by Kelly, Hazel
My mouth kept singing thanks to muscle memory, but my mind was miles away, trying to guess what kind of underwear a woman like Maeve would wear. Probably something structured. She didn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd risk her nipples showing in a board meeting. And expensive. Silk, maybe. Or lace.
I felt an inappropriate surge of jealousy as she chatted with Brian at the bar, and I hoped he wouldn't say anything stupid that would make it harder for me to win her over. Not that I'd thought much about how I intended to do that or what I would do if it happened.
I guess I just wanted the option. Guess I liked the idea that a woman like Maeve might like me for me, instead of for who I used to be. It was dumb. I knew that. I didn't know her well enough to attach such meaning to her approval.
Still, she was hot, and as Brian had accurately surmised, she was a grown-up. I didn't meet many of those, since I avoided them as much as possible, but I was willing to be open-minded in her case. And suddenly, I wondered if I’d made the wrong decision by wearing her scarf. Not that I could do much about it now. Besides, if she couldn't take a joke, our flirtation was dead in the water anyway.
Brian brought her a glass of white wine and let her pay for it, which was disappointing. Then again, he was more interested in staying in business than getting in her pants, so I suppose it was the right call.
The important thing was that she'd stayed for a drink that wasn't Scotch, which was promising. The last thing I needed was another alcoholic in my life.
She swiveled towards me, and the stakes felt higher all of a sudden. Like she was really listening. To me and only me. And for a moment, I was thirteen again, practicing the guitar till my fingers ached in the hope that someday a gorgeous woman would cross her legs in my direction and watch me play.
So I gave it everything. Sure, my casual exterior stayed the same, and the regulars who'd heard all my songs a million times didn't exactly stop what they were doing. But as far as I was concerned, it was just us. Just me and Maeve and my guitar, which I let do all the talking.
I played the songs I thought she'd like best. “Jack and Diane.” “Brown Eyed Girl.” “Cecilia.” “Hallelujah.” An original song I wrote about a time I was brokenhearted, during which I avoided catching her eye so she wouldn't think it was personal. But it was. The whole set was. It was the most personal gig I'd played in years. And I could feel it in my fingers and in my throat, which rasped a little harder for every note.
It felt good, actually. Playing for someone besides myself again. And the way her eyes drifted over me made me feel charged. Electric. Plugged in like I hadn't felt in a long time. Part of me never wanted the set to end.
But the music was an illusion. I knew that. Knew I could only hide behind it for so long. Eventually I'd have to go up to her, return her scarf, and not blow it.
It made me uncomfortable that I cared so much. I think that's part of the reason I kept playing. It was easy to hit on women when you didn't care what happened one way or the other. But I liked Maeve. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was extra. Extra what, I didn't know yet. Neurotic. Driven. Guarded. But there was more to her than that. I could tell.
I could tell by the way she watched me and by the way she kept her eyes on everyone else. She wasn't a hen, as Brian had called her. She was a hawk. An owl. An endangered species. And I wanted to sing to her all night.
Whether or not she'd let me, I didn't know. But when it came time to put my guitar down, I graciously accepted the applause of the crowd who'd been half listening. Then I took a deep breath and made my way over to the bar, hoping against all odds that it wouldn't be the last time I got to play for her.
F I F T E E N
- Maeve -
Part of me was annoyed when I saw Finn wearing my scarf, and part of me felt like a lovestruck teenager in the front row at a Backstreet Boys concert. Or whatever the kids were listening to these days. I wouldn't know. I liked older music. Like the stuff Finn was playing.
“Jack and Diane”? Was he trying to seduce me? And Joni Mitchell? He couldn’t know she was my all-time favorite. But when his gravelly voice sang “River,” it was as if I were hearing it for the first time. And the more I allowed myself to get swept up in his understated performance, the more heat seemed to build between my legs.
He was obviously wearing my scarf as a joke. Its bright turquoise color was in direct contrast to his casual T-shirt and short beard, though beard was too strong a word. From a distance, his facial hair was only a defined shadow. Yet my cheek remembered the feel of it perfectly, and watching his hands move across the guitar felt like the therapy I didn't know I needed.
Was it better that everyone thought Kurt dumped me at the Christmas party? I suppose it was if I wanted people to know what an unscrupulous, sacless excuse for a man he was. It was still embarrassing, though. Particularly the private shame of being a grown-ass woman who thought she had a boyfriend on Christmas but didn't.
Whatever.
At least I knew the score now. More importantly, Franny was right. I did feel better with a skirt on. I left my hair up, though. It seemed too desperate to take it down. I didn’t even do that for special occasions. Unless the special occasion was relaxing at home. Otherwise, I felt too self-conscious about it flowing everywhere and going full Julia Ormond on me. It was too much, and if I couldn’t keep my own mane under control, how could I expect anyone to take me seriously?
Meanwhile, Finn didn’t seem to harbor such concerns. He was wearing worn-looking, vintage Levi’s and a T-shirt that said Tacocat backwards is Tacocat on it, an ensemble that didn’t exactly scream “responsible adult” even when paired with my cashmere scarf. That said, I was admittedly fascinated that a person could go around giving so few fucks.
