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.”
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.