We Have Till Monday

by Cara Dee

  “Can you reach the olive oil for me, polpetto?” She pointed to the top shelf.

  I grabbed two large bottles, knowing she went through them in no time, and placed them in her cart. “What else is on the list?”

  She eyed the list in her hand over the rim of her glasses. “Your father asked for the big green olives, and there’s a special on roasted cashews.” She hummed. “Let’s go over to the deli too.”

  She spoiled my father rotten. There was no use in pointing it out either. Nicky and I had tried… It was her honor and job, she said. She’d been the woman at his side since we’d lost our mother to cancer over twenty years ago. It was sweet in one way; Pop had only ever loved Ma and would never settle down with another. And that made it tragic too.

  I’d had love once. One of my first serious relationships had been with someone I’d loved to stupid measures. My home used to be his. It was the only reason I could count myself as one of the lucky bastards to own their own place in Park Slope. But was that it, then? Thanks for a few great years, thanks for an amicable breakup that allowed me to buy a condo for much less than it was worth? I’d been miserable for a long time after Charles had left. He’d taken a job in Arizona to be closer to his family, for which I couldn’t blame him. He’d wanted me to go with him at first, but my home was in New York. I couldn’t leave my family for the same reason he couldn’t be away from his anymore.

  So maybe that was all. Like Pop, I’d have one love of my life, and we’d both lost them early on.

  Pop’s grief had obviously been harder. He became a shell of his former self, and I’d done my best to step in and help Nonna raise Nicky. And as Pop slowly recovered, he cemented into a figure who would never change again. He was at peace, he flirted innocently with the neighborhood ladies to get free food, and he had Nonna. And us. That was it.

  Nonna had traveled a similar path when Nonno died.

  There’d never been any talk of them finding new partners. Nicky and I had hinted a few times over the years, and we’d been shut down swiftly and decisively.

  They were everything to me, but I didn’t wanna be them.

  Ironically, I’d closed myself in like they had. I’d turned my daily routines into something made of concrete. I worked full time and then some at the Initiative, I had my side gig on Saturdays when I repaired guitars for chump change, I went to my local martial arts studio and kickboxed once a week, I ran three times a week, I had Sunday dinner with my family, and I went out for a beer or coffee with Nicky or buddies once or twice a month. Same bars, same hole-in-the-wall diners, same everything.

  “Che c’è che non va, polpetto? Dillo a Nonna. I can see something’s bothering you,” Nonna said.

  I suppressed a sigh and wrenched myself out of the depressing thoughts.

  She pointed at the olives she wanted, and I grabbed them for her before checking my watch. I had twenty minutes. Then I had to get back to work.

  “You don’t wanna tell me, huh?” Nonna sucked her teeth and shook her head, pushing the cart toward another aisle. “Nicky’s worried about you. He talks, you know.”

  “He talks when it’s convenient for him,” I said. “I’m fine, Nonna. I’m disappointed for allowing myself to become a mopey old bastard, but I’m workin’ on it.”

  “You’re no bastard.” She smacked my arm, and I smirked. “But I’m glad you’re working on that. Mopey is not an attractive trait.” Wasn’t a whole lot I could say in response. “It’s because you have a soft heart.” She nodded to herself. “You’re only really happy when you have someone to take care of.”

  I frowned.

  “Your brother’s the same,” she added. “You get that from me. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  I raked my teeth across my lip and worded myself carefully, not wanting her to get offended. “It’s difficult to see the blessing in it right now.”

  “Bah.” She waved me off and stopped at a bin with discounted dates. I fucking hated those. The seeds always got stuck in my teeth. “Maybe you’re a bit spoiled too,” she grumbled. “You have your health. Your dream job—your students love you. You have your family—and friends too. A nice home. It all comes down to sharing your life with someone? I know it’s the ultimate gift, believe me, but if you can’t see the gifts you’ve already been given, maybe you’re not ready for more.”

