by Carian Cole
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” He grins as he picks up his belongings and walks away with his dog. After a few steps, he looks back and flashes me a smirk that’s a jarring mix of boyishness and sex appeal. I shake my head as he heads back toward the park.
I tear my eyes away from the way his jeans hug his butt in the most perfect way and how his hair flows down his back, and walk in the opposite direction. I’ll have to work an extra half hour tonight to make up for being late, but that’s okay. I did my good deed for the day and bought a homeless guy lunch. Even if he claims he’s homeless and jobless by choice, I don’t really believe him. No sane person would do that to himself.
“Honey, if you’re going to be late for dinner, you should call. I was starting to worry.” My mother peers into the oven at whatever she’s got baking in there.
“I’m sorry. I had to work late, and then I got stuck in some traffic.” I wish for the millionth time the tiny apartment-like space I rent in my parents’ basement had a kitchen, instead of the tiny refrigerator, single countertop burner, and microwave I have in a small nook down there. If I could cook real food in my own space, I’d decline having dinner with my parents and my sister every night so I could feel more independent.
Mom pushes her short black hair behind her ear. “Please don’t let them take advantage of you in that office, Piper. First it’s a half hour. Then it’s an hour. I know how managers take advantage of their more submissive employees.”
Cringing at the way she characterizes me, I drape my coat over a chair at the kitchen table, reach into the cabinet above the counter, and pull out four dinner plates.
“They’re not taking advantage of me, Mom. I was late coming back from lunch, and I had to make up the time. That’s all.”
Donning oven mitts, she pulls a meatloaf out of the oven and then nudges the appliance closed with her knee. “I worked in an office for a long time. I know how some people get stepped on and taken advantage of, and I don’t want you to be treated like that. Once you set a pattern, it will follow you forever. You need to have a firm backbone, okay?”
“Her? A backbone?” my younger sister Courtney repeats as she enters the kitchen. “She’s the mushiest person I know.”
“Is it pick on Piper day?” I ask as I place the dinner plates on the oak table. Meanwhile, our formal dining room—with a beautiful view of the flower garden in our backyard—sits unused, only to be occupied on holidays and rare special occasions. If I ever have a nice dining room, I’m going to eat in it every night, even if I’m noshing ramen noodles all alone.
The comments from my mother and sister bring back uncomfortable yet all-too-familiar memories of being the middle child, sandwiched between two sisters who are pretty damn close to perfect. They’re both gorgeous, tall, confident, athletic, raven-haired beauties. They’re graceful, popular, and excel at everything they set their minds to.
Then there’s me, sticking out like a sore thumb with blond hair and light eyes. I’m so short the top of my head barely reaches their shoulders. I’m shy, socially awkward, and look like I am perpetually stalked by a dark cloud. The utter misfit in all our family photographs.
Years ago, I stopped trying to compete with them for attention and slipped into the background of our family. Nobody seemed to notice.
“No one’s picking on you. I’m giving you some professional advice. That’s all.”
Just as the last serving dish is placed on the table, my father—tall, smiling, and handsome with just a touch of gray at his temples—joins us at the table. We each take the same chairs we’ve been sitting in since I was about five years old. The only difference in this family scene is the empty chair belonging to my older sister, Karissa, who’s now in law school and happily engaged to a fellow law student. A man my mother describes as a gorgeous hunk of perfect man and the kind of man she wishes I would find.
I don’t want to find a man at all. I’m open to meeting one, but the term finding one scares me. I’m lost enough on my own. I don’t need to find a man equally as lost and disoriented with life as I currently am.
I think I need a man with his own compass.
After dinner, I make a quick exit to my space downstairs, a sigh of relief leaving my lungs as soon as I’m on the other side of the door that separates me from them. My plan is to get my own place next year, once I have enough money stashed in my savings account to give me a decent safety net.
