Love Will

  “You are a liar! You said you were a New Yorker, and here you’re spouting about meters again like some Canadian or something!” I know she’s joking with me, and I love that she is.

  “About two-point-two-three-seven miles-per-hour. Better?” She looks at me, her eyes wide. “The calculations are simpler in meters, that’s all.”

  “Continue,” she says. “Meters are fine.”

  “Thank you.” I take the pen and draw circles on the paper, my hands shaking slightly, explaining the physics problem I remember from college. It was the first one I had to assist with in my first year as a TA, so I know it like the back of my hand. “So after this disk strikes the other, we have to find out the post-collision velocities, and their directions as relative angles to the original velocity. Got it?” I ask her.

  “I have no clue what you just said.”

  “Maybe it takes a physicist to solve this. Let me help you,” I say smugly. I go on to expound upon the conservation of momentum and the law of mechanical energy conservation to her, writing out the equations quickly, not really bothering to teach her, but rather to show off; to prove to her that I am what I say I am.

  When I’m finished, Shea stares down at the paper for a few quiet seconds.

  “But musicians lie,” she whispers. I throw the pen down and start laughing. She bites her lip, smiling, then adds, “Maybe astrophysicists do, too. I’ve just never met one.”

  “They don’t,” I tell her. “And you’ve met one now. I’m Will.”

  I help myself to another bottled water while Shea finishes preparing my meal in the kitchen, adding it to the tab I’ve been keeping a mental note of since I walked in. Sitting back down at the counter, the book I’d been reading falls open to the last page I’d read. It’s a romance novel, which explains why I’m not familiar with it. It’s actually pretty well written. The author has a more extensive vocabulary than cock and heaving bosoms, so already it’s broken my stereotype. It’s still pretty dirty, though.

  “Are you enjoying that?” she asks as she brings out two trays of food.

  “Not my typical genre, but I’m learning a thing or two.” I look up at her and grin. “Is this one yours?”

  “No,” she laughs. “I run a book exchange here. You can take a book as long as you leave a book. Oh, but before you get too excited, we only take fiction here. I don’t want your text books.”

  “I’d never give up my texts. So you haven’t read this one?” I pick it up and study the cover art, admiring the six pack on the guy in the billowing shirt.

  “There are some highlighted passages I may have skimmed…” I flip through to find those areas and read what people have chosen to mark.

  “Whoa. Straight to the porn. Just skip all the romance, huh?”

  “I just like to see what people think is exciting. It always shocks me, actually.”

  I read a little more. “Yeah. That is… uh… nothing really romantic about that.”

  “No,” she agrees. “And why did you pick that one?”

  “I’ve read the rest.” I close the book and push it away from me, looking at the bowl of steaming hot food now in front of me. “This smells amazing.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “I’d love the company. Water?” I ask her, getting back up.

  “Sure,” she says. “I love how you’ve made yourself at home in my establishment.”

  “I’m just tired of sitting on my ass, doing nothing.” I hand her the drink over the counter. “Extra napkins?”

  “In the cabinet behind you, to the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  I pick up my fork as I sit down, digging into the pot pie, but Shea puts her hand over mine, stopping me before I take a bite. “It’s really hot. You don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh. But, fuck, it smells so good. Sorry ‘bout my language.” I blow on the food, feeling the grumbling in my belly.

  “Are you apologizing because you cursed, or because you curse?”

  I finally take a bite, and it still borderline burns the roof of my mouth. “Shit, that’s amazing. You made this?” I ask her.

  “Because you curse,” she continues softly, more to herself than to me.

  “What are you even asking me?”

  “I didn’t know if that was an apology, like, you’d try not to do it again, or if you were saying, look, lady, sorry I curse, but you’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “Oh, um… look, lady…” I smile sheepishly at her. “I’m on a tour bus with four other guys. I’m in a band. I’ve got a little brother who’s much worse than I am.”

  “Does he get it from you, though? Let’s be honest…”

  “Well, yeah, but… sorry.”

  “I don’t give a shit. I was just messing with you.”

