by J. L. Rizzo
Crew and I drop our things in my room and wash up and change for bed, dancing around one another like we’ve done this routine for years. What makes it so intimate are the little touches here and there — he strokes the ends of my hair when he passes behind me, sending delightful tingles up my spine; I run my fingers across his broad, muscular shoulders as I move around him, touching him, feeling him, as if he were already mine. It feels good — to have someone who wants to touch me because he has to, like he simply can’t keep his hands off me.
We trade little smiles in silence, each knowing what will happen the second we hit the sheets. I’m so turned on that I have to restrain myself from rushing to bed.
“I’m going to get us some water bottles from the fridge. Would you like anything else?” Crew sees right through my euphemism, his eyes dancing with salacious humor. He shakes his head “no,” then winks at me.
Jesus. He can really make a girl go limp. No wonder he’s had so many chances.
“What are you thinking about?” he interrupts my train of thought.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because your entire face just changed before my eyes. I knew what you were thinking. But now I don’t know.” He walks toward me and tangles his fingers in mine, pressing his face to my hair and deeply inhaling. “I love the way you smell,” he breathes out against me.
“I was just thinking about how you can make a girl weak in the knees with just one look.”
“Is that what’s happening, Summer? Am I making you weak?” He emphasizes the “k” in a lustful voice. “Or is it something else?”
“You’re making me wish I lived alone,” I lean into him.
The laughter in his chest feels like a deep, bass sound that hums through my body.
“Let me get those waters before I throw you to the bed and have my way with you,” I say, surprised that my voice could ever say such words. He moves slightly and looks down to me with furrowed brows. “Just an idea,” I whisper, the embarrassment stinging my cheeks. His gleaming smile is my reward for honesty.
Tip-toeing up the stairs, I make sure to be quiet so that I don’t wake my mother. It’s well after 10pm, and she’s usually fast asleep before 9. She’s always been an early riser, gardening in the terrace yard at the first sign of dawn. Since we moved to New York, I bought her garden boxes for the terrace in which to create her oasis.
Stopping a moment to look through the sliding doors to the peaceful blanket of snow on the terrace, I breathe in the calmness outside. It’s so beautiful in the moonlight —
“Summer?”
Ah! Startled by my mother’s voice, I turn around quickly to see her tying up the sash to her robe, of which I currently don’t see the color because all I see is the man. Standing behind her. Wearing a robe. With his hand on her shoulders.
What. The. Fuck.
“Summer…wh—…what are you doing here?” she stammers. But I barely hear her because all I can focus on is the tall man with the dark hair behind her who is busy kissing the side of her head. As if it’s normal. As if he’s done it 10,000 times. And she’s fucking letting him.
“You were supposed to be in Austin —” She stumbles and turns to him, then nervously pats his hands, informing him that it’s ok to leave the room.
It’s so not ok.
Because I’m not sure how I can murder him if he’s in a different room.
The riot of emotions exploding inside my body paralyzes my feet to the floor. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. I mean, what do I say to my mother…who’s apparently been living a double life right above my head? What the fuck do I say?
I want to strangle him. I want to strangle her. I want to strangle myself. For being so fucking stupid. All of us.
“Summer —” My mother approaches me with slow trepidation, as if she’s trying to sneak up on a predator that is ready to strike.
She’s not too far off.
Making her way in front of me, she raises her hands to place them on my arms, which turns out to be the catalyst that makes me move. I brush them down harshly, too sensitive to handle any solace she wants to give me.
“Summer. Listen to me —”
“How long, Mother?” I ask through gritted teeth, enunciating each word with as much hatred as I can speak.
Pursing her lips together, she flutters her eyelids, trying to compose herself from being caught fucking a stranger in her only daughter’s home.
She stands up straighter, an aristocrat remembering her place in the world. “Two years.”
Two years! “Are you serious?” I throw daggers at her through my stare. “Two years? Did I hear you right? For two years, you’ve been…what? ‘Seeing’ this guy? Dating him? Fucking him? Without telling me about him?”
“Summer. Please let me explain —” She’s interrupted by the sound of a loudly vibrating cellphone. Which is weird because my cell is in my pocket. Crew is downstairs. So it must be his.
There’s a phone on the counter near the refrigerator, plugged in to charge. She spots it immediately, and gives me a second glance before walking over to it.
She unlocks it. Reads the texts. Laughs. Then replies back to whomever has the goddamn nerve to message her so late at night. The whole scene happens in slow motion.
What the fuck is going on? I think I’ve entered an alternate universe.
When the hell did she get a cellphone? How does she know how to use it? Who is that guy in the other room? How could this be happening for two years? And why don’t I fucking know about any of this?
I feel like I’m having a silent panic attack, the pain radiating from my stomach and stretching to my neck, choking me from the inside. Everything is tightening, restricting my breath. I feel numb yet everything inside is exploding. I’ve got to get out of here.
I turn quickly away from my mother’s repulsive behavior and immediately bump into Crew, who manages to catch me by my upper arms before I stumble.
