough in her progress to reward herself with a hot cup of cider and some Grey’s Anatomy. Peeling off her reading glasses, Diane stood and stretched, and took one step towards the kitchen, only to be stopped by a chipper knock at the door.
Diane paused. Who could that be?
A second knock arrived. Louder and harder. Hurrying to the door, Diane pushed the locks of her frazzled gray hair from her face and unlocked the door.
A blast of sharp cold air poured in from outside, but the sight of Michelle was like a refreshing summer heatwave arriving at the door. Michelle stood on the steps wearing that gorgeous, dimpled smile and the sexiest outfit Diane had ever seen on her. Diane scanned her unexpected visitor, the dark jeans, dark blazer and a bright, emerald chiffon top which dipped low between her breasts, and stood speechless at the door. Michelle’s hair was tied in a ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. The subtle, but shiny golden eyeshadow, paired with dark mascara, made the stunning copper-tones in Michelle’s brown eyes pop. Diane had to tilt her head up slightly to look into them, as the heels Michelle sported gave her a small height advantage.
Michelle was an absolute vision.
“Hi.” Michelle blinked. “Is this a bad time?”
“N-no,” Diane said, snapping her mouth closed after it apparently dropped open unconsciously. She pulled the door open wider. “Not at all. Please. Come in.”
“Are you sure?” Michelle smirked, inspecting Diane’s outfit as she strolled inside. “You don’t seem like you want guests. Not that you don’t look adorable in your jammies.”
Diane closed the door, her face heating. She was so wrapped up in Michelle’s outfit, she completely forgot about the bedtime attire she was sporting. Flannel pajama bottoms and an over-sized Clemson shirt didn’t exactly scream hospitality.
“I’m sorry,” Diane said, nervously. She ran her fingers through her hair and fixed herself. “I obviously wasn’t expecting guests. Or you, specifically. What brings you over? I thought you were busy all week.”
“I have been,” Michelle said. She turned towards Diane, reaching for her hands, and holding them warmly. An invigoratingly sweet aroma of sandalwood and lavender drifted from Michelle’s skin as they stood close. The scent went straight to Diane’s head. “I’m sorry, I should have messaged you. But I ran into Darren this morning, Sawyer’s best friend, when I was delivering some pieces in Burlington. He was offered a creative writing position at a local university in the spring.”
Diane smiled, remembering the enjoyable conversation and discourse she and Darren shared at Sawyer’s engagement party. From their brief, yet intense discussion, Diane recognized Darren’s brilliance. Now a plethora of young minds would have the privilege of learning from him. The university gained a true literary genius, and they should be ecstatic.
“That’s such great news,” Diane exclaimed. “He and I connected well when we met in the summer.”
“Besides his recent teaching position,” Michelle continued, “he also happened to mention an event I thought you’d enjoy.”
“Oh?” Diane’s eyes widened. “What kind of event?”
Michelle looked at the floor, avoiding Diane’s eyes. “But if this is really a bad time, I can go.”
“No, don’t,” Diane said softly. She squeezed Michelle’s hands. “I’m glad you came over.”
“I’m glad I came over too.” Michelle smiled, lifting her eyes again. “So, is that a yes? Are you accepting this impromptu date?”
“Oh, I—”
Michelle glanced at Diane’s work thrown about the couch. The fire snapped behind them. “You can say no if you’re busy.”
“I’d love to join you,” Diane said. She pressed a soft kiss on Michelle’s lips when she looked back at her. “As long as you’ll let me fix myself up properly.”
“Of course,” Michelle said. “You do look sexy and cute right now, but I don’t think you’d like to read your book to everyone in your pjs.”
Diane leaned away from Michelle. Her eyebrows jumped towards her hairline. “I beg your pardon?” she snapped. “What is this event, exactly?”
“It’s open mic night.” Michelle kissed Diane’s cheek as her mouth gaped open again, this time out of sheer panic. “Go get ready,” she said, “You’re reading in an hour.”
“You’re serious?” Diane questioned as Michelle led her towards the staircase. “You honestly don’t expect me to—”
“You’ll be fine,” Michelle said, ushering Diane up the stairs. “Now, hurry up and get some pants on. A nice top. It’s time to shine, beautiful.”
***
Gnawing her bottom lip, Diane scanned Tomfoolery. Softly lit, the underground coffee house was wall-to-wall people. Mostly hipster. Mostly college-aged. Mostly with more shameless audacity to share their work on stage than Diane would ever possess. Her nerves had a vice grip on her guts. Was it nerves, or was it something she’d eaten? Either way, spilling her dinner into the restroom toilet was not something Diane was interested in doing. She hated getting sick like that. Although, as Michelle pulled her through the thick crowd, it was becoming a more appealing scenario than reading a snippet of her book in front of everyone, and humiliating herself.
