“Yeah, no kidding,” Dustin said.
Nate chimed in. “You wanna be our singer, Mia?”
I knew he was joking, but I answered him anyway. “I’m too shy.”
“She can play piano for us, though,” Will said.
“Well, I’d have to think about that,” I said, glaring at Will.
I had never even thought about playing music live or with a band. Growing up, I played at more than a few stuffy recitals, and in high school I had some fun playing in cafés around town in Ann Arbor, but that was as far as I ever planned to take my music career. The thought of playing in New York City among the overwhelming talent seemed more terrifying than thrilling.
Will grabbed the guitars and small amp from the back of the van. He handed me the acoustic. Heading back into the building, he shot the guys a look and yelled, “See you Saturday.”
I waved. “Nice meeting you,” I said, then followed Will back toward the stairs.
They both shouted, “Bye, Mia!” in silly voices.
When we got back up to the apartment, I opened the case I was carrying and admired the black Gibson acoustic guitar inside.
“My dad’s guitars are away in cases. I have two stands if you want to use them?”
“I would love that, Mia, Thanks.” He went into his room and began getting settled. I brought the stands in. “Perfect.” He took them from my hands.
“You can play in the living room whenever you want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, definitely, except for when I’m giving lessons.”
“Of course,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Oh shit, I’ve got to be at work early tonight so I’m gonna get going in a minute. Thanks for everything.”
“No problem,” I said and headed down the hallway to the kitchen. I put The Smiths on the stereo and began cutting up some veggies for a salad.
I heard Will singing to the song as he came down the hallway. He imitated Morrissey’s voice perfectly, accent and all. It was uncanny.
“So if there’s something you’d like to try… if there’s something you’d like to try…” I turned to face him; he raised his eyebrows, looked right at me and sang, “Ask me, I won’t say no, how could I?”
Then he shot me his sexy smile. My knees buckled. My god, would I ever get used to it?
He winked and said, “Bye, Roomy. Come and have a drink if you want.”
He was dressed in gray jeans and a black short-sleeved dress shirt. He normally looked so edgy, so rock and roll, but with the collar he looked quite dapper. He must have also run his hands through his hair with a bit of gel because it was out of his face for once. It was definitely his hot bartender look.
“Bye, buddy,” I whispered as he went bolting out the door. I hadn’t slept with anyone in two years. Frankly, it was unnatural. The way I reacted to Will made me think that I really needed to give up the saint act, but I wasn’t into one-night stands. The last boyfriend I’d had was back in college. His name was Bryan York and he was in the music department at Brown. Go figure. Except Bryan was the nerdy music guy. He played the tuba and wanted to be a marching band director. He was beyond nice, but a little strange. It was my senior year and I lived off campus by then. Students occupied most of the apartment building I lived in, so it still had the dorm feel. A few months after Bryan and I had started dating, everyone in the building noticed that he would do random drive-bys. I guess checking to see if my car was there, even though he never confronted me about anything and didn’t have a possessive bone in his body. At any rate, he was driving by rather regularly, so he quickly earned the nickname “Spyin’ Bryan.” It became such a well-known nickname that people would refer to him as Spyin’ Bryan right to his face and he would just go with it. Poor drip. I knew it wouldn’t last. We broke up but remained friends. That was my last boyfriend.
The last time I had sex was New Year’s in Portugal two years ago. It was with some guy I met in the plaza at midnight when everybody was throwing champagne bottles into a giant pile. The crowd was wild and I was feeling festive or drunk and someone told me that the Portuguese make great lovers. I wouldn’t know; I don’t remember a thing about it except that I’m fairly certain I wore a blue wig through the whole escapade. The next morning I woke up in a strange apartment, still wearing the blue wig. There he was, lying on his side, elbow propped under his head. He was staring down at me, smiling and inhaling my hangover dragon breath. He didn’t speak a word of English. We tried to communicate awkwardly for ten minutes until I got dressed, stood at the door, blew him a kiss, and took off. I swore to myself I would never perform the walk of shame again.
I had to get out of the heady mind space I was in. I looked out the window and it was still light out, so I decided to take Jackson for a run. I stopped into Kell’s afterward. Thursday nights were fairly busy because of a little poetry group that meets there. The group is made up of older folks from the good old days and a few college kids who like to do slam poetry. I tied Jackson up outside, got him a bowl of water, and then went in behind the counter to make myself some tea. “Hi, Martha. Why are you still here?”
“I’m wrapping up. Jenny is running late. Oh, Mia, a man came in with a little boy. He asked if you were here and then asked about piano lessons for the boy.”
“Huh.” I wondered why he hadn’t just called the number in the first place and then Jenny came dancing through the door with a huge smile on her face. “Why are you so happy?”