In more ways than one.
“Summer, what’s wrong? Why are you so upset?” His eyes search my face then slide from mine to look over my shoulder and see my mother standing in a robe, holding her phone in her hand, smiling like an idiotic schoolgirl at her messages. His eyes frown when he takes in the scene — my mother has clearly been keeping secrets…monumental secrets. “When did your mother get a phone?” Finding my eyes again, he knows I don’t have any answers. One look and Crew knows that there are more pressing matters than my mother just having a cellphone. That there are a flood of questions rushing to my brain. And that it’s killing me to be so deep in the dark.
“Shit,” he says and squeezes my arms.
“Summer?” my mother calls for me. But I can’t bear to hear her voice let alone any words that come from her mouth.
The anguish must be clearly written all over my face. “Go downstairs, Summer. I’ll be there in a moment,” Crew says, looking back to my mother with heightened scrutiny.
But I don’t hesitate. I have to get away from her, away from here. So I head downstairs and find my boots and clothes, putting everything back on that I just took off. One floor away isn’t enough. I need to get out of this house, out of this nightmare.
After searching for a few minutes, I find my bag and shove some things inside before Crew appears in the doorway.
“Where are you going, Summer?”
“Out. Somewhere. I don’t know. I can’t be here.” I fumble for words like I fumble my phone, wallet, and keys. All of this should be easy. But my mother has introduced dysfunction into my life. So right now, nothing seems easy.
I need to go where it’s easy.
Crew puts on his shoes and grabs his bag, following me out the door.
There crisp cool night air fills my lungs which have felt crushed for the last ten minutes. I need to walk. Crew keeps up with me in silence, putting his arm around my shoulders to keep me warm. In the hustle of leaving, I forgot how cold it was outside and left my jacket.
We walk a few blocks, turning a few corners before we arrive at my destination — a piano bar on Grove Street. The outside isn’t very fancy, and the place is a hole in the wall. But it’s one of my favorite places in New York City. My feet stick to the floor, the lights twinkle on the ceiling, the patrons are loud and happy…and there’s a piano near the back. Rugged, yet inviting. My kind of place.
I walk in to the smell of alcohol and grilled onions filling my senses. The bar is quite empty, with a few patrons sitting quietly at their tables. Normally, this bar is standing room only. It feels easy here, comfortable. The bartender, Marie, spots me immediately.
“Hey, Summer!” she says with a bright smile. Her robins-egg blue hair complements her dark Samoan skin so beautifully.
“Hi, Marie. Not too busy tonight, huh?” I ask walking over to the bar.
“Naw. The cold tends to keep people at home.” She lifts her eyebrows once. “But I’m glad you’re here. Missed you, pretty lady.”
Smiling back is all I’ve got in me right now.
“You gonna play for us?” she asks, cleaning a glass with a towel and pointing her chin to the piano.
“I was hoping to. That ok?”
Marie winks at me. “You know she’s all yours, Piano man.”
“Piano man?” Crew whispers behind my ear, sending exciting shivers up my spine.
“Summer’s our most popular player,” Marie continues, obviously realizing that Crew is clueless. “She’s become a favorite around here. When she plays, there’s not a spot on the floor.”
Marie’s always singing my praises. I am humbled by her.
Crew steers my shoulders and turns me to him. He cups my face in his gentle yet strong hands. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Summer?” His eyes search mine for any sign of faltering. But all I have to do is smile at him, and he knows that I need to be here.
The tension around his eyes eases. And he smiles warmly. “Well, ok then.”
He kisses my lips once, holding our kiss for a few extra moments, pouring all of his concern into me. I love him a little more for being so strong.
Walking to my sanctuary, I already feel my raging pulse slowing down to a manageable pace.
20.
Crew
As she walks to the piano in the back, a few patrons say hello and wave to her. Summer waves back with a familiarity that confesses her comfort. She knows these people. She’s friends with them. She’s respected by them. This is her place to be free.
I grab a seat at one of the small tables opposite the piano, near the wall, taking in the whole scene.
I am in awe. Of her grace. Of her courage. Of her entire being.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that this was her piano bar, not just a place she plays. Everyone knows her. Everyone is excited to hear her play, as they turn their chairs to face the piano, sitting side by side around their tiny round tables littered with half empty pint glasses.
I didn’t need to hear her say that she needed a piano to release her tension. But I did need to know that she’s in her right mind. Her mother has lied to her, throwing her into a frenzy. That kind of deception, if ignored, will spiral out of control quickly. But she knew exactly where to go to work it all out, settle herself. She’s right where she needs to be.
Sitting at the piano, she stares at the keys for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere. Then she gently closes her eyes. She looks absolutely incredible — a girl and her piano. An unbreakable bond. She’s silently playing her song, imagining her notes, communicating to the piano the sounds she wants to convey. It’s an awe-inspiring sight. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the amazement of seeing her prepare to play.
After a few tender moments, she opens her eyes and pulls the mic down to her mouth.