  Her words were delivered like a brick to my face. I wasn’t as devoted to church as my grandmother, so I’d never been a fan of the use of “gifts.” My job wasn’t a gift. It was something I’d worked my ass off to achieve. I’d built it with my bare hands. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have a valid point. I was being ungrateful.

  Had I been ten years younger, I wouldn’t feel so impatient either. As if I were reaching my expiration date, I felt this urgency to find someone quickly so I could experience something before it was too late. That was no way to live.

  “You’re a smart cookie, Nonna.”

  “I keep tellin’ everyone!” She waved her fist at me.

  I grinned.

  Amusement seeped into her gaze, and she gestured toward the registers. “You go back to work, polpetto. I don’t think I need your help with the rest. Your father’s picking me up.”

  “You sure?” If he was picking her up, it meant she was going to the salon. Otherwise, she usually took the bus—with or without Nicky. It was his thing to meet up with her at Sahadi’s once a week.

  “I am sure. Go.” She nodded and placed two containers of dates in her cart. “You need your music, Anthony. It always guides you.”

  I knew what she meant. I made my best decisions when I was surrounded by music because it cleared my head. Another trait I’d inherited from Nonna. She’d once been a singer. I’d seen old tapes.

  I dipped down and kissed her cheek, promising I’d see her for dinner on Sunday, and then I made my way toward the exit.

  Music worked.

  Music always worked.

  Travel jitters had set in by the time I had my next class with James the following week, but his playing helped. It was just the two of us in one of the rehearsal studios—the two of us, two grand pianos, and two spotlights.

  “Für Elise” had once been James’s biggest goal to master. These days, it was his preferred piece to use for warm-up and to wind down. This was the winding down part.

  We played together, and after running through the piece a few times, we were in perfect sync.

  Each bar brought back memories of when he’d once struggled with the shifts in the theme, but now he played flawlessly. And he often had a small audience outside the studio, peering in through the viewer’s window. Today, that audience consisted of Nicky and nine members of our local church’s gospel choir in Williamsburg.

  James paid them no mind. Only his playing existed, his fingers on the keys, the music sweeping through him.

  My fingers flitted across the keys too, and I smiled to myself as the light, flowing melody turned dramatic. Right around here, James had once suffered a complete meltdown because he, in his words, couldn’t get his fingers to cooperate. He’d been thirteen.

  I drew a long breath and closed my eyes.

  When was the last time I’d left New York? I’d been to Canada a couple times with buddies when I was younger. I’d been to Florida twice, Miami and Key West, and in the beginning of my relationship with Shawn, we’d gone up to Provincetown for a weekend. That…yeah, that was my most recent vacation. Three days in Provincetown nearly two years ago.

  I hadn’t taken time off work in over a decade, though. I’d bowed out countless times, instead. When friends were off somewhere, there was nothing weird about taking Friday off to extend a weekend trip. But there’d been no possibility for me to just cancel classes. So unless the trip would fall on a federal holiday…

  Now was different. Nicky had gone from part-time instructor to being my partner in the Initiative, and he’d be in charge for a while starting this Friday. Because at eight PM on Thursday, I was leaving New Yo
rk behind for a whopping twelve days.

  I felt like an uncultured idiot for being nervous about traveling. I wasn’t even leaving the country. But that hadn’t stopped me from packing and repacking my bag three times, not to mention all the times I’d organized my tickets and made sure I had everything in order, including the confirmation from the motel I’d be staying at.

  It wasn’t just my vacation and the food festival either. My initial reason for going to Nashville was a music festival. I’d submitted a demo on a whim last year, and we’d been accepted in the first round. We, being the band Nicky and I were part of. A band without ambitions. It was just a hobby. A small group of friends who played together when busy lives allowed it.

  For this festival, we’d included a few members of the choir Nicky and I worked with from time to time, and it would be the biggest stage we’d performed on.