Perhaps it was an entitlement issue. Or mild brain damage. Regardless, I envied his laissez-faire aura and wondered what kind of clever nickname Quinn might give him if he were here. Sure as hell wouldn't be "Dockers," anyway.
I also wondered if what he said about his chest hair was true. Kurt didn't have any chest hair and looking back, I suppose his torso had looked a bit pre-pubescent as a result. I doubted Finn's was perfect, though. I'm sure he only said that so I’d get sucked into thinking about his naked body, and I'd fallen right into his trap.
I sipped my white wine, trying to balance making it last with not having to drink it warm. At home, I'd chuck a few ice cubes in to keep it chilled, but I never did that when I was out, no matter how warm it got.
At one point, Finn played a song I didn't recognize, and by the way he sang it, I sensed he probably wrote it. It was good, but it was heartbreaking, too. Both the music and the lyrics. It was about being brokenhearted after a break-up, which wasn’t exactly uncharted songwriting territory. But there was a line in it that I found haunting. It was about catching yourself reaching for someone in the night and finding only more of the nothing you feel inside.
I wondered how personal it was to him and if he was playing it for me. He didn't glance my way when he sang it, and I couldn't decide whose feelings he was trying to be respectful of. Truth was, Kurt hadn't broken my heart. He'd merely hurt my feelings and sent me into the new year mortified and questioning everything.
So no biggie.
But as I always reminded myself when things didn't go according to plan, everything happens for a reason. And Kurt’s reason for coming into my life was obviously to teach me once and for all that a man was not the answer to my problems and that I should continue relentlessly pursuing my goals. Like getting a promotion (check!) and doing whatever it took to become a mother, so I didn’t end up a lonely spinster. Because I’d much rather be a single mom.
I’d be better at that, especially after the good example my mom set for me. She wasn't perfect or anything. I knew that better than anyone. But she knew how to raise a kid who treated people with respect, appreciated the little things, and wasn't afraid to bet on themselves.
When Finn fin
ished his set, I clapped along with the rest of the crowd. He nodded more than bowed, as if he was almost embarrassed by the attention before heading straight over, his eyes crinkling warmly at the edges in a way that made my knees press together.
"It's a good color on you," I said, nodding towards the scarf.
"This old thing?" he asked, throwing one tasseled end over his shoulder before hopping on the barstool beside me.
I laughed. "That's too much. The double wrap. Doesn't work with the shirt."
“It’s hard to accessorize this shirt," he admitted, glancing down at it. "Tacos are the obvious choice, but I always end up eating them."
I couldn't help but smile at the idea of tacos as an accessory. Perhaps I should mention that to Maddy so she could post about it on her fashion blog.
"I'm allergic to kittens, too, so that doesn't work well either."
"Allergic to kittens? That's horrible."
Brian set a beer down in front of Finn without a word and returned to a conversation he was having down the bar.
"We all have our crosses to bear," Finn said, unwrapping my scarf and handing it to me.
"Thanks." I folded it and set it on the bar beside my drink. "I really appreciate you picking that up for me."
"No problem," he said. "If there's one thing I never do, it's neglect to notice when a woman's left her glass slipper behind for me to find."
I tried to scowl, but my amusement ruined the effect. "I didn't do it on purpose."
He licked his lips and lifted his beer. "Sure you didn't."
S I X T E E N
- Finn -
She blushed when I compared her scarf to Cinderella's glass slipper. "I suppose that would make you Prince Charming?"
I laughed. "Not an accusation I've received before, I assure you."
Her eyes smiled. "I’m shocked to hear that."
"I suspect you’re no Cinderella either," I said. "Apart from the fact that the way you move in those heels puts everyone here to shame."
She pressed her lips together and cast her eyes towards her drink.
"Excuse me for a moment." I stood off my stool and went to grab my sweater from where I left it on the small stage, though stage was a bit of an exaggeration. It was really just a raised platform that ensured the guys and I had enough room to play when the place got crowded. I pulled it on over my head as I weaved my way back over to Maeve.
"You should've told me you were cold," she said. "I would've let you wear my scarf a while longer."
"It was cozy. You said it was a gift?"
"Yeah. My brother got it for me in London."
My brother gave me a black eye once, I wanted to say. But that's only because he'd left another message on my machine, and I was ticked about it. How dare he make me feel guilty for not calling him back. He knew damn well I was better off without him. "Sounds like a nice guy."
"Was that an original song you played earlier?"
"Which one?"
"The one about the brokenhearted guy who keeps finding himself alone in the dark."
"Yeah," I said. "Did you like it?"
"I don't know. It was kind of depressing."
"That's because I used the D minor scale in it."
She cocked her head like a curious puppy.
"It's the saddest of all keys. Makes people instantly weep."
Her big brown eyes narrowed.
"Don't tell me you haven't seen Spinal Tap." When her expression drew a blank, I leaned forward. "Seriously?"