Diane had to weasel out of this someway.
Somehow.
Diane was nothing like the woman singing and playing acoustic guitar on stage now. Poised. Confident. The crowd swayed to the hum of the singer’s low, smoky voice, sipping their caffeinated beverages at the high-top tables, red votives flickering softly. The place was cozy and warm—black-and-white photos of coffee beans hung up on the exposed brick walls—with the sharp aroma of roasted coffee beans and freshly-baked biscotti drifting through the space. Any other time here, Diane would’ve fallen in love with the ambiance. She could picture herself settled at a bar top stool, drinking exotic teas and typing her novel out. But instead, Diane’s heart was racing uncomfortably, wanting to be anywhere else on earth at that very
moment.
Holding Diane’s hand, Michelle offered her a comforting smile and searched for an available table. The whole drive into Burlington, Diane was an emotional wreck, keeping her anxious thoughts hidden as she stared out the passenger window. Michelle insisted putting on a nice outfit and fixing her hair would give Diane a confidence boost. But she might as well have been stark naked—not bothering with her black faux-leather pants, striped sweater, and heeled boots—walking into the joint in her birthday suit.
Having others read her unfinished manuscript was one thing. Reading it out loud, in her own voice, to a room full of judgmental eyes and ears, that was entirely something else. What had Michelle gotten her into? Landing an open table in the back, Michelle pulled out a stool for Diane and smiled, offering her the seat. Diane sat quickly, hooking her leather bag on the chair. She concentrated on booting up her laptop and finding a good enough section to read, instead of her vision tunneling, her anxiety building, and the voices around her melting into a mush of mumbles.
Michelle placed her hand on the back of Diane’s chair and leaned in. “I’m going to get us some drinks,” she said. “What can I get you?”
A shot of cappuccino or espresso would only add to her jitteriness. She scanned the menu board for something less abrasive. “A lavender-lemongrass tea sounds good,” Diane decided.
“You got it,” Michelle said. She set her two warm hands on Diane’s shoulders. “And relax. Tonight will be fun. Enjoy the music, and I’ll be right back.”
Putting on her reading glasses, Diane listened to the music set and scrolled through her manuscript. Diane had been a writer her whole life. There wasn’t a time when she couldn’t recall her hands without a pen or paper in them. She received praises for her work. She even had short, personal narratives and speculative fiction published in small university presses and literary magazines. Sharing her craft was never an issue, but she wasn’t ready for this. This step into the spotlight, in front of a crowd, her work and her passion on display for everyone to see.
Particularly Michelle.
Diane wasn’t used to having someone believe in her abilities so readily. So passionately. For the last two decades, Diane only experienced discouragement and disbelief from her ex. Michelle’s faith in her was flattering, but also made this experience even more nerve-wracking. The last thing Diane wanted was to disappoint her. After all, she’d seen Michelle in her glass studio, her artistic talents were obvious. Michelle exuded confidence. And for good reason. What if Diane’s book flopped? And she’d wasted her whole life chasing a pointless dream. She’d survived her marriage failing. But if she would now fail as an author, as well? That was an entirely different humiliation, Diane wasn’t at all prepared for.
“Here you go,” Michelle said. She set their cups and saucers down and joined her at the table, leaning in closely. “I know how you like lemon, so I had them put some extra slices on the side.”
“Thank you,” Diane said. Finding the best passage to share from her novel, Diane pushed her computer to the side. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup to still her shaky fingers. “Can never go wrong with extra lemon.”
Michelle, cupping her hot mug of cinnamon mocha, elbows on the table, a smile on her face, gave the next performer her undivided attention. God, she was beautiful. A steady calm radiated from Michelle. She always appeared calm and collected. But now Diane knew better. There was a tumultuous storm of guilt and grief and sorrow, always stirring inside her. Diane studied Michelle beside her, watching the creases around her eyes deepen as she smiled wider and clapped as the song ended. Last weekend together, Michelle opened up to Diane and let herself be overwhelmingly vulnerable. An experience Diane hadn’t fully recovered from. And tonight, Michelle offered her the same opportunity. To put herself out there. To take a chance. Be vulnerable and brave.
Diane couldn’t let her down.
“I’ve never been to one of these before,” Michelle said, tipping the hot drink to her lips. She held the stick of cinnamon off to the side as she drank, her eyes traveling around the room. “Have you?”
“A few,” Diane said, tapping her fingers on her cup of tea. Her tempo not in tune with the music, but fast and anxious. “On campus back home, the English department puts on poetry slams and dramatic readings a few times a month. I’ve only gone to support my students, or give them a chance for extra credit.” Diane kept tapping. “But I’ve never participated.”
