Just a Girl (2 page)

“No…” He seemed distracted or something, though he was looking right at me, so it was hard to imagine what could be so interesting. “I know the way, I just don’t know which room.”

I tilted my head, wanting to see if his stare would follow me. It did. “I’m sorry, do I have something in my teeth or something?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m just…you look younger than I expected.”

I grinned. “I get that a lot.” My parents were kind of old when they had me. Both in their mid-forties. Now that I was twenty-one—and still pretty baby-faced, I have to admit—the age gap looked a lot bigger.

Paul closed his eyes briefly. “That’s none of my business. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“What?”

“My room?” he prompted.

“Oh, right!” I turned to check the schedule. “You’re in three.”

“Thanks.” He hooked his sunglasses into the neck of his faded black T-shirt and bent to pick up the other guitar case. I couldn’t help taking in the flex and stretch of his biceps and forearms as he did. I hadn’t looked at anyone with even the slightest interest since getting dumped by my band and boyfriend simultaneously. But Paul…Paul was not a bad view at all. He caught me watching him and smiled a little. “Nice to meet you, Presley.”

“Same to you.”

June 6

Liv

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! This is from a review of their last show:

“Without their powerhouse vocalist (Presley Mason, who left the band in March), The Luminous 6 are revealed to be not much more than a mediocre remix of better metal bands from years past.”

Me

Ouch.

Liv

The new singer’s okay. But they had to change a bunch of stuff because he can’t sing your high notes.

Me

Wait, let me see how I feel about that…oh yep. Turns out I have no fucks to give.

Liv

:) :) :)

Miss your face.

Me

xoxoxoxoxo

The afternoon passed in a blur of familiar routine, and by the end of the day I felt like I hadn’t missed a single day in the Continental. L.A. seemed distant, an elaborate anxiety dream that ended not with me showing up naked to an exam I didn’t know I’d have to take, but instead with beer dripping down the cinder-block wall of some green room while broken glass glittered on Brendan’s shoulders.

I was undecided if I was glad for the foggy distance, or if it made me feel like the last three years of my life had been for nothing.

It had been a very confusing day for me, emotionally. Normally I’d sit down at a piano and take it all out on the keys, but I hadn’t touched one since I’d left L.A.

Instead, I accepted my father’s instruction to clean out the lesson rooms. At least it was something to do.

With my headphones covering my ears completely, I almost couldn’t hear the vacuum running, though it still vibrated in my hand as I went down the line of tiny practice rooms. Open each door, vacuum, shove the chairs around with the vacuum as I suck up God-knows-what from the day, turn off the lights, move on. It didn’t take long in any one room, but there were twenty of them. The music was good, though, and I danced behind the vacuum as I went.

At one of the last doors, when I wrenched it open, I screamed, flailing back like a horror-movie actress. Paul was inside, and he looked nearly as startled as I felt. The vacuum fell over with a
thunk
I felt through the soles of my boots, and I scrambled to simultaneously pick it up and turn it off. Once it was silenced, I yanked my headphones down around my neck.

“I’m so sorry! I thought everyone was gone!”

Paul lowered his left foot to the ground; he’d pulled it up to use his knee to protect the acoustic guitar on his lap when I’d burst through the door. “Jesus! I knew you were out there and you
still
scared the crap out of me!”

I laughed a little as the adrenaline seeped away. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry. You know the store’s closed, don’t you?” I asked.

“Yeah. I, uh, I like the quiet.” He settled into a more relaxed posture.

“So much for that, huh?” I jiggled the vacuum.

“No kidding.” He wove his pick between the strings of his guitar and made a move toward the case. “I’ll just get out of your way.”

“You don’t have to!” I said. “I have other rooms to vacuum.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really getting anywhere anyway.”

“What were you working on?” I asked.

“Just playing around with a few chords. I don’t know.”

“Can I hear?” I didn’t know why I asked. I didn’t know why I was even pursuing this conversation at all.

He looked up with a mixture of surprise and wariness. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Music’s for hearing, isn’t it?”

“Not always.” His amber eyes shifted away from mine.

“What do you write?” I asked, not ready to let the topic go. “I mean, what kind of music?”

“Songs,” he said simply.

