by Penny Reid
Martin, plus my dad—when I was an infant—were the only two men in the entire world who had seen me naked. Really, only Martin actually counted, because I didn’t have boobs or pubic hair or a girl shape when my dad used to give me raspberries on my tummy. Plus, he was my dad.
Only Martin…
That pressing thought served to confuse me and increase the potency of my awkward feels. Perhaps I needed to fix that. Perhaps I needed to find another guy and show him my girl stuff, widen my audience, so that being in the same room with Martin didn’t turn me into a skeevy, nudity-obsessed wacko.
Perhaps diluting the meaningfulness of intimacy would lessen the impact of his presence. Then I could look at him and think, Hey, you’re one of the guys who has seen me naked. So what? Who hasn’t seen me naked?
“Do you think you can play? It’s just one more set,” Janet asked softly, pulling me from my thoughts. She was a nice girl, very maternal, with a heart entirely too soft. A direct contradiction to the image she projected with her dyed black hair, pale skin, icicle eyes, and copious piercings.
I nodded and closed my eyes. I could play. I would play. I just needed a minute to stop my hands from shaking.
I wondered if there was a broom closet nearby where I could chill out for five minutes. I wouldn’t hide all night, just until it was safe. Maybe Fitzy could join me and I could show him my boobs.
“Jarring, unsettling, startling, alarming, disconcerting, distressing, disquieting.”
A pause followed my mumbling, and then Willis asked, “What are you doing?”
“She’s chanting synonyms.” Abram’s voice carried from across the room. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He was watching me with interest. “It calms you down, yes?”
I nodded, frowning. He was entirely too shrewd.
Willis grunted. “Well, okay. That’s…as weird as a loan shark with debt. But we got another ten minutes before rodeo time.”
I held Abram’s gaze for a moment longer, then stood—a little wobbly on my feet—and turned to Willis. “I think I’ll take a short walk.”
Fitzy leaned forward and began to volunteer, “I’ll go—”
But Abram lifted his voice and talked over him, “I’ll walk with you. Come on. Let’s go.”
The tall bassist pushed away from the wall and crossed to me, wrapped his hand around my arm just above the elbow, and pulled me out the back door.
“Be back in five minutes!” Willis called after us.
“We’ll be back in seven,” Abram countered, steering me down the alley to the street and away from the stink of the dumpster.
I pulled out of his grip when we reached the sidewalk and folded my arms over my chest, not really feeling the cold of the last November evening because my mind was racing, trying to keep pace with my heart. I was definitely not going to show Abram my boobs. That would be like jumping from the frying pan into the beer batter, then back in the frying pan.
When I saw Martin across the room, I just stood there, my fingers still on the edge of the baby grand piano. It didn’t feel real and I was sure he was going to disappear if I blinked.
So I didn’t blink.
Eventually, Fitzy pulled me off the stage and I had no choice but to blink. Yet when I looked back and Martin was still present—still standing at the bar with his beautiful date next to him, surrounded in a thick cloud of arrogance, still staring at me—I almost blacked out.
He didn’t disappear. He was real. And he most definitely saw and recognized me.
“You feeling better?”
I realized Abram and I had already walked a block and a half. The distance was a surprise. “Yes. I feel better. We should go back.”
Lies, all lies. I didn’t feel better. I felt like throwing up. Will the drama never stop?!
We continued forward.
“Sometimes you sound like a robot when you speak.” He didn’t appear to be annoyed as he made this comment; rather, it was simply an observation, maybe meant to distract me.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Mostly when you talk to me.”
“What can I say? You bring out the artificial intelligence in me.”
I heard him chuckle as he took my arm again, bringing me close as we skirted a crowd of rowdy young men, all dressed in New York Knicks jerseys, likely on their way home after a game at Madison Square Garden. When we were past the boisterous crowd, I moved to pull my arm out of his grip, but he didn’t release me. Instead he tugged me into a small doorway and turned me to face him.
