Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  I looked toward the club’s entrance, where people had begun to stream in. I took a deep breath and prepared to deal with the intensity of music fandom.

  “I assume so. He usually does.”

  She didn’t move. “It’s just that I brought something for him.” She held up a canister of something I guessed was homemade. I’d advised Micah not to eat whatever they gave him, but he never listened. And so far he’d never landed in the hospital. I knew his fans meant well, but who knew if those cookies had been baked alongside seven long-haired cats?

  “I could take it back to him if you like.” I made the offer, knowing full well it wouldn’t do at all.

  “No. Thank you. I’ll just wait and give them to him later. If he comes out.” She wandered off toward the stage.

  I spotted one of Micah’s regular fans, Susan something-or-other, making a beeline for the merch table. She looked put out that I was there before her. “Eden, if you like, I’m more than happy to man the merch.”

  I never understood what she got out of working merch for Micah. He didn’t pay except possibly in a waived cover charge. And she was farther from the stage and possibly distracted from the performances. Perhaps it gave her status. Whatever it was, it made her happy, and I was glad to relinquish the duty to her.

  “Thank you, Susan.”

  She beamed. “Oh, it’s no problem.” She began to chatter with the other women crowding up to the merch table. I overheard her saying, “Micah told me he’ll be performing a new song tonight.”

  Adam caught my eye, and we exchanged a knowing smile. So okay, he wasn’t a fan. He stepped beside me as I walked to the bar to get a seat on a stool. “So you’re not the number one fan, then?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Of course I am.”

  Before we could discuss our reasons for being there, the room plunged into near-total darkness, and Tobin stepped onto the stage to introduce the opening act, a tall blonde whose explosion of wild hair had to weigh more than the rest of her.

  She pulled up a stool and started into her first song without further ado. Out of respect, I kept quiet and listened, although her performance was a bit shaky, and the between-song banter didn’t help. It pleased me that Adam didn’t turn to me to say anything snarky about the poor girl or talk at all. I had to glare over at the women hanging around the merch table a few times, though. They’d shut up when Micah came on, but they didn’t seem to care that other musicians preferred to play to a rapt audience, too.

  In the time between acts, Adam ordered me another beer. At some point he’d dropped his hood back, but with the terrible lighting in the club, I had to squint to see his face. Normally, I wasn’t a big fan of facial hair of any kind, but Adam’s slight scruff caused my wires to cross. On the one hand, I worried he couldn’t afford a razor out there in the cardboard box he lived in. On the other hand, I had a visceral urge to reach up and touch his cheek. And run my finger down the side of his neck.

  He caught me staring when he leaned closer to ask me how long Micah had been performing.

  I wasn’t sure what he was asking, so I gave him the full answer. “He’s been singing since he was old enough to talk. He started playing acoustic when he was eleven, but picked up electric when he was fifteen. He formed a metal band in high school, and the first time they performed live anywhere beyond the garage was a battle of the bands.”

  Adam’s expression changed subtly as I recounted Micah’s life history, and I could tell he was reassessing my level of crazy fantardness. I laughed and said, “I told you I was his number one fan.”

  His smile slipped, but he managed to reply politely. “He must be very talented.”

  Something about the timbre in his voice resonated with me, almost familiar, and I regretted my flippant sarcasm.

  Before I could repair my social missteps, the lights faded again, and the girls near the stage screamed in anticipation. A spotlight hit the mic, and Micah unceremoniously took the stage. He strummed a few notes and broke directly into a song everyone knew. The girls up front sang along, swaying and trying to out-do each other in their excitement.

  Adam twisted around and watched me, eyebrow raised. Maybe he expected me to sing along, too. I raised an eyebrow back and mouthed the words along with Micah. Wouldn’t want to disappoint him. Finally, Adam straightened up to watch the performance, ignoring me for several songs.

  Micah performed another well-known song, then a new one, introducing each with some casual-seeming banter. I knew he planned every word he said onstage, but the stories he told were no less sincere for that. He controlled his stage presence like a pro.

  Before the fourth song, he announced, “This next song requires some assistance. If you would all encourage my sister, Eden, to come join me, I’m sure she’d hop up here and lend me a hand.”

  The audience applauded on cue. As my feet hit the floor, Adam’s eyes narrowed and then opened wide as he did the math. I curtsied and left him behind to climb up onstage to perform—Micah’s support vocals once again. Micah strummed a chord, and I hummed the pitch. Then he began to play the song, a beautiful ballad about a man with an unflagging devotion to a woman. The ladies in the front row ate it up. Micah knew I got a kick out of performing, and I suspected he asked me up so I could live his musician life vicariously.

  When the song ended, I headed back to the anonymity of my stool. The hard-core fans all knew who I was, but if they weren’t pumping me for information about Micah, they didn’t pay much attention to me. There was a fresh beer waiting, and I nodded to Adam, appreciative. He winked and faced forward to listen to Micah. That was the extent of our conversation until Micah performed his last encore and the lights came back up.

  Then he turned back. “You were right. He’s very talented.” He tilted his head. “But you held out on me. Your opinion was a little bit biased.”

  “I was telling you the truth,” I deadpanned. “I am his number one fan.”

  “You two look nothing alike. I’d never have guessed.”

  “We have a crazy mix of genetics.”

