Maybe (2 page)

I kick the blankets off. While I’m debating whether to drag my ass over to the dresser to change pajamas, I notice the same drumbeat from my dream is still rumbling from below. I wonder if I’m in a dream within a dream, but I get out of bed and lean out my front door, ears perked to locate the sound. It’s real.

When the drumming continues until 5:00 a.m., I’m sure I’ve been dropped into a nightmare.

“Austin sucks,” I say with a sigh, just as my alarm goes off.

Chapter Two

From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy

I can’t get the notes out. They’re stuck. I try my hardest, but nothing happens, even when my fingers bleed and the calluses have calluses. I can’t stop seeing her face and knowing that every song I ever wrote was about her in the first place. Maybe each one after will be, too.

God, I hope not.

If I can replace her face, I can let the demons go.

There’s a song here, but I can’t compose if the notes don’t make sense.

—M

Chapter Three

I’m on autopilot, and there isn’t enough coffee in the world to keep my eyes from closing while I lean against the counter in our new office. I wonder what my boss Rynn would say if she saw me like this. Probably something along the lines of “Suck it the fuck up, Portman.”

Laura steps into the small space and tilts her head in question. “You okay?”

“Did you hear drumming last night? Did Grier say anything about it?”

“No.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans with me while I rub my eyes.

“I don’t know who lives on the first floor, but he’s the freaking Little Drummer Boy merged with the Energizer Bunny, and he doesn’t ever run out of batteries. Consider yourself lucky. Maybe I’ll come sleep with you two.”

Grier pops his head in the door and raises his eyebrows. “I’m not opposed to that.”

“Fantastic,” Laura says. “Should I have the divorce papers delivered, or would you like me to hand them over in person?”

He scowls at his wife and ignores her short laugh before slinking away to the conference room. “It’s almost time!” he yells back, and the butterflies start in my stomach. It’s an intense anticipation that lodges itself in my chest right between my heart and bones.

“God, this is my favorite part.” Suddenly I’m wide awake. It’s like Christmas, if Santa brought bands instead of toys.

Three manila folders, closed and unmarked, are spread across the table. Rynn insists that band picks must be completely anonymous, with no pictures to sway a scout and nothing but the most basic information. “Do you know how many assignments have been turned down because of douchey photo sets next to train tracks and brick walls?” she always says. “Friggin’ brickwallers, ruining my life!”

The speakerphone is already lit up, and I can hear our boss shouting at someone on the other end of the line before she mutters a string of cuss words into the phone. “Is everyone accounted for?” Before we answer back, she continues right over us. “Do you have your assignments?”

My fingers curl, and I lean forward to eye the folder in the middle.

“Yes.”

It’s like Musical Roulette. I always want to win. I reach across the table and in five seconds flat have all the folders open. We all lean forward, and a rush rolls over me when I slap my hands down on one of the folders and slide it toward myself in victory. “Mine.”

Rynn disconnects without even saying goodbye.

Grier hunches his shoulders while he looks over the remaining options. “I hate country music, but the only other option is EDM.”

Laura shrugs. “I’m fine with waiting for the drop.” She grabs that folder and peruses the information before slyly eyeing me over the top of the papers. “Why are you so excited? I haven’t seen you like this in forever.”

My leg is bouncing while I take in what’s written on the pages.

Rock.

Three piece.

Filthy name.

Mine.

“You know what this means?” I ask and slide the file over, pointing at the band’s name. It’s clear she doesn’t, but a quick search on her phone makes her cover her mouth, laugh, and shake her head.

“What? What is it?” Grier is straining to see, but Laura won’t show him the screen. He removes his glasses to clean them off on his shirt and pushes them back up to get a better look.

“We’ll do it later tonight, and then I’ll tell you. How about that?”

He stares at his wife, his jaw set and nostrils flared in mock anger, before he grabs his info and retreats to his office.

“He’s going to kill you in your sleep one day.”

“Nah. I’m too good a lay.”

Three days pass, and I’m in a groove. I get up early to walk to work and take time to grab a coffee every morning. I go slow so that my bad leg doesn’t ache when I finally start my day at the new office. It’s not exactly a desk job since I’m on my feet a lot, preparing for the initial interview with the band I’ve chosen.

I’m not a senior writer yet, but the talent scouting will help me get there. The articles on the bands who make it into the magazine give me a thrill and a sense of accomplishment. There’s a part of me that thinks my boss might be testing me out on this assignment by letting me run the office and take the lead position in Austin.

If I can stay awake to do it, of course.

The days go by quickly. By the time 5:00 p.m. rolls around, I’m just shy of exhausted. After work, the streets are crowded, but I maneuver through bodies like I’ve been here my entire life. Austin is different from Atlanta or New York, but it’s already starting to grow on me.

I think about taking a nap, and the idea makes my neck relax a little. Maybe a bath or some cucumbers on my eyes.