"Is it a movie?"
I feigned shock and then disappointment, turning to rest my elbows on the bar before putting my head in my hands. "This was going so well."
She laughed.
I turned to look at her and quoted the film again, studying her face for signs of recognition. "This one goes to 11?"
She shook her head.
My shoulders fell with my sigh.
"What's it about?"
"It's the original mockumentary. Totally ahead of its time. Completely dated now, but… Have you been living under a rock?"
"You've made your point."
"We have to correct this situation," I said. "Have you found a suitable bachelor to knock you up tomorrow?"
Her eyes popped wide. “Excuse me?”
"Sorry. That came out wrong."
"There's an understatement."
"What I meant to say was, if you don't already have plans tomorrow, I'm prepared to clear my schedule and watch it with you."
"Wow,” she said. “Are you sure you’re not a prince?"
"We could even grab dinner first."
"Could we?" she asked, clearly amused by my strategy of pretending I was doing her a big favor by asking her out.
"Might be wise. It's never a good idea to watch a rockumentary on an empty stomach."
"I thought you said it was a mockumentary?"
"It's both," I said. "That's the beauty of it."
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were asking me out."
"Of course, I'm asking you out. I just played a whole private concert for you. It's the logical next step."
"That wasn't a private concert." She scanned the length of the bar behind me. "There must be at least sixty other people here."
"I hadn't noticed," I said, keeping my gaze on hers.
She rolled her eyes. "Were you this hammy before you became a musician or is it something you picked up since?"
"Hard to say. I've been playing music for a long time."
"How long?" she asked.
"Got my first guitar when I was ten."
"Wow."
"How about you?" I asked. "You play any instruments?"
"I used to play the flute."
"Used to?"
"Can't say I have much occasion to pull it out anymore," she said. "Plus, playing in the school marching band was sort of soul destroying."
"So why'd you do it?"
"Because it was something to put on my college applications."
"Still have the uniform?" I asked.
“Absolutely not."
"Shame."
"Trust me, it isn’t. Whatever you're picturing, it wasn’t that cute."
"Did you have a tiny top hat with a visor and a chin strap?"
She scowled.
"This has absolutely made my day."
"I'm glad,” she said, lifting her wine glass. “That silly hat certainly never made mine."
I couldn’t help but grin at the thought of the sophisticated woman before me marching around in tacky buttons and tassels. "Maybe you should dig it out again."
"As much as my neighbors would love that, I think my flute playing days are behind me."
"Such a shame. And right when Lizzo's made it cool again."
"You like Lizzo?"
"I like good music," I said. "Doesn't matter if it's pop or country or funk. I respect anyone who can get the most out of an instrument, including if that instrument is their voice."
"Good to know."
"What about you?" I asked. "What kind of music do you like?"
"The kind of stuff you were playing earlier," she said. "Sixties and seventies mostly."
"No surprise there."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you obviously have great taste," I said, letting my eyes fall to the small, gold M dangling on a delicate chain between her collarbones. "That's why I'm going to take you somewhere nice for dinner tomorrow."
She scrutinized me for a moment. "Why do you want to take me to dinner?"
"I think it's kind of obvious, don't you?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't."
"I'm obviously using you to get to the scarf."
Her lips drifted towards a smile.
"If you disappear from my life, there's zero chance I'll get to wear it again, and now that I’ve felt that fine cashmere on my skin, I can’t just forget about it."
> "Seems like it would be a lot less hassle to go out and buy your own scarf."
"You're right," I said, raising my palms in surrender. "You got me. I lied."
"So what's the real reason?"
I squinted at her. "Do I have to say?"
"I'd feel better if you did."
I sighed. "Fine."
Her brows crept up her forehead.
"I want to take you to dinner because I think you're incredibly beautiful, and it'll be weird if I admire you while we're watching Spinal Tap."
"Oh right. Another thing I didn't agree to."
"Yet," I said, lifting my beer. "Another thing you didn't agree to yet."
S E V E N T E E N
- Maeve -
Maybe he really did think I was beautiful. He had called me stunning on New Year's Eve.
I guess I was just wary because I wasn't exactly in the mood to take men at their word. Not that I should punish Finn for the fact that I hadn't yet decided how embarrassed I was by Kurt's public betrayal.
Regardless, Finn's brand of self-deprecating confidence was refreshing. It was almost as if he wanted me to like him but also wanted me to know he didn't care either way. Maybe we had more in common than I thought.
"Where exactly did you imagine we'd watch this epic film?" I asked, swirling the last sip of wine in my glass.
"My place," he said with a shrug, his dark blue sweater making his eyes pop a heck of a lot more than the Tacocat shirt did.
I tried to imagine his musician digs, complete with tatty couches and wrinkled posters on the wall. Was I rebounding hard right now or was he sincere?
"Not only because I’m sure I have a nicer TV than you, but because that's where your New Year's kiss is."
I swallowed.
"Hope you don't mind that I haven't been carrying it around."
My eyes fell to his forearms, and I found myself wishing I'd admired them more before he covered them up.