“You’re going to be awesome,” Michelle said, stilling Diane’s hand with her own. She curled her fingers around Diane softly and looked her in the eyes. “I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not about to share your work with a room full of people for the first time,” Diane laughed. “But you’re right. I can do this. I’m just having some performance jitters.”
Michelle chuckled with an amused smile.
Diane scowled. “Does that amuse you?”
“No,” Michelle said. “Being nervous is normal. It just means you’re excited.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
Diane took a sip of her tea with a hard swallow. Hoping the soothing effects of the herbal drink would kick in already.
“What are you nervous about?” Michelle asked, turning fully towards Diane. “Let’s talk it through. Is it the crowd? Reading? Your work?”
“All of the above,” Diane laughed. “What if it’s not good enough?”
“I doubt that.”
Diane looked in her eyes. “You couldn’t say, having never read it.”
“True,” Michelle said. “You don’t seem the type of person to put yourself in a compromised position.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Michelle laughed.
Diane leaned back, slipping her hand from Michelle’s. “Your laughing is helping.”
“I’m sorry. I find someone as brilliant as you lacking confidence amusing, yes.” Michelle reached for her again. “You will kill it up there. I have no doubt.”
“And if I flop?”
“That won’t happen,” Michelle said gently. She rubbed Diane’s hand. “I can’t imagine you doing anything other than remarkably well.”
“What if I come completely undone up there?”
“Well,” Michelle started, her mouth spread into a seductive smile, the scent of cinnamon and mocha spicing her breath, “I can’t say I wouldn’t love to see you come undone, Diane. But not here, and in a much, much, different way.”
Diane swallowed. Her eyes locked on Michelle’s face as they held their gaze, inches away. She eyed Michelle’s mouth. Michelle’s lips looked so soft and inviting. Diane turned away quickly. Thinking about kissing Michelle right now would not help her situation.
“Good evening, all,” a deep voice took command of the room, and the chatter hushed. “Welcome to Tomfoolery’s open mic night. I’m your host, Darren Jones, and I can’t wait to see this awesome lineup we’ve got here tonight.”
A loud round of applause filled the room, and Diane looked towards the small stage, seeing Darren with this bright smile greeting the crowd. He made eye contact with Michelle and Diane, waving to them with a friendly wink. He looked dapper in his brown suede jacket and orange sweater vest, his locs pulled up in a thick bun, bringing out his handsome features. Darren certainly filled the role of dapper English professor quite well.
“Like all the open mics,” Darren said, holding the microphone stand, “we welcome everyone, all artists, musicians, writers, lyricists. If you want to share your work, or your talent, the stage is yours. There’s a sign-up sheet at the bar. The list is growing long, but the name at the top belongs to someone I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy her as well.”
The lights dimmed. A bright white spotlight fell on the stage. Diane looked around, her throat constricting. The number of people seemed to grow exponentially in the last fifteen minutes. She tried to calm herself. Count her breat
hs. This was ridiculous. She’d taught lectures, courses in front of hundreds, thousands of students in her lifetime. This should be a cakewalk. But instead, Darren’s introduction was muffled by her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
“Diane.” Michelle took her hand again. “Look at me.”
Diane breathed out a shaky breath and turned her eyes towards her.
“Forget everyone else. The room is just you and me. Okay?” Michelle squeezed her hand. “You and me. Go up there, keep your eyes on me, and read me a story.”
Diane shook her head. “I—”
“You. And. Me.”
Diane closed her eyes and calmly breathed, until Darren’s voice at the front of the room finally broke through…
“…so without further introduction, let’s give a round of applause and encouragement to our first reader, Diane Hollenbeck, who will be reading an excerpt from her upcoming novel, A Dying Storm.”
Giving Michelle one final glance, she grabbed her laptop and cut through the cluster of high top tables. The stage was burning under the lights, and she felt a ball of sweat drip down her spine as she settled behind the podium. Her hands shook as she adjusted the microphone and pulled up her doc. Placing her reading glasses on her nose, Diane peered over the frames through the crowd, finding the one face she needed before starting.
Smiling, Michelle gave her two thumbs up and mouthed the words, “You got this.”
Taking one last breath, Diane looked at the written lines, and began.
“When sunlight reached through the paint-flaking slats of the barn,” Diane spoke softly into the mic, making quick eye contact with the room, “the warm rays exposed the riffraff of birds’ nests, dotting the crossbeams above. I swallowed my first dose of coffee, my legs hanging over the hayloft, and studied the birds’ creation. Hay. Twigs. Mud. Over the last several years, this was how my mornings began. I foolishly—”
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