Sweet Thing

  Whenever I had to make a decision, I would hear my mother’s voice of reason. I knew we were not the same, my mother and I, I was sure of it. After all, I was my father’s daughter, too. But sometimes I felt her path made more sense. The safety and predictability of her thought-out plans was appealing to me. She was sensible; she made decisions with her head. Yet even though my mother was the more grounded parent, growing up I continued to heed my father’s words; his passion was contagious. The last time I spoke with Pops, he reminded me to give love and get it in return and to quit fixating on my future. It wasn’t your typical father-daughter talk, but then it never was with him.

  My stepdad, David’s, advice on the other hand was mostly logical and usually in the form of a written exercise. If I had a hard decision to make he would say something like “Draft me a list of pros and cons, Princess.” My mother would always be standing right behind him, nodding in full agreement. Before I left for Europe, he insisted that I create a detailed itinerary complete with train schedules and weather forecasts. It was a bit over the top, but it came in handy.

  Pops’s only words before I left for Europe were “Have a blast, luv, and stay away from the opium in the Red Light District.”

  In the more recent years at the end of every phone call we shared, Pops would address me by my real name and quote Arthur Rubenstein. “Remember, Mia, ‘Love Life and life will love you back.’” He was the eternal lover and optimist; he took it seriously and he wanted me to do the same. I imagine that he and Will would have hit it off.

  When the café phone rang I darted behind the counter. Martha grabbed the receiver and in a singsong voice answered, “It’s a beautiful morning at Kell’s. Oh hi, Liz, how are you?” I listened intently as Martha spoke to my mother. I kept my back to her, looking out into the café, but I was hanging on every word. “Oh yes, dear, Mia is adjusting quite well. Really?”

  I turned around, shot my hands out, and mouthed “What?” to Martha. She shrugged her shoulders and continued listening. “I’m not sure, Liz. Mia is right here, though, if you’d like to talk to her.” I frantically shook my head back and forth, signaling a firm no. She held the receiver out to me and arched her eyebrows. I took it from her hand but stood there transfixed before putting it to my ear. After Martha disappeared into the café kitchen, I looked over at Jenny, who was slowly catching on. She darted to the espresso machine and flipped the old monster on.

  “Oh, hey, Mom!” I yelled. “It’s really busy here and I don’t know if I’ll be able to hear you over the espresso machine, but I’m fine, everything is great! I’ll call you later!”

  “Okay, honey, I just wanted you to know I’m coming out next week. Just me. I miss you!”

  “Okay, I love you.”

  “Love you, too, be safe!”

  Jenny turned the machine off while I stared blankly at her. She must have sensed my dilemma. “Mia, you’re an adult and Will seems like a nice guy. I mean, I’m sure there were co-ed dorms at Brown, what did your mom think of that?”

  “No, Jenny, it’s the tattooed, starving artist, musician types that my mother rejects.”

  “Well, she liked Pops enough, ‘cause here you are.” She smiled.

  She had a good point. Could my mother really preach to me about this? Will would simply be my roommate—I wasn’t sleeping with him and he wasn’t twelve years my senior like my father was to her when they met. She had been a wild child compared to me.

  After I graduated from college, I went traveling through Europe for a year with my three roommates from Brown. My grandparents funded the entire trip. They told me to get everything out of my system because they expected me to come back and be a grown-up. In Europe I went to every museum possible, spent a lot of time watching live music, and even more time chugging back the wine.

  Still, I was the only one of the girls who didn’t have a different guy in her bed every night. I had plenty of offers—European guys don’t hold back. I remember once in Barcelona I met this beautiful Basque man, suitably named Romeo. We hit it off immediately and the attraction was strong. I kindly turned down the offer to go back to his place that night because I had planned to get up early the following morning. My plan was to take the three-hour train to Madrid. I was dying to get back to the Reina Sofia Museum so that I could stare at Picasso’s Guernica a little longer. I thought since Romeo and I were obviously into each other, I would invite him to come along to Madrid with me. He admitted he had never been to the Reina Sofia. I thought what Basque man would not want to see this amazing work of art that has so much historical significance to his people? He wasn’t intrigued; he turned me down and continued his conquest to find a woman to bed that night.

  The next day, I stood in front of the giant Guernica, wondering what Picasso had been thinking, when it occurred to me that it’s more about what he was feeling: how he projected that into his art is what inspired me. And so it began, my secret and suppressed obsession with the sensitive, tortured, artist soul. An obsession I was still fighting tooth and nail and one I wouldn’t admit to anyone, namely myself.

  The two years after Europe I spent living with my mom and David in Ann Arbor, trying to figure out what to do with my life. It seemed like I was always so scared I would make bad decisions. I dated no one because the guys I was attracted to didn’t seem suitable for the future I envisioned. I gave piano lessons to kids, studied for the MSAT, and researched colleges for grad school. When my father died, the decision to move to New York was made for me. Still, I was determined to stay focused on success. I would only pursue sensible relationships while I worked on getting Kell’s back to its glory and I would continue working toward a bigger career in business. I knew art and music would always play a role in my life, but I refused to fall into the bottomless and crowded vat of starving artists.

