If the tone of his voice wasn’t so perfectly mellifluous, it might have seemed like he was screaming when he sang.
Money can’t buy back your youth when you’re old
Friends when you’re lonely, oh peace to your soul
The wealthiest person is a pauper at times
Compared to the man with a satisfied mind.
When he was finished, he smiled from ear to ear and then whispered, “Thank you,” like he was talking to God. He darted off the stage and out the door. I found him outside smoking cigarettes with Tony, the drummer from Second Chance Charlie.
“Mia!” He called to me and motioned with his hand for me to come over. It was jovial Will. He was lighter, like the five-ton weight of his future had been lifted. He was a man with answers now, one who had experienced the glimpse, as I liked to call it; someone had slipped him a copy of the CliffsNotes to his life and I could see it all over his face. It was the look of man who knew exactly what he was destined to do. I envied that look, the way I envied people who had a strong faith in God.
Once my grandmother told me I needed to find God and I said, “Why don’t you just tell me where to look and save me the trouble?” I was dead serious. Faith, destiny, all the shit you can’t see, but yet people are so willing to take the leap. Not me.
I guess it was during the song when Will was singing those words that he became the man with a satisfied mind because I never saw him waver again.
“This is Tony, the most talented guy in that whole bunch,” he said, pointing back dramatically at the restaurant. “Seriously, he’s gonna be big one day; he’s just gotta get out from behind that drum kit and Sonja’s bullshit.”
“Hi, nice to meet you.” Tony looked to be in his early twenties. He had big, round, liquid-topaz-colored eyes and brown, shaggy hair. He smiled with this innocence that made me think he must have had a really wholesome childhood even though he was standing outside smoking and listening to the ranting of a lunatic.
I smiled at him but turned my attention to Will. “Can I talk to you?”
He stared at me for a good twenty seconds before speaking. He had a way of tapping a direct line to my heart by simply squinting his eyes slightly as he gazed into mine. It was a kissing effect and it turned me to Jell-O. “Baby, no heavy stuff tonight, okay? Let’s go eat.”
I huffed but decided that was the best damn idea Will had had all day… denial, remember?
We sat at the bar and avoided Frank and Rady and all the other suits. Sonja took up residence on Nate’s lap two barstools down. When I saw him stick his hand up her dress, I turned my back and faced Will. “How many girls have you slept with since you met me?”
He said, “Two,” but held up four fingers.
“Which is it? Come on, this is normal girlfriend stuff. I realized we skipped right over it and went straight to comfort sex after our dog died.”
“I like that you called him our dog. He was the best, huh?”
“Yeah, Will, he was the best dog in the world and he died the best freakin’ doggy death, but I don’t want to talk about that ‘cause it’s gonna make me cry and anyway, you’re avoiding the question. How many?”
“I like that you said girlfriend, too.” He was adorable.
“Come on, tell me.”
“Three… okay, four.”
“Who?
“Well, there was Audrey… and her friend.” I choked on my vodka-soda-cran.
“The Russian? At the same time? With Audrey?”
“Yep,” he said with arched eyebrows and a cheeky grin.
“What about the other two?”
“You don’t know them—girls I met at work. It might have been spite sex after I walked in on you and the banker… and the whipped cream.” Smiling, he playfully threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. “What? I’m not proud of it. Anyway, I thought I said no heavy stuff.”
“Were you careful?”
“Of course.” He said it like it was a ridiculous question.
“Well, you weren’t with me.”
“It’s different with you.”
“Well, I’m on the pill in case you’re wondering.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. I trust you.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t press. I wondered if he was saying it didn’t matter if I got pregnant, but I thought the last thing Will needed on the back of his tour bus was a Pack ‘n Play and a wailing baby.
“Don’t you want to know about me?”
“Yes, I want to know everything about you, but I don’t care about who you’ve slept with. It’s in the past and I don’t want to think about you with anyone else. You’re mine now.” He said it with surefire confidence.
Normally, possessiveness would repulse me. I remember in high school when I discovered feminism. I would beg my friends to let me take pictures of them in all kinds of artsy statement photos. I made my friend Ruthy stand naked with a frying pan on her head while I snapped away. I wrote “Fuck Your Kitchen” across the photo with a big, black Sharpie and then I projected it on the wall at the talent show while I covered PJ Harvey’s “Sheela-Na-Gig” on the piano. Everyone thought I was lesbian after that, which explains why I never had a boyfriend. I thought it was very avant-garde, but it just got me in a heap of trouble. I had to write a ten-page explanation to the principal about how I didn’t fully understand the impact of projecting a picture of a naked girl along with the word “Fuck” on the gymnasium wall. Needless to say, everyone got the wrong message and Ruthy got a bad reputation.