I rolled my eyes. “Really? And here I thought you might write math problems. Don’t be a diva.”

He paused with the bottom of the guitar resting on the plush lining of his case. “Rock, I guess. Acoustic rock. Okay?”

“Fine with me.” I shrugged.

“Do you play?”

“No,” I lied.

“Seriously?”

I shrugged. “I can pick out a few chords, I guess. Some basic piano stuff. That’s it.”

“It’s hard to imagine Rick and Dinah’s kid
not
being musically inclined.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged again.

“What, are you tone-deaf?” he asked, then winced. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

But I laughed. “No, it’s not that.” I had perfect vocal pitch, actually. “I guess music’s just not my thing.” Much as I tried to resist, I couldn’t quite stifle a facial twitch. It wasn’t that I felt guilty about lying exactly, but I felt like I was being unfaithful to music, which was my one and only true love.

Fuck you, Luminous 6, and especially fuck you, Brendan, for taking it from me.

“Show me what you know.” He held the guitar out to me.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I already said it’s not my thing.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

I crossed my arms. “Play me what you were playing when I first came in.”

He didn’t say anything, but lifted the instrument back to his knee. He looked very natural with the curve settled against him like that. Like he’d been missing it before. Pulling the pick free again, he did a few experimental strums before starting a simple three-chord progression, the fine muscles in his forearm and hands shifting like in a dance. I’d always loved watching musicians who are totally in sync with their instruments. There’s something sexy about that kind of relationship.

There wasn’t anything revolutionary about his song, just a typical rock progression, but he had great control of the instrument. The fingers of his left hand moved up and down the neck with ease while his right hand effortlessly changed the dynamics as he worked through the chords a few more times. After a few bars, he stopped and looked up at me. “There. Happy?”

“Not bad,” I said. “What do you call it?”

“Nothing yet.”

“That’s a shame. Every song needs a name.”

“What would you call it?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s too early to tell.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call it.”

“What?”

“ ‘It’s Too Early to Tell
.
’ ”

I smiled slowly. “That’s the worst name in the history of music.”

“Maybe, but…I think it’s too early to tell.”

“Oh wow. I can’t even—” I held up one hand. “That was too much. I need to go back to my vacuuming before you start in with bad puns or something.”

“Don’t let me get in the way of your true calling.” He gestured to the vacuum cleaner, still lying supine on the floor.

Although I was certain he meant only to tease me, he’d cut pretty close to the heart of my fears. I forced a quick smile. “Have a good night.”

June 7

Me

Tell me I’m not going to die in this stupid store.

Liv

You’re not. Come home. You need to get out of there.

Me

I can’t. I don’t even have a job out there. Where would I live?

Liv

Crash on my couch. And hello, you have record labels who want to sign you. You’ll move into a luxury penthouse and I’ll crash on your couch!

Me

Those guys want to turn me into another fucking Britney. That’s not what I want.

Liv

So find one that wants you for you.

Me

Oh yeah. Sure. It’s just that easy! Why didn’t I think of that?!

Liv

You don’t have to be a bitch about it.

Me

I’m sorry. I just…never mind.

The next day Paul arrived later than he had the first time. I didn’t even know he was working until he spoke from behind me.

“I gave it some thought and I’ve decided you were right about the title.”

It was my turn to jump, scattering single-serve packs of flavored coffee grounds across the parents’ waiting area. I made a sound like a Chihuahua. “I—wha—what are you talking about?” My heart rattled dizzily in my chest.

“The song. You were right. It’s definitely going to be called ‘It’s Too Early to Tell.’ ”

At last the context clicked home. “Oh!” I frowned. “I said that was a terrible title.”

“That’s the only part you were wrong about.” Paul put his guitar cases down and retrieved a few of the scattered K-Cups from beneath a café table. “It’s actually a great title.”

I dropped to my knees to gather a few nearby cups. “You can’t just name songs after random words people say.”

“Disagree,” was all he said.

I made a “yuck” sound.

“In fact, I’d be willing to wager that a healthy percentage of songs are named in exactly that way.” He got to his feet and held out cupped palms to give me the coffee he’d collected.

“Maybe,” I conceded, pulling up the hem of my apron to make a pouch for him to drop the cups in.