  The bells on the door to the café jingled as Mister Suitable walked in. He was well-built, on the stocky side, and definitely shorter than Will, but in great shape. He was wearing perfectly tailored gray suit pants, a white dress shirt, no tie, top button open and the shirtsleeves rolled up on his thick forearms. He was varsity quarterback handsome. He had pale blue eyes, dark blond hair, and thin lips, with a hint of baby face. He looked like the guys I was used to seeing on the campus at Brown, very upright and all business. I think I was noticeably gawking at him because he had a crooked, cocky grin on his face. If I could have moved, I probably would have looked over to find Jenny in the same condition. A moment later I saw his little mini-me walk in behind him.

  Damn! Married with children.

  “Hi, welcome to Kell’s. What can I get you?”

  He squinted his eyes and quickly glanced down my body and back up, then fixed his gaze on the chalkboard above me. I felt a flush creep up my cheeks at his once-over. “I’ll have a cappuccino and for this guy… Hmm, what is Little Luv’s Cocoa?” he asked while patting his cute four-year-old on the head.

  “It’s just hot cocoa,” I said shyly.

  Jenny chimed in. “With a giant homemade marshmallow in it… It’s divine and it’s named after her.” She darted her thumb toward me and my face flushed again.

  “Your name is Little Luv?”

  Cocky Bastard. Handsome, cocky bastard.

  “Yes… I mean no. My father used to call me luv.” He nodded and smiled and then looked me up and down again. I felt like he was undressing me with his eyes and I found myself starting to enjoy it.

  “Okay, he’ll have the cocoa.”

  “Little Luv’s Cocoa,” Jenny corrected. I elbowed her.

  “Sorry, yes, Little Luv’s Cocoa,” he said without taking his eyes off me.

  “You got it. That’ll be six forty.” As I reached to grab the ten-dollar bill out of his hand, he held onto it for a second too long, forcing me to tug at it. I smiled and gave him his change. “Have a seat; I’ll bring your coffee out to you.”

  I glanced over at Jenny, whose eyes were as big as quarters. As the man walked away, she stuck her tongue out
at his back in a vulgar gesture like she was licking him. I burst into wild laughter and then stopped abruptly when he glanced back at us.

  I didn’t want him to think we were laughing at him, so when I took his coffee to him I said, “I’m sorry about that, it’s just my friend thinks you’re really good-looking.” I saw Jenny glaring at me out of the corner of my eye.

  “What do you think?”

  I must have been beet red; my plan backfired. Shit, shit. “Um, well, I guess I would have to agree.”

  “Um, well, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment then.”

  I smiled shyly and scurried away. Before the man left, he stopped at the bulletin board and read over my advertisement for kids’ piano lessons.

  When he tore off a little phone-number tab, I said, “That’s me,” and pointed my finger right at my boob like an idiot.

  “Okay?” He hesitated. “I’ll call you?” It was a question. I shook my head up and down frantically.

  He smiled and chuckled and then just like that, he was gone. “He wasn’t wearing a wedding band!” Jenny sighed. I didn’t respond.

  Track 3: Ask Me

  The following day at exactly 12:01 the buzzer sounded. Punctual, I like it. I skipped over to the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Hey, it’s Will.” I buzzed him in. He was up the stairs in a second and rapped a silly little beat on the door.

  I opened it wide. “Hey, come on in.”

  “Hi, Roomy!”

  He stepped in, then stood there transfixed for a minute before looking around. I observed his every move. He walked through the living room and kitchen, which was one big loft-style room. The kitchen had a breakfast bar and two big windows facing out to the street. The other side of the room was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, full of records, CDs, and books. “Ah, Mia, this place is great. Are those your dad’s old records?”

  “Yeah.” I felt a twinge of sadness about Pops. Will set his bag down next to the coffee table that sat between two identical beige sofas that faced each other. The upright piano was against a little section of wall just as you entered the hallway.

  “I love this piano,” Will said as he ran his fingers over the keys. He was like a kid in a candy shop. My father had black-and-white photos everywhere. Will paused at a picture of my father and me from a few years back. He turned to face me, his eyes narrowed into the listening-to-God look. Then he smiled and said, “You’re beautiful.” I realized how handsome and expressive Will’s face was close up. The way he spoke to me made me believe that he could never tell a lie.

  “Thank you,” I said softly and then moved to change the subject. “I’ll show you the room.” He walked behind me down the hall toward his new room. I was unreasonably nervous, like I had just asked him to take me to bed. I showed him the large bathroom that we would be sharing. He seemed happy and said it was literally the size of the storage closet he had just moved from. The two bedrooms at the end of the hall were identical, one on the left and one on the right. I was in my father’s room on the right, which had a window out to a courtyard in the back of the building. The room on the left had windows that faced out to the street. It also had a little platform and fire escape, which I figured Will could smoke on since there would be no smoking inside the apartment. I pointed to the closed door of my room. “That’s my room.” I hoped he got the message that it was off limits. “And here’s yours.”