  The music faded, and I ghosted my fingers over the keys in silence. Waiting. Was James done for the day, or did he want another round? The dozen or so students who required one-on-one sessions or smaller groups were evenly divided between the instructors with the right credentials, and the classes were scheduled near the end of the day so we didn’t have to rush any students. James was my last student on Mondays.

  Nicky and I had added a private rehearsal with the choir because of our upcoming gig, but there was time. Chris, our bass player, hadn’t arrived yet anyway.

  “What can motivate me to compose more on my own?” James asked. “Having my work discovered forty years after I’m dead isn’t really doing it for me.”

  I chuckled quietly and grabbed my water bottle next to me. “Valid concern—back in the day, at least. We have technology today, James. Your work wouldn’t be hidden in some leather binder, collecting dust in someone’s attic. You’d likely upload a recording to a streaming site.”

  “True,” he replied pensively. Then he got up and started gathering his sheet music and notebooks. “Mom and Dad want me to write my own stuff, but I don’t know where to begin.”

  “With whoever you compose for,” I answered. “Don’t think about notes. The object of the work is your lyrics. If you want to create something for your mother or maybe your sister, you keep them in your thoughts, and you start playing.”

  He chewed on his lip and carefully closed the lid on the piano. “Is that what you and Nicky do when you write?”

  Not the best comparison. “Sort of—we let the melody appear in the playing. But there’s a big difference between classical music and what he and I work on. We have a lot less to consider.”

  And other instruments could fill the gaps wherever necessary. James wanted to be a solo pianist; he had to cover every range, every emotion he wanted to convey, with his one and only instrument.

  “I guess I can try with my sister first,” he said. “I just have to pound my elbows on the keys.”

  I rumbled a laugh, to which he grinned proudly.

  “It was a good joke, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded and left my piano behind. “Very funny.”

  He was pleased as punch.

  With our session drawing to its close, I reminded him that Nicky would be here next Monday. James had all the notes he needed, and he knew what to work on. My brother would mostly be here as support. Nicky was a good pianist, but he hadn’t been schooled in classical music whatsoever, and his biggest strength was with the guitar. He stuck to teaching beginners and intermediate students where piano and keyboard were concerned.

  “I remember,” James said and nodded. “And the Monday after that, there’s no class at all.”

  Correct. That was the Monday we’d all be leaving Nashville. Thankfully, only a handful of classes had to be canceled. We’d worked most things out with the other instructors as well as two freelancers Nicky and I knew.

  James and I said goodbye for now, and he politely wished me a pleasant vacation before ducking out of the studio.

  I flicked off the lights and exited too, because we’d use the other rehearsal room for our practice with the choir.

  “Can you set the alarms and lock up?” I asked Nicky. “I’mma grab a quick smoke.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I spent half a minute on hellos and what’s-ups as I passed Maria, Luiz, and the others in the choir who were joining us in Tennessee. Then I made my escape and lit up a cigarette right outside.

  It was nice not needing a jacket as soon as I stepped outside the door. Nashville would be even nicer, I reckoned. I’d checked the weather app on my phone, and it would be around seventy there next week.

  I took a drag from my smoke and picked up a brown paper bag someone had thrown on the ground, and I tossed it in the nearest trash can. Then I glanced back at the building and felt a river of contentment flowing through me.

  For the first time ever, my to-do list wasn’t miles-long. Thanks to a bizarrely generous donation by Nicky’s boyfriend last year, we’d upgraded the security system in and around the school, and we’d gotten started on our new auditorium.

  The bars on the windows didn’t help the image of the neighborhood a whole lot, but it let me sleep easier at night knowing that equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars was safe.

  Taking another drag from my cigarette, I retrieved my phone and checked to see if I had any messages. Moshe had sent me a link for a gay bar he’d visited once in Nashville, so I thanked him and said I’d give it a try.