When I enter the lobby, I’m surprised to see Tyler standing at the mailboxes. When he sees me, he smiles a bit, and I give a quick wave in return. He leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest, which makes his T-shirt pull tight over his shoulders.

Not that I’m looking. Because I’m not. If I were looking, I’d be that girl, but I’m not anymore. My job lets me keep it that way.

I mean, I can admit that his nose is cute and straight and his lips are full. I can even acknowledge that a scruff-covered jaw probably makes some girls pretty happy. I could admit all those things if I cared. But I don’t.

I swear I don’t.

“How’s everything going?” he asks.

“It’s great. I meant to thank you for securing my barre for me. I try to have it with me everywhere, but it’s not always an option. I would have said so sooner, but I don’t see you around much.”

His eyes crinkle in the corner when he smiles. “I’m busy a lot after work.”

I tilt my head to ask, “Hey, you don’t happen to know the asshole who plays his drums at all ungodly hours of the night, do you? I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time the past few days with the incessant beats rattling my door.” I hope he senses my sarcasm, but Tyler’s smile falls, and he stiffens.

He taps the envelopes against his right palm before he answers. “Yeah, I know him. I’ll tell him you filed a complaint.” His tone is short and clipped, his demeanor changing in an instant. “I gotta go.” With that, he turns around and walks away.

Which is when I see the drumsticks in his back pocket.

My mom always said I had foot-in-mouth disease, but sometimes it isn’t funny. It makes me look like a bitch. Embarrassment floods my body, and I drop my chin to my chest when the realization hits me that I’ve just made my first enemy in Texas. Since the elevator still hasn’t been fixed, I opt for taking the stairs instead, just in case it breaks and Tyler leaves me there to die.

It doesn’t make much sense when I think about it. Most musicians I’ve come across look the part—multiple piercings, tattoos, the hair, the clothes, the swagger. That’s not to say that Tyler doesn’t have the attitude. He definitely does, but my radar hadn’t gone off. Maybe I haven’t been paying as much attention as I should have, but it dumbfounds me that I have been dense enough to miss that he is my downstairs drummer.

Why wouldn’t he be?

It isn’t something I want to dwell on. We have minimal contact, and in a few weeks I’ll be on my way to a new place.

Back in my apartment, an old familiar pull starts in my stomach and worms its way around my spine, beckoning me to change clothes and stand
en pointe
in front of the thin mirror affixed behind the barre. My wireless speaker pours soft notes, and the melody guides my arms above my head, urging me to flex and point, muscles pulling tight in the most beautiful way. I barely glance at myself in the mirror. Instead, I close my eyes and envision myself onstage. Rather than my gray shorts and white tank, I am wearing a gorgeous costume and brand new pointe shoes that shine with unblemished satin ribbons.

When the memories of another time come flooding back too fast, I stop and drop gently to the floor, removing my shoes and lying on my back to stare at the ceiling. It wasn’t a blown-out knee that had changed everything. The man I loved couldn’t bear to see our promised future torn apart. I couldn’t be who I’d set out to be, and he couldn’t take the person I wanted to become instead.

Not my fault. My therapist said so.

I sit up and stretch my back, reaching up to pull my hair free of the elastic and watching it fall in waves around my face. At one time, I would have kept the dark locks long so they could be styled for performances. Now my hair just barely grazes my bra closure, and I don’t miss the extra length one bit.

Lost in thought, I zone out for a minute and stare beyond the couch toward the window, watching the streetlights change colors below.

That’s when the drumming starts. It’s fast and heavy, double bass pedal, cymbals crashing, angry beats. He’s started early. Usually it doesn’t begin until well after midnight, but it’s not even ten. This means only one thing to me.

I can’t feel bad about what I said when he’s clearly being an asshole on purpose.

Chapter Four

From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy

I met a girl.

Her body is nice, but I noticed her face before anything else. Her lips are pink and bare, like she wants to be kissed, so she doesn’t wear anything just in case. Her eyes, though? Lightest blue-gray, with this ring of navy around the iris. I’ve never seen eyes like those before.

And her hair smells good.

But her mouth is faulty.

This woman is in my building, doing ballet above my head and pissing me off with one simple sentence.

An honest mistake? Maybe.

It’s too bad. I bet she tastes good, too.

—M

Chapter Five

“What are your plans for tonight?” I’m gauging Laura’s reaction to the question from across the conference room table while I pack up my messenger bag.

Laura is suspicious. She’s always suspicious of my intent. “Why?”

“I’m going to see my band and was offering to let you tag along. God.”

Her smile is electric when she finally says yes. “I have to see these guys for myself. I hope I’m not disappointed.”

A quick change at the apartment, and we are all back on 6th, weaving in and out of the people who are milling around without purpose. I have purpose, though. I have somewhere to be. We’re escorted into the venue, and the girl at the door points upstairs to a smaller, less crowded area. From there, I can survey the entire place and watch the gig from above. It beats being on the floor trying to catch a glimpse of the members from behind that one random seven-foot-tall guy who likes to stand in the front at concerts.