“Well, until further notice, that’s what it’s called.”

“Poor song.”

He grinned as he bent to retrieve his guitar case. “Have a great afternoon, Presley.”

“You too.”

June 8

Me

Tell me to stay away from guitar players.

Liv

Why? Did you meet someone?!

Me

No. Maybe. He’s a teacher at my parents’ store.

Liv

Hot for teacher?

Me

He’s a guitar player. This is a bad idea. I am going to ignore him.

Liv

Yeah, right.

After Hours at the Continental on Thursday nights were legendary, but only if you were in the know. After closing every Thursday, the real action began in the back. It had started out as a single microphone plugged into an amp and a few of my parents’ musician friends coming by the store to jam. But over time it had developed into an invitation-only open mic night of some of the best and brightest on the local scene. And traveling acts who came through the area were welcome, too. As long as they knew the right people: This was strictly a word-of-mouth game.

Some truly epic collaborations had come out of Thursday nights, some musicians who’d gone on to work together or create a onetime recording that went down in music history. And of course there were hundreds of onetime events that no one outside the Continental was blessed enough to hear. Performances that lived on only in memories.

Even the staff wasn’t guaranteed an invite. Some of the younger cashiers didn’t even know what was going on in the store. Others were eagerly awaiting their chance to stay after hours and hear the magic happen.

This was seriously legendary stuff.

And I didn’t want to go.

I used to live for Thursday nights. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of taking the stage and singing whatever blues classic my parents had recently taught me. But now the idea of setting foot on a stage, any stage, felt akin to rubbing a barrelful of salt into my wounded body.

But unless I wanted to walk home, I was stuck here.

“I think I’m just going to hang out in the office,” I told my mom as the regular employees started to leave.

“The hell you are,” she said.

“Mom, I’m just not in the mood.”

“People want to see you. Your godfather is coming.”

“Which one?” I had about a dozen godparents all told. My parents had played it pretty fast and loose with the honors when I finally arrived.

“Tommy. And he’s been asking about you. You are not hiding out in that boring old office all night.”

I knew there was no point in arguing. I had never been able to win against my mother when it came to this kind of thing. Plus, I was sort of curious to see what would happen, despite my best intentions to keep up my sullen appearances. “Fine,” I said. “But I’m not going onstage. I just want to sit and listen.”

My mother looked at me for a long time, but nodded. “All right. One step at a time.”

I bit back the urge to tell her this was the only step I planned to take, thank you very much, and nodded.

The regulars started to arrive as the store was put to bed for the night. Old friends from my parents’ band days, back when they were part of the folk trio Rick, John & Dinah. My godfather Tommy, who’d once been the bass player for Rekking Ball. A couple of studio musicians they’d all worked with on various recordings.

I did my usual routine of vacuuming the lesson rooms, but I picked up the pace a bit at my mother’s request. I also left my headphones off this time so I could hear when anyone tried to sneak up on me for a welcome-back hug.

At last I had only one room left. I reached for the doorknob at the exact moment the door was opened from inside. I yelped and jumped back, and so did the person on the other side of the door. It slammed shut between us for a moment before it was yanked open again. And there stood Paul, wide-eyed, a guitar case in his hand.

I laughed, steepling my fingers against my chest. “Holy crap! We have to stop meeting like this.”

He smiled. “I need to remember to leave before the Queen of the Vacuum starts laying siege to my lesson rooms.”

“Queens of the Vacuum is the name of my sludge-metal cover band.” I shaped my hand into the classic rock horns.

“Oh yeah?”

“Because the music sucks so bad.”

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure I was joking, then laughed. Just once. “Wow. Harsh.”

“You a closet sludge-metal fan?” Looking him up and down, I realized it was possible. He didn’t have the cliché long hair of a metalhead. In fact, his dark hair was cropped close to his head. But the edges of several tattoos poked out of his shirt, and his black work boots could slot into just about any kind of rock scene. I took a closer look at his tattoos, picking out what looked like the roots of a tree on his right arm. An urge rushed through me to reach out and lift his shirtsleeve up to see the rest of it.

“I consider myself an equal opportunity music fan,” he said.

“Not me,” I said.

“Are you a snob?”