  I let him walk in front of me and then I stood in the doorway and watched him as he looked around. On the wall there was a poster of Eddie Veddar singing onstage with long hair. It was from back in the grunge days; he was shirtless and sweaty. His eyes were closed and he was gripping the microphone.

  Pointing to the poster, Will smirked. “Not your father’s, I take it?”

  “This used to my room during the summers.”

  In his best girly voice he said, “It’s like he’s singing right into my soul.”

  “Shut up!” I whined sheepishly, “Take it down, do whatever you want.” I pointed to the window. “You can smoke out there.”

  “Oh, I quit.”

  “Good for you,” I said. The room had a bed with blue bedspread and a dresser in the corner. I had taken everything else out.

  “This is perfect,” he said, smiling widely.

  “So we have to figure out some kind of rules for privacy and all that.”

  “Well you work days and I work nights, so I’m sure it will be fine.” He stared at me and then continued. “What did you mean, like a sock on the door type of thing?”

  “No, no. You’re right, it will be fine. Anyway, we can just figure it out as we go.” I had no idea how meaningful those words would become.

  “Sounds like a plan, Roomy.” Then he winked.

  “Okay, so where’s the rest of your stuff?”

  “That’s it,” he said, pointing to the big duffle bag he brought in. “Oh, and my guitars and a little practice amp that Dustin, our drummer, is bringing over in his van. He’ll be here in a bit.”

  “I just realized I know nothing about you. Do you have a family? Where are you from?” The idea that I just invited a relative stranger, who owns nothing, to live in my apartment gave me a stomachache, but the weird thing was that I felt like I had known him forever.

  “I’m from Detroit; my entire family still lives there. My mom works in a bakery at a grocery store and my dad is a retired electrician. I have twelve brothers and sisters.”

  “Really? I’m an only child. I can’t imagine having a huge family like that—it must have been awesome!”

  Relaxing his stance, he leaned his tattooed forearm onto the dresser and crossed his feet. Jackson came over and sat next to him. Will unconsciously began petting Jackson’s head. It made my heart warm. “Actually, I don’t have twelve brothers and sisters. I have one brother and eleven sisters.” He paused. “I’m dead serious. My brother Ray is the oldest and I’m the youngest with eleven girls in between. I swear my parents just wanted to give Ray a brother, so they kept having more babies. By the time I was born, Ray was sixteen and didn’t give a shit. On top of it, they all have R names except me. It’s a fucking joke.”

  “You’re kidding? Name ‘em,” I demanded.

  In a super-fast voice Will recited, “Raymond, Reina, Rachelle, Rae, Riley, Rianna, Reese, Regan, Remy, Regina, Ranielle, Rebecca, and then me, Will.”

  “Surely they could have figured out another R name?”

  “Well my brother was named after my dad, so my mom felt like I should be named after someone too, being the only other boy and all. So I was named after my grandfather… Wilbur Ryan.”

  “Oh my god!” I burst into laughter. “Your name is Wilbur?”

  “Hey, woman, that’s my poppy’s name, too.”

  Still giggling, I said, “I’m sorry, I just expected William.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. Everyone does.” He smiled and winked at me again.

  The winks were making me blush. “So you don’t like your family?”

  “No I love ‘em, they’re great. Most of them are married with kids. I have so many nieces and nephews I don’t even know all their names. When I go back home, I just call them by some physical trait like freckles, dimples, small fry, things like that. They love me. My family doesn’t get the music thing though. They always thought I was a little weird. Instead of G.I. Joe, I wanted records. I’m totally self-taught and I can pretty much play anything. During the holidays, I bust out a bunch of cheery holiday songs that my family can sing along to. They tell me things like ‘You’re so fun, Will, with your guitar music,’ but to them it’s not a serious thing.” The buzzer rang. “That’s probably Dustin.”

  We both walked to the speaker. I pushed the button and said, “Hello?”

  “Dude, get down here, I’m double-parked.”

  “Dude?”

  “Oh. Sorry, dude, can you tell Will to get down here?”

  “Sure.”

  I looked up at Will who shrugged. “He’s from California.” Like th
at explained everything. “Come on.” He motioned toward the door. “You should meet them.”

  When we got out to the street, I saw Will take a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tap the bottom, and grab one out with his teeth. “I thought you quit?”

  “I did.” He tossed the pack to one of the guys leaning against the van, then took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tucked it behind his ear.

  He pointed to his ear. “That one’s for looks.” He turned toward the van. “Hey, guys, this is Mia, my roomy. Mia, this is Dustin and Nate.”

  Dustin had long, brown hair and a skinny, wiry build like a typical drummer. Nate was taller and thicker with a shaved head. Both guys smiled politely at me as we shook hands. “I saw you guys play at The Depot the other night. You were so good, but you have to get rid of Pete.”

  “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.