Ditra, my best friend, has been after me for months to move in with her, but she’s a major slob. She keeps food in her refrigerator until it can’t be identified anymore. The stains on her carpet are oddly sticky and hard. And she’s going through an experimental phase of fooling around with random men and women—sometimes at the same time—and that kind of oogs me out. I can’t picture myself sleeping in the next room with my cat while she’s just on the other side of the wall with her latest petri-dish date.
Living with my family for a while longer won’t kill me.
Archie, my striped tiger cat, is staring at me with accusing green eyes from beside his food dish, which apparently has fewer morsels of food than he requires, even though I filled it this morning. Like the obedient human he’s trained me to be, I add more food and give him fresh water before I change into cotton shorts and a T-shirt.
I do one hundred crunches.
I do fifty donkey kicks per leg.
I do fifty squats.
I wash my face, brush my teeth for two minutes, and comb the hairspray out of my hair so it’s not a sticky mess when I shower in the morning.
I check Archie’s dishes one more time and set the outfit I plan to wear tomorrow at the very front of my closet.
Nightly rituals complete, I grab Archie and carry him to the bedroom with me. I slip Titanic into the VCR and crawl under the comforter to watch it for the tenth time. I’ve seen it in the theater twice—once with Ditra, who was bored by it—most likely due to the lack of sex scenes—and once with Courtney, who cried but enjoyed it, even though she cursed out Rose for not letting Jack onto that floating door.
I love the movie and find some new special moment every time I watch it. I can’t get enough of the romantic connection, the angst, and the unwavering fight for love and happiness. The hope and devotion, even in the face of heartache and tragedy, is fantastic.
I pull Archie against my body and pet his head, but he jumps off the bed and bolts out of the room, leaving me feeling rejected and lonely.
The soundtrack of the movie quickly pulls me back into the story, and the sad tune tugs at my soul, making me want to smile and sob uncontrollably at the same time. The park guitarist’s music makes me feel exactly the same way.
Chapter Three
I never go to the park on Saturday. That’s my workweek thing to help get me through the day. But I see no reason why I can’t do my laundry tomorrow instead of today as I usually do. The sun is out, the sky is filled with fluffy white clouds, and I’m in the mood for some fresh air. And I have to admit—curiosity has me wondering if Evan plays guitar in the park on the weekends. I wouldn’t mind hearing more of his music and seeing Acorn’s paw waving around without having to rush to get back to work.
After a quick stop for a soy vanilla latte, I’m reminded it’s the weekend by the fact that the park and surrounding area is filled with people who also aren’t working today and all the parking spaces are taken. During the work week, I never have to find a place for my car because I walk from my office. After circling three times, I finally find an empty spot and shove a few coins in the meter to buy me some time.
There’s a crazy number of adults and children in the park today, and I’m bummed to see my bench occupied by a woman and her two kids. Nervously, I peer around as I scout a quiet place to sit and finally settle on a mossy, shady spot under a big willow tree.
Leaning back against the thick tree trunk, I pull my book out of my bag and pick up where I left off, but my thoughts keep drifting away from the words on the page, as I h
ope to hear the beautiful sound of Evan’s guitar. Perhaps he plays somewhere else on the weekends or does something entirely different. What does a homeless person do with his time? I can’t picture him standing on the corner of a busy intersection, holding a “will work for food” sign, the dog waving frantically at traffic, but I guess anything is possible.
“You hiding from me way over here?”
I almost drop my book at the sound of his voice but quickly recover and squint up at him. His guitar case is slung casually over his shoulder, a black toothpick hangs from his lips, and the sun shines behind his head like a golden beacon. Acorn lies down in the grass next to me and leans his body against my leg. He’s decided they’re staying.
I try not to smile, but I think I already am. “Someone took my bench.”
“I saw.”
He sets down his guitar and sits on the ground a few feet from me.
“I wasn’t sure if you came here on the weekends or only when you work.”
“I usually don’t. I was actually just wondering if you played here on the weekends.”