“Good evening,” she says, her voice a calm tone that settles yet invigorates the small crowd. “I’m Summer Perry.”
A “wooh!” comes from a small voice behind me.
“Thank you,” she smiles with glimmer in her eyes.
Playing a few keys, she awakens the piano, then she continues, “First I’d like to say a huge ‘thank you’ to Marie and Zarb for always having their lights on. Even on a cold, dark night.” Everyone claps while Marie gives a charming curtsy behind the bar. Another few keys brings the piano to life.
“I’d like to dedicate this song to someone who’s come to be very special to me. Someone I’ve known for a few days in person, for a lifetime in spirit.”
Her melodic voice pours into the microphone a cappella, washing over the empty space in the bar, grabbing immediate attention from every set of ears. Listening to her sing feels like drinking good brandy, soothing yet exciting, strong and warm. It rouses something inside of me, something that’s felt dormant for years.
Babe, you make me want to catch on fire.
The harmony of the chords catches up to her rhythm, her voice leading the notes fractions of a second before the chords hit. The song grows with her passion, the hum of her melody molding into a harmonious echo. Her fire spreads through her spirit from the piano.
The only way is aching for a change.
Summer sways with the music, her eyes closed to absorb the emotion and send it through her microphone, through her fingers. She’s brilliant. She’s mesmerizing. I’m lost in her hypnotic vortex.
You’re where I want to be. No matter what I see.
The song lyrics are muted by the sight of Summer pouring her soul out on display. I thought playing the Chopin prelude brought out her innate talent. I was so wrong. She sings her song with wild heat, preying on the rhythm, unwavering with her purpose. She’s not one with her instrument. She commands the instrument. Pressing the keys with force to make it sing louder, her fingers demand the piano to play her struggle, her broken heart trying to mend itself in the music. Building up to the crux of her song, the bar is satiated with Summer — her voice, her heart, her passion, her soul.
And when we die we know that time is kind.
Time. Time isn’t kind. Time isn’t precious. Time isn’t sympathetic. Time doesn’t wait. Time is a bulldozer. Time is unyielding. Time gives out. Time is harsh. Time is heartless.
Always be what I need. I am home. I am free.
Summer ends her song with fluttery notes and a soft hum, a direct contrast to the thrumming base and richness of her song. Her lips are touching the microphone, her eyes are closed, and she’s glistening sweat around her hairline. She is spent, coming down from the high of her song. Before the piano allows the last note to ring quiet, the patrons in the bar explode with applause. When I look around, I’m confused by just how many more people popped in during that four minute time warp. When she plays, there’s not a spot on the floor. Marie wasn’t kidding. It’s like people flooded in from the street, just to hear her play.
They love her.
Almost as much as I do in that moment. Almost.
When she opens her eyes, they scan the crowd and find mine almost immediately. I wink at her to let her know that I’m filled with awe and pride. She’s not an accomplished classical pianist. She’s not a piano man. She’s not a superstar. She’s all the stars.
Smiling back at me, she stands and takes a quick bow. Then she makes her way through the crowd as people pat her on the back, shake her hand, and take quick selfies.
Summer is radiant, smiling and filled with immense gratitude. She’s always been humble. But right now she’s extraordinary.
I pull her right into me, holding her tight, afraid of what happens when this moment ends.
“I guess you liked the song,” she says into my neck, like she’s saying a secret. But she’s saying it so loudly that she’s practically screaming it. Another person sat down at the piano, which explains why most people rushed the bar for their refills, making the crowd noise gradually grow louder.
Squeezing her gently, I wash her with my gratitude. When I pull away, I kiss her fiercely, like she’s my next breath. “That was absolutely incredible.” I look
deep into her eyes. There are no words for what I feel for her. She’s brought color and focus into my life, in every way. “You are absolutely incredible.”
Her warm smile draws me in for another long kiss. Her lips taste like sweat and tears, and I pull back to make sure she’s not crying.
She’s crying.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” I ask, brushing a tear away with my thumb.
She manages half a smile, then shakes her head. “It’s been quite a day, you know?” She shrugs, her go-to move when she isn’t sure how to convey her rioting emotions.
“Here you go, hunny,” Marie interrupts. “On the house. Thanks for the crowd.” She smiles at Summer and hands her a tumbler of amber liquid, which Summer picks up and downs in one shot.
I smile at her and whisper close to her ear, “What are you drinking?”
Looking up at me with amusement in her eyes, she says, “Jameson whiskey.”
My shock is hard to hide, as she laughs at me.
“Does that surprise you?”
I nod my head. “Everything you do surprises me.” She rewards me with a playful kiss.
“Want a drink?” she asks.
“I don’t drink, Summer,” I tell her, catching her luscious body as it bumps into me. “You’ve drawn quite a crowd tonight. Do you play here often?” I laugh as she stumbles once more.
Nodding, she replies, “Marie’s brother owns this bar.” She takes a sip of the water Marie just offered her, never taking her eyes off me. “Her brother is Xaden.” She eyes me with caution, looking up at me with timid eyes.