  I opened my Instagram next, and I picked one of the photos I’d taken today and uploaded a new post. Social media had, in the last couple years, become the most common way for new students—or their parents—to find the Initiative, so I tried to post something a few times a week. I hated Facebook though, so Micaela ran our page there.

  A quick caption for the class of violin beginners I’d visited today during a break.

  Our junior class of violinists rehearsing for the Lion King recital in June.

  I posted it with a little smile on my face, looking forward to hearing what the youngest kids had worked so hard on this semester.

  It didn’t take long for the likes to appear. Many parents followed my account, which was also why I avoided posting much of the personal variety nowadays. Only a few here and there, and almost all of them were music-related.

  I furrowed my brow when I noticed a string of likes popping up from a certain NSFW account.

  Every time I updated the notifications, there were new likes. The person was literally going through my album and liking every picture.

  A comment appeared from a proud parent to a student.

  I’d recognize that sparkly scrunchie anywhere! Can’t wait to attend the recital.

  They must’ve referred to one of the girls in the violin class. I avoided taking photos where faces showed, unless I knew it was okay.

  Another comment popped up.

  How is it legal to be that hot?

  What the fuck?

  The picture he’d commented on was nothing extraordinary. Someone was messing with me. I was just sitting there tuning a damn guitar. Nicky had taken the photo last summer. We’d been up on my rooftop terrace.

  A bit flustered, I merely left the app and pocketed my phone. I had a rehearsal to get to.

  I was completely useless that Thursday. Micaela would cover my last two classes, so I went home a little past five to get ready for an evening on the road.

  In between packing one last time, showering, and filling the back of my truck with three guitars, two amps, and some other equipment I needed, I spoke to Nonna and Pop on the phone, and by the time I’d ended both calls, Nicky showed up with pizza.

  “Oh, you already packed the truck? Whatta shame I missed that.”

  I snorted and accepted the pie. “Yeah, you sound remorseful as fuck.”

  He chuckled.

  We ended up on either side of the kitchen bar, and he asked if I had everything.

  What a question.

  I certainly hoped I had everything.

  “I think so,
” I replied, frowning. I’d gone over my list a dozen times. “It feels weird leaving some of the gear behind.”

  We were chartering a bus to fit everyone and everything, which Nicky was in charge of since I wouldn’t be here. So he was bringing the five hundred demos we’d ordered and were hoping to sell at the festival. He was also bringing my Hammond organ, an electrical organ we used in several songs. It was a bitch to transport.

  While I fetched us some beers, Nicky snatched up my notepad from the counter and went through my list.

  “Where’s Gideon tonight?” I asked.

  “In his own world,” Nicky huffed through a laugh. “I had to call his name four times before he looked up from the laptop.”

  I quirked a brow.

  He grinned and waved it off. “He’s at home. Shopping online.”

  Ah. It was sweet, though. They’d found their place here in Brooklyn now—in Park Slope, to be accurate—just a couple streets away from mine. And it made sense that Gideon would now go all in with shopping for furniture and whatnot.

  Gideon, like James, was autistic. And luckily for my brother-in-law to-be, Nicky wasn’t fussy about interior design or what kind of furniture they should have. In short, he’d probably given Gideon the green light to pick everything, exactly how he wanted it.

  As long as Nicky could finally move in with Gideon, he was happy.

  “You got an email.”

  I returned to the counter and handed one of the beers to him, then picked up my phone and frowned. The preview said something about an invitation.

  I opened it and— “What the…”

  “What?” Nicky asked.

  I couldn’t answer yet.

  You’re invited to a barbecue with August King!

  As the Franklin Food Festival is right around the corner, August wishes to extend the invitation to join him for a barbecue on Friday night. Perhaps you’ve traveled a long way to Nashville and don’t feel like hunting down a place to grab dinner, or maybe you’re tired after enjoying the first day of the festival. Either way, you’re very welcome to stop by Littlefield Ranch for a small, casual barbecue.