“So you were thinking about me?” The teasing tone of his voice sends tingly zaps through my body like the static shock from rubbing on carpet. I wonder if we were to rub against each other if it would feel as electrifying as I think it would.
“No.” The word comes out of my mouth too quickly. “I just like hearing your music.” I wave my book in front of him. “While I’m reading. It’s nice.”
A mischievous glint flashes in his eyes. “I like watching you when you listen to my music. I can tell which songs you like the most.”
“Really?” I ask, amused. “And how can you tell?”
“Your breathing changes. It’s subtle, but I see it.”
Knowing he watches me makes my heart and stomach feel like I’m in an elevator endlessly riding up and down because someone has pressed all the buttons and the lift has no idea where to stop.
“This is a different look for you,” he says. I look down at my off-the-shoulder black shirt and my favorite pair of faded jeans and wonder if he thinks I look frumpy. “Not many women can pull off sexy secretary and adorable girl next door. I like both.”
Compliments from good-looking men are rare for me, and I have no idea how to react. Do I thank him? Tell him even though he’s wearing ripped-up clothes that probably haven’t been washed in days or weeks that he still looks smoking hot? Comment on how the scent of sandalwood enveloping him is alluring?
None of those things come out of my mouth. I just sit there basking in the idea of being sexy and adorable with—knowing my luck—no doubt a super goofy smile on my face.
He touches my paperback and looks over the cover of the man and woman in a heated embrace. The man on the cover has long dark hair, just like his.
“You’re reading romance?”
“Yes.” I hope he doesn’t think it’s silly. “I read mysteries, too.” I’ve literally never read a mystery, but it sounds good and diverse.
He pushes his hair out of his face and takes on that faraway, reflective look I’ve seen on his face before. “Romance is a bit of a mystery in itself, isn’t it?”
I ponder that for a few moments. “In a lot of ways, yes, I think it is.”
“I used to read a lot. It was a good escape from the bullshit of life when I needed it. But now music and people-watching do that for me.”
“Reading books and watching movies are my escapes. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve watched Titanic.”
“Ahh.” He smiles and nods. “Devastation masked in a love story. I see the appeal.”
I laugh. “I know it’s wrong, but it’s so addicting.”
“Trust me. I get it.”
Acorn rolls onto his back. As we both reach to rub his belly at the same time, our hands accidentally touch. I pull mine away, startled by the weird shiver that travels up my arm and into my chest.
“Do you ever sing? Or do you just play guitar?” I ask.
I catch the briefest clench of his jaw muscles. “I sing sometimes. I just don’t like to.”
“How come?”
He stares at the dog, who has all his paws up in the air. “I guess I prefer to be in the background and not the center of attention. Less seen and more heard.”
I know all about fading into the background of life. “I’d love to hear you sing someday.”
He frowns, then smiles before he unlatches the guitar case and pulls out the scratched and scuffed-up instrument. “I’ll make a deal with ya,” he says. “I’ll sing for you, just this once, if you let me buy you an ice cream after.” He nods his head toward the ice cream cart across the park.
My leeriness of him is fading; all thoughts of him being some kind of big bad wolf fall to the wayside with the promise of singing and ice cream. I realize if all it would have taken to lure me in was ice cream and a song I probably could have been easily kidnapped as a child. But something about Evan isn’t evoking that stranger-danger vibe I initially felt with him. I want to trust him, and even more, open up to him a little.
“Deal,” I reply. “Ice cream is my weakness.”
He sits cross-legged, the guitar in his lap and his tattooed knees shoving through the frayed holes in his jeans. Cocking his head to the side, he looks up to the sky.
“All right, Ladybug,” he finally says, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and putting it in the pocket of his blue and gray flannel shirt. “I’ll sing you a song I wrote a few days ago. It still needs some work, but it’s a start.”