“So, who’s the guy?”
I lifted my eyes to his, found him studying me with moderate interest. Moderate interest for the perpetually sardonic Abram felt like a laser beam pointed at my skull.
“What guy?”
“The guy at the bar. The stockbroker, or hedge fund manager, or whatever he does.”
I squinted at Abram, setting my jaw, but said nothing.
He lifted a single eyebrow and I noticed he had a scar running through the center of it. The scar paired with his hooked nose—likely broken more than once— and long hair, gave him a rather ruffian-like appearance, a pirate prone to fights.
“Ex-boyfriend,” he stated. He’d clearly pulled the answer from my brain with his ruffian voodoo.
I grimaced. “Yes…kind of.”
His lips pulled to the side as his eyes skated over my face. “Kind of?”
“We need to get back.” I didn’t move.
“Are you afraid of him?”
I ignored this question because it was entirely too complicated for me to answer. Instead I said, “It’s been five minutes at least.”
“Did he hurt you?”
I closed my eyes, leaned back against the brick of our little cave, and murmured, “We hurt each other.”
We were silent for a stretch and I felt his gaze on me, but I hardly noticed. My mind and heart were twisted up in a battle of wills, and yet neither of them had decided what to do, how to feel, or what to think.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Once again, Abram encircled my arm with his long fingers and tugged me down the street. This time I made no effort to pull away. Once we reached the first stoplight, he slipped his grip from my arm to my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. Even in my fog I definitely noticed. Usually, I would have withdrawn by crossing my arms over my chest in the universal body language code for not interested in you touching me, but instead I let him hold my hand. I let myself take some comfort from the connection, even if he wasn’t really offering any.
Honestly, I had no idea what to think about Abram, whether he was actually offering comfort, why he was holding my hand…so I didn’t think.
Soon we were back in the alley and entering the back door of the venue. Willis was the only one left in the backstage area; he stopped mid-pace as we entered. “You’re late as a Chevy to a fuel efficiency contest. It’s been ten minutes.”
“We’re not late. We’re early,” Abram drawled, squeezing my hand then releasing it. He crossed to the cooler and pulled out a Coke while I sunk back to the bucket I’d been sitting on earlier.
“Early? You said you’d be back in seven minutes. It’s been ten.”
“Yeah, but I meant fifteen.” Abram paired this by lifting his broad shoulders in a shrug, then adding an unapologetic and crooked smile.
Willis turned his scowl to me. “Are you ready?”
I opened my mouth to respond but Abram cut me off, “No. She threw up twice during the walk. She can’t play, unless you want her tossing chunks all over the stage.”
Again, I opened my mouth to interject. This time Willis cut me off. “No, no! You stay back here, I can’t have glitter at a confetti party.” He rubbed his bald head and stomped toward the steps, muttering as he went, “We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re welcome,” Abram said between swallows of Coke, bringing my attention back to him.
“Why did you do that?”
“So you’ll owe me one.”
&
nbsp; This only served to intensify my frown. “I don’t owe you one. I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Fine. Then I did it because I’m a nice guy.”
I shook my head. “You’re not a nice guy.”
He grinned, looking positively wolfish. “No. I guess I’m not. But you’re a nice girl. You bring out my altruistic side.”
“Hmm…” I squinted at him and said nothing else, but I felt a little bit better.
This, this right here, this exchange between Abram and me was likely the source of my improved spirits. If I’d met Abram last year I likely would have run in the other direction. But now I was talking to this smart, charismatic, undeniably hot musician and hadn’t once considered that I might be reduced to a blubbering fool.
I was officially adulting.
I was engaging in discourse with a guy to whom I was attracted, but whom I would never consider dating. Bonus: I wasn’t trying to change the subject to musical theory, or some other tactic meant to distract.
Abram mimicked my squinty stare—though his was joined by an amused smile—and tossed his empty Coke bottle in the trash. “Wait for me after the set, I’ll take you home.”