  As we chatted, the area behind us, near the merch table, filled up with people waiting for a chance to talk to Micah, get an autograph, or take a picture with him. The lady with the cat-hair cookies had nabbed the first place in the amorphous line. I scanned the rest of the crowd and discovered that Tobin had lost his bet. A pair of teenage boys holding guitars stood on their toes, trying to get a glimpse of Micah over the heads of the other fans, but he hadn’t come out yet. They were most likely fans of his edgier rock band, taking advantage of the smaller venue to meet him, pick his brain about music, and have him sign their guitars. They’d still be competing with at least thirty people for Micah’s time.

  If I wanted to go home with my brother, I’d be hanging out a while. I could still catch a train back to New Jersey, but Micah’s place in Brooklyn was closer. I decided to stay. It had nothing to do with the cute guy paying attention to me. I just didn’t want to navigate Manhattan alone and drunk.

  Adam leaned in and asked, “So what do you do? Are you a musician, too?”

  “Actually, no. I’m a biochemist.”

  “Finding cures for Ebola?”

  That caught me off guard, and I snorted. “No, nothing like that.” I didn’t know what to tell him about what I actually researched, so I half lied. “My company’s developing a perfume.”

  “What’s it like?”

  I scooted over. “I’m wearing it. Can you smell it?”

  He met me halfway, eyes dilating black. I knew I shouldn’t be flirting. He didn’t appear to meet a single one of my criteria and, in fact, actively ticked boxes from the “deal-breaker” list. I didn’t want to lead him on only to have to give him the heave-ho in the next thirty minutes.

  He took my hand and kept his dark eyes on mine as he lifted my wrist up to smell the fragrance Thanh had given me. “Mmm. That’s nice.”

  Without dropping his gaze, he brushed his lips across my skin, and an electric curre
nt shot up every nerve in my arm. I drew my hand back, shrugging off the shiver that hit me like an aftershock. “And you? What do you do?”

  He laughed and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I’m a musician.”

  I blinked back my disappointment. From Adam’s appearance, I hadn’t had high hopes, but he might’ve been dressed down for a night out. Way down.

  On my list of suitable professions for my prospective mate, musician wasn’t at the absolute bottom. There were plenty more embarrassing or unstable career choices. I wouldn’t date plumbers or proctologists for obvious reasons. Salesmen either because, well, I didn’t like salesmen, but also because their financial situation might be uncertain. Plus they tended to travel. My ideal guy, I’d decided, would be an architect. But there weren’t many of those swimming around my apartment complex in Edison, New Jersey.

  I had nothing against musicians. On the contrary, I loved them. I’d supported my brother in his career, but the lifestyle was too precarious for my peace of mind. Even the most talented had a hard time making ends meet. Traveling and selling merchandise became a necessity.

  Which is why I never dated musicians.

  Unfortunately, all the doctors, lawyers, and architects I encountered were usually not interested in jean-clad, concert T-shirt wearing me. This train of thought brought me around to the realization that I’d judged Adam for dressing exactly the same way.

  Micah saved me from sticking my foot in my mouth when he appeared at our side. “Adam! I’m glad to see you here. I see you’ve met my sister.” He turned to me. “Eden, do you mind if I steal him for a few?”

  Adam threw me a glance. “Will you be here when I get back?”

  The jolt of butterflies this simple question gave me came wholly unexpectedly. “I’ll be here. I’m leaving when Micah does.”

  He flashed a crooked smile at me, and I traced his lips with my eyes. He was going to be trouble.

  They headed toward the green room, leaving me as confused as Adam must’ve been when I went onstage. I didn’t know who he was, or why my brother wanted to see him.

  I weighed the possible options.

  Option one: The most logical explanation was that Micah was hiring Adam to temporarily replace his bassist, Rick, who was taking time off to be with his wife after the birth of their first child. I congratulated myself for solving the mystery on my first try.

  Option two: Maybe Adam was a drug dealer. No, other than smoking and drinking, I’d never known Micah to try a recreational drug. And surely, this wouldn’t be an ideal location for such a transaction. Besides, Adam already said he was a musician. Option one was looking better and better.

  Option three: Or maybe Adam was a homeless man Micah was going to take in out of charity. A homeless man who’d just bought me three beers. I rolled my eyes at myself, but then felt awash with guilt. He probably wasn’t homeless, but it did seem like he might be struggling to get by, and I’d accepted three drinks I could’ve easily afforded. Good job, Eden. Way to drive a man to starvation.

  Every new option I came up with to explain Adam’s presence here defied logic and stretched the imagination. I gave up and watched the crowd thin. When Micah and Adam came back out, the bar was empty, save me and the staff.

  Micah poked me. “We’re going over to Adam’s. You can come or just go straight back to my place.” He bounced on his feet. I looked from him to Adam, standing relaxed up against the bar. From the looks of things, Micah had a boy crush. I might be interrupting a bromance if I tagged along.

  Adam stepped toward me. “I have a fully stocked bar, and I don’t like to drink alone.” His smile was disarming. The whole situation seemed so contrived, and I had to wonder whose idea it was.

  Micah stifled a yawn. “Come on, Eden. Just for a drink. Let’s go see how the other half lives.”

  Did he know what that expression meant? “Okay, but let’s get going. Some of us have been awake since this morning.”

  Dating by the Book is Mary Ann Marlowe’s third novel. When not writing, she works by day as a computer programmer /DBA and loves to travel. She spent ten years as a university-level French professor, and her résumé includes stints as an au pair in Calais, a hotel intern in Paris, a German tutor, a college radio disc jockey, and a webmaster for several online musician fandoms. She grew up on the outskirts of Indianapolis and has lived in twelve states and three countries.

  Mary Ann Marlowe lives in central Virginia, where she is hard at work on her next novel.