“Completely. I only like the classics.”

“Like the Stones?”

“No way. Beethoven, Bach, Debussy, that’s more my jam.”

“Uh-huh.” He gave me a deliberate once-over. His eyes lingered on the multiple piercings in my ears and the stud in my nose, then slid down. He reached out to catch a lock of my crayon-red hair, his knuckle brushing against my shoulder as he did. “You look like a real opera aficionado.”

“Don’t be so judgy.”

He tilted his head in admission. “I suppose I shouldn’t be.”

“Presley!” A voice caught both of our attention from the entrance to the school.

I turned and spotted yet another of my godparents, Marcella Jones, a soul singer who’d made a name for herself in the ’80s in a recording with Stevie Wonder and in a few acclaimed bit parts in movies.

“Marcella, oh my God!” Abandoning the vacuum, I hurried to the end of the hall to give my godmother a hug. She smelled the same as I always remembered, like Chanel No. 5.

“Look at you, Pres!” She smiled so widely I couldn’t help returning the expression. “Goddamn, I’ve missed you, child.”

“What are you doing here?”

Immediately her radiant smile dropped into a disapproving scowl. “What am I doing—it is Thursday night, Presley. Use your head.”

“All right, all right.” I put both hands up in surrender. “Dumb question.”

“The better question is, what are we going to sing tonight? You and me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not singing.”

“Why not?”

“Sore throat.” The lie was easier than explaining my aversion to performing.

Marcella put her hands on my cheeks and shook her head slowly, making a
tsk
ing sound. “Smart. You can’t put that beautiful instrument at risk.”

“Right.” I smiled at her.

“Next time, though.”

“Um, yeah.”

“I consider that a binding promise.”

I laughed a little, because it seemed like the thing to do, but already I was planning another excuse down the line.

Marcella told me to hurry up so I wouldn’t miss anything good, and headed for the back of the store.

When Paul spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin again. I’d forgotten he was there. “So, music’s not your thing, huh?”

I ran over my conversation with Marcella. How incriminating had it been? “Well, I mean, my parents used to make me sing when their friends would get together.” I forced a shrug. “Nothing serious.”

“Ohhhh.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “That makes sense.” There was no eye contact from him as he tapped the screen a few times. Then suddenly the tinny speakers began to blare with the opening chords of “Fatal Blow,” one of The Luminous 6’s fan favorites. “So, this isn’t you, then?” Paul tilted the screen to show me a tiny version of myself planted on the edge of a stage, with a microphone clutched in both hands.

The camera panned to Brendan on the guitar and I looked away. “Can you turn that off?”

Paul hesitated for a second, but then blessed silence cut off my voice. “That’s you,” he said simply.

“I’m aware.”

“You’ve got a hell of a voice.”

“Thanks.” I brushed past him to retrieve the vacuum and started coiling up the cord.

“I’m guessing this statement is bullshit, then?” he asked. His tone changed as he read aloud from his phone, “ ‘Presley has decided to pursue a solo career. Brendan, Dixon, and Shawn wish her the best.’ ”

“Brendan, Dixon, and Shawn can go fuck themselves,” I muttered.

“So it wasn’t your idea?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough.” He paused. “But for what it’s worth, I’m never buying another Luminous 6 album.”

I froze, my hands going still with the cord only partially wrapped onto the vacuum’s pegs. “You have our album?”

“Your parents used to sell it at the register.”

The cord tumbled back to the floor as I covered my face with both hands. Just long enough to get a breath and rearrange my face. “You knew I was lying from the beginning.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Paul shrugged. “It’s your business.”

I straightened. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, I guess.” He glanced down at his phone again. “I hope you do go solo, or something. You were the only good thing about that band.”

“Thanks.” It was all I could manage as reignited anger and gratitude warred with self-pity and embarrassment inside me.

Paul looked at me for another few seconds, then said, “Have a good night.”

He started to walk away, and the word “Wait” leapt to my lips before I could even finish the thought. “You acted like you didn’t recognize me the other day.”

“I didn’t. You changed your hair.”

“Yeah.” The bright red was a huge change. I kind of hated it already, but at least it was different from the also fake, almost-white blonde that had been my signature during my years in L.A. I couldn’t remember the last time my hair had been its own color. I wasn’t sure what color it was, actually.