“No thanks, I’m taking the train.”
He stopped in front of me on his way to the stage and straightened his bow tie before sliding his long-fingered hands—bass-player hands—down the front of his suit jacket. The suit wasn’t tailored very well and was baggy around his middle. Obviously he’d sized up so the shoulders would fit but hadn’t invested in tapering it to fit his torso.
“You’ll wait. Remember? If you’re too sick to play the piano, then you’re too sick to take the train.”
“I live in New Haven. That’s a long drive.”
He shrugged, turned, sauntered to the steps, and called over his shoulder, “I like long drives.”
I heard the recorded music cut off and Fitzy announce the last set followed by an upbeat number. I stayed on my bucket, my arms folded across my stomach, for three and a half songs, considering my options and trying not to think about Martin.
I ultimately decided I would think about Martin, but not yet. I’d wait until I was at home, just in case thinking about Martin made me cry. Also, thinking about Martin often led me to compose music. I was not above exploiting my memories of him or the feelings associated with unexpectedly seeing his face in the crowd for my own purposes. I liked to think of it as channeling my angst.
Yes, thinking about Martin later with a blank sheet of music and boxes of wine and tissues was definitely for the best.
Furthermore, I decided Abram could enjoy a nice, long car ride all by himself. I was going to take the train.
I pulled on my jacket, hooked my bag over my shoulder, grabbed another Coke from the cooler, and left via the backdoor. I didn’t feel it necessary to leave a note; rather I would call Willis in the morning and apologize for flaking out.
I was ten steps from the backdoor when I saw him, or rather, the silhouette of him. The city lights were at his back, his face cast in total shadow.
I stopped. Everything stopped, or slowed, or suspended. It was a moment out of time, a singularity.
Then Martin moved and everything started again.
My heart slammed against my ribs, making me flinch and flush as he straightened away from the corner of the building. And I regretted my decision to postpone thinking about Martin. I should have sorted through my feelings inside, because now the momentum of my emotions choked me, leaving me defenseless. I couldn’t actually form words. Martin hovered at the end of the alley, waiting, like he expected me to speak first.
But what could he possibly want to hear from me? We were together for one week and we’d ended badly. I’d purposefully avoided all mention of him—online and elsewhere. Even so, I couldn’t help but know some details. Those details told me he’d withdrawn from college last semester and moved to New York. I guessed the rest—he was doing splendidly as a boy wonder venture capitalist.
Our mutual silence stretched and I grew certain he definitely expected me to break it, like we were in the middle of a conversation and it was my turn to speak, the ball in my court. Eventually it must’ve become obvious I wasn’t going to be the one to modify the state of our conversation inertia.
He cleared his throat as one of his hands came to his jacket and he touched the front of his coat.
“Parker,” he said. I felt the single word in my bones, though it sounded like a casual greeting. But it struck a chord because I never thought I’d hear his voice again.
I shifted on my feet, also cleared my throat, and tried to mimic his unaffected intonation. “Sandeke.”
Another long moment passed where neither of us made a sound or movement. It was a bizarre situation to find oneself in for many reasons, not the least of which was all the busy goings-on surrounding us—people rushing by on the sidewalk, cars and buses and taxis whizzing behind him. I heard and felt the subway beneath my feet, the muffled music behind me, horns blaring, sirens whining. But we were still and silent.
Then abruptly, walking toward me, he said, “Do you need a ride?”
I shook my head. “No. No, thank you.”
“I have a car. Do you live in the city?”
“No. I’m still in New Haven.”
“I see…”
He stopped, now some five feet away. His gaze traveled up then down my body and he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, his exquisite eyes remote and guarded when they landed on mine. I could see him clearly now beneath the light of the alley, and what I saw made my chest ache with the unfairness of him. I couldn’t help but devour his features, recommitting his face, both familiar and unfamiliar, to memory.