Intrigued, I set my paperback aside as he plays a slow, faint melody that gradually grows deeper. When he begins to sing, the passion in his voice reaches straight into my soul and latches onto it. Possesses it. Despite the warmth of the sun, goosebumps scatter over my flesh in response to his unique, gravelly, but emotional tone. His eyes are hooded and downcast as he sings, and I realize when he performs his own music, he gets intimately involved—consumed by the melody. He pours his heart and soul into it, and the words and music carry traces of him along with them. And he was right when he said my breath changes when I listen to him play, because this song and his voice have made me breathless.
Now it makes sense—all the times I watched him lose himself in music. Those were his songs. The songs I recognized from the radio? He was different when he played those. Although he performed them perfectly, he didn’t close his eyes to shut out the world or move his hands so passionately across the strings. The connection wasn’t there.
But this, this private performance just for me, is like he’s sharing his devotion to the art of words and sound. It’s obvious he deeply loves what he creates. I’m honored and awed and quite enamored with him, his music, even his dog. The lyrics are dark, seductive, and sad:
And then there was you,
Slayer of my heart,
The one I would destroy,
Keeper of my heart.
You came like a dream, and I snuffed you out.
I’d love you if I could, but I don’t know how.
I just don’t know how, baby.
I’ll make you cry, I’ll make you sigh, and you’ll beg for more.
Slayer of my heart,
Sweet as sugar,
Sexy as sin.
You’re just my everything.
Then there was you,
Keeper of my heart,
Wish of my soul.
Don’t ever leave, baby, and I’ll never let you go.
Just like that, there was you.
Keeper of my heart… wish of my soul… Don’t ever let go.
You’re my everything.
After he sings the last word and strums the last note I take a deep breath. “Wow. That was just…” I grapple for words, but can’t come up with any good enough. “Incredible. Amazing. Your voice gave me chills.”
I want to hear more. Begging isn’t beneath me. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than listen to him sing and watch his fingers drift over the guitar all day lo
ng, just for me, without the small crowd of people that usually surrounds him.
A hint of shyness reaches his crooked smile. “You’re the first to hear that one.” He strums his fingers across the strings.
“I feel special now.”
“You should.” He places the guitar back in the case and snaps it shut, causing Acorn’s ears to perk up. “That’s all for today,” he announces, snuffing out my hopes to hear more. “Now you owe me an ice cream date.”
My cheeks burn at his choice of words, and I feel a stab of unease as we walk toward the ice cream cart. Is this wrong? Having ice cream with a homeless guy who’s sort of becoming a friend? I think his flirting is harmless. It’s probably the way he acts with all women. It doesn’t mean he likes me. And the strange fluttering of my stomach is just a side effect of listening to amazing music up close, like having front-row seats at a concert by my favorite band.
That’s all.
“You’re really talented, Evan,” I say as we walk. “I don’t understand why you’re playing here in a park for dollars and change when you could be—”
“A famous musician?” He finishes my sentence as if he’s heard this hundreds of times before.
“Yeah. I mean, I really think you could.”
We stop at the ice cream stand and browse over the menu of flavors.
“I’ve had offers, been flown to L.A. and Seattle to meet with bands and producers and all that shit. That’s not what I want. I don’t care about money or being known. All I care about is playing music I love and being free. I don’t give a shit about anything else.”
His answer baffles me. Who walks away from the chance to make money? Why would he choose to stay on the streets?
He pushes my hand away when I take my wallet out of my bag.
“I can afford ice cream, Piper.”
I hesitate, feeling bad. Not only for insulting him, but for allowing him to spend his money on me. I’ve seen what people throw in that tip jar of his. Reluctantly, I put my wallet back as he orders two cones for us and a scoop of vanilla in a cup for Acorn, who’s waiting next to us with a wildly wagging tail and what could almost be a smile. My heart clenches at the dog’s excitement, and all I want to do is take him home with me and give him a big bowl of food, a soft doggy bed, and some toys.