“And you do look younger than I expected.”

“YouTube adds ten years, I guess.”

He smiled. “Guess so.”

I wanted to have something else to say. To keep him there for a little longer. Maybe it was just my hormones talking, but they were being very loud about it. My breakup with Brendan was all tangled up in my breakup with The Luminous 6, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel lonely. I missed the physical contact of another human body, even if Brendan’s particular body was now completely repellent to me. Paul was here, and he definitely wasn’t repellent. So I said the only thing I could think of: “If you’re not doing anything right now, you could stay.”

“Stay?”

“My parents always have a few friends to the store for a sort-of-jam-session thing on Thursday nights.”

His head was already going up and down slightly. “Yeah, I know. I thought you had to be invited.”

“I kind of just invited you, didn’t I?” God, what if he had a girlfriend? What if he was married? I did a surreptitious check of his left hand, but it was bare.

“I guess you did.”

“So, do you want to stay? Or do you have plans?”

“I can stay.” He smiled a little. “Thanks.”

“Okay, cool. Let me put the vacuum away and I’ll take you back there.”

“I can help yo—” Paul rushed to put his guitar case down and reached for the vacuum at the same moment I did and somehow I ended up jamming an elbow into his temple. He reeled back and sat down hard on the floor, one hand going up to the injury.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?”

He winced. “No.”

I knelt down in front of him—between his upraised knees, actually—trying to get a look, to make sure I hadn’t drawn blood. “Let me see.”

“Really, it’s nothing.” He took his hand away and turned, showing me unbroken, normal skin. “You just startled me.” Looking me in the eyes again, he said, “That seems to be a specialty of yours.”

“Are you sure?” I ran my fingertips over his temple.

Paul caught my wrist in one hand, keeping my fingers perched against his cheekbone. “I’m fine.”

His skin was warm, both to my fingertips and where his hand was wrapped around my wrist. From this angle, I could see the edge of another tattoo near the neck of his T-shirt, and I wondered if it was connected to the tree roots exposed on his bicep. Once again the urge to push the fabric away and see it sent my heart racing.

He eased up his grip but didn’t let go completely. “What are you looking at?”

“This,” I confessed, pulling his hand along with me as I caught his collar and tugged at it. Beneath, I found a silhouette of a blackbird in flight as well as the wing of another.

“My sister is a tattoo artist,” he said.

“She’s good.”

“You should see the rest of it.”

As if of its own accord, my finger dragged his collar farther, revealing the rest of the second bird and a hint of yet another. Paul’s hand tightened on my wrist again and I stopped, shifting my eyes back to his. My stomach fluttered.

We stared at each other without speaking while the room grew suddenly hot, until at last his eyes flashed downward to my mouth for the barest of seconds. What was that? I wanted to lean in closer, just in case. In case what, though?

I licked my lips.

Paul’s lips parted as well, and he seemed to be considering something. Finally he spoke. “Maybe not now.”

It took me a moment to realize he meant I shouldn’t see the rest of the tattoo right now. Or at least, I thought that’s what he meant. “Another time, maybe.”

“Definitely.” He lowered my hand all the way to my lap, sliding his palm over the back of my hand and coming to rest on my knee. “So, if I go for the vacuum again, are you going to hit me?”

“No.”

His hand was still on my knee.

“Okay, good.” He shifted as if to get up, but I didn’t move out of his way, which brought his face within centimeters of mine. We stayed that way, leaning toward each other for too long for it to be accidental. Paul’s thumb passed twice over my knee, and I resisted the urge to shiver.

Finally he broke eye contact and got awkwardly to his feet before extending a hand down to me. I took it and let him help me up. He held on a bit longer than necessary, once again putting us just a breath away, though on our feet our height difference was marked.

“You’ve got something…” He broke off, reaching up to swipe his thumb over my cheek. “I think it’s lipstick.”

I laughed softly, and used the back of my wrist to rub at the spot myself, stepping back slightly to avoid another unfortunate meeting of my elbow and any part of his body. “Marcella.”

The mention of my godmother seemed to break the spell. Paul shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m going to see Marcella Jones perform in person.”