He looked older, more like a man, and there was a new hardness in his face. He also might have been an inch taller, or maybe not. Perhaps he just carried himself differently. I didn’t know how it was possible, but he felt even more imposing than he had before, and the gulf between us felt wider than ever.
This was hard. My heart hurt.
I thought I’d matured, grown from a repressed girl into a woman with an adequate amount of aplomb, worldliness; but I could see now that I still had a long way to go. Or perhaps I was always going to be part doofus. Perhaps it was in my genetic makeup to be a perpetual kid. Just standing near him made me feel like an imposter, like a poser trying to play grown up.
He was inspecting me. I could see the calculating gleam in his eyes; I was a problem that needed to be solved. I felt the heavy heat of embarrassment surge uncomfortably from my chest to my neck. Old Kaitlyn raised her hand and suggested I should hold very still and close my eyes until he got the message and left me alone, or thought I’d transformed into a large rock or a living statue.
Old Kaitlyn sure was a nut.
Whereas new Kaitlyn suspected that the chances of making it through the next ten minutes without bursting into tears were about three percent. New Kaitlyn was also very frustrated because she wanted to be over Martin Sandeke. She wanted to be able to see him without becoming an emotional pendulum.
However, both new Kaitlyn and old Kaitlyn wanted nothing to do with drama or angst or unwinnable arguments. I was over being a hot mess and wallowing. I had no idea why he was here, but every instinct told me to extract myself as soon as possible if I wanted to avoid future pitiful behavior.
I decided to embrace new Kaitlyn’s frustration. Old Kaitlyn’s suggested antics would get me nowhere. Whereas I could channel frustration into something useable, maybe even transform it into false bravery.
“Well, I’ll see you around.” I gave him a flat smile, thankful the alleyway was dim because it would mostly hide the impressive blush burning my cheeks, nose, forehead, and ears.
I moved as though to walk past him, and he quickly countered by stepping to the side, blocking my path. “Do you want to get a drink?”
“Oh, no thanks. I have a drink.” I held up my Coke as evidence, trying to keep my voice steady and polite.
; The corner of his mouth tugged to the side. “I meant, do you want to go somewhere to drink? Coffee?”
My eyes cut to his. “What about your date?”
“What about her?”
“Well, would she come with us?”
His gaze searched mine. “Would you be more or less likely to say yes if she did?”
This question hurt my heart and sounded like a riddle, so I ignored it. “Nah, I have work in the morning and I’m pretty tired.”
“Work? Another show?”
“No.” I pressed my lips together, not wanting to admit I was basically restarting college in the spring, and worked as a singing barista at the Bluesy Bean. But then I decided I was being a ninny and had nothing to be ashamed of. Martin had always been meant for a different world than mine. We were opposites, we always had been, always would be.
I lifted my chin and glanced beyond him as I explained, “You know that coffee shop with the blue bean hanging over the door? The one next to the row of bars on Crown Street?” I forced myself to meet his gaze again, adding, “Well, I work there now. I’m one of the singing baristas.” I was pleased I was able to admit this without a fresh wave of embarrassment. As well, my voice sounded conversational and entirely normal.
His eyebrows furrowed, transforming his achingly handsome face into a sexy scowl. “You’re working at a coffee shop? Why?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “Why do people work? To make money.”
“Did your mother cut you off? After—”
I interrupted him, not wanting to hear what came after after. “No. Not at all. Nothing like that. I just—”
I stopped myself from explaining, abruptly wondering why we were talking at all. What was the point of this exercise in masochism? I had a nine-month-old wound that felt remarkably fresh. A dull ache had set up camp in my chest and was expanding, inflating to my throat, and pressing against my ribs.
“Listen.” I sighed as I glanced beyond him again, my eyes beginning to sting. Now that the shock was wearing off, looking at him was becoming increasingly difficult. “I need to go. I have a train to catch.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No, thank you.”