  “I’m not above food fights,” I tell her. “You better be happy this dish is hotter than hell, and that I don’t wish to inflict second degree burns on anyone… but it will cool off.” I give it some more thought. “Unfortunately, it’s about the best thing I’ve ever eaten, and I don’t want to waste it in a food fight, either.”

  “This?” she asks, looking at me with one raised eyebrow. With her accompanying incredulous smile, it causes a deep dimple in her opposite cheek. She is so incredibly cute when she makes that face.

  “Yes. And you made it? I’m so impressed.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No… why would I kid about that?”

  “Look at the packaging on the bottom…” She lifts her bowl a little to expose the green EM emblem stamped all over it.

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Edith Meddlesome? It’s a frozen food brand. Probably the most popular one in America. Your parents never bought you and your brother Edith Meddlesome?”

  “Back up… you’re feeding me frozen food? In your restaurant?”

  “I warned you about the food deliveries… these came from my personal freezer. Because my parents brought me up right,” she says, boastful. “I was out here playing science games with you–not cooking! Did you think I had little elves back there, making your food for you?”

  “No, I just… I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d prepped it beforehand.”

  “Is it not as good now?”

  “No, it’s still the fucking best pot pie I’ve ever had. And no, my parents never bought me and my brothers Edith Meddlesome.” I pause for a second, taking another bite. “Obviously my parents didn’t bring me up right.” Emotions sneak up on me quickly, and I can’t blink away the water from my eyes before she notices them.

  “I was just kidding,” she says.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s nothing.”

  We both eat for a few minutes in silence.

  “So you have more than one brother?” she asks.

  “One older and one younger. No sisters. Well, I have a sister-in-law now. What about you?” I ask, not wanting to talk about my family.

  “One older sister. Sarah’s a doctor in Nigeria.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “She’s part of Doctors Without Borders. More specifically, she’s an obstetrician in Jahun. She does a lot of good work over there.”

  “I bet your parents are proud,” I suggest.

  “Momma was. Daddy died eleven years ago, before she graduated from college.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. My mom passed three years ago. She was very happy to see Sarah realize her dream.”

  “I… yeah, I’m really sorry.” I put down my fork and wipe my hands, putting my hand on her shoulder.

  “Really, I’m okay.” She pats my hand. “Momma taught me everything I know. She gave me this restaurant, and I tried to do right by her.” Now her eyes water as she looks up toward the ceiling. I remember the CLOSING sign when I walked in.

  “What happened?”

  “The landlord wants a… coffee-shop-whose-name-I-will-not-mention. It’s a bad word to me. Worse than fuck. Worse than a million fuc
ks. But hey! It rhymes with fucks!”

  I laugh at her. “I gotcha.”

  “He increased my rent sixfold. He was friends with my mom from high school, and he’d made her a sweetheart deal, so I’m sure it’s fair market value. But it still sucks. Also rhymes with it.”

  “Shit, now I know who to go to when I’m stuck writing a song. I’ll just call my friend Busta here…”

  “Busta Rhymes, huh? Like you know anything about him.”

  “What, ‘cause I’m white?” I press her to elaborate.

  “Yes, because you’re white.”

  “Oh, don’t stereotype me, Shea.” I shake my head. “Especially when it comes to music.”

  “Oh, yeah, you do tour with Damon…”

  “Now you’re stereotyping Damon? He didn’t introduce me to rap! My sister-in-law’s very white uncle did. He introduced me to every genre under the sun. Without him, I’d probably still be listening to the same three albums I bought when I was thirteen.”

  “…which were?”

  “No. I won’t say.”

  “You have to say. You brought it up.”

  “I don’t have to say. Nope.”

  “I’ll just have to charge you the premium price for the pot pie, then. There’s a shortage since the blizzard hit.”

  “Yeah? So how much are we talking?” I ask as I take the last bite.

  “Two-fifty.”

  I smile and choke out a puff of air at her. “Two-hundred-fifty?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says with a straight face.

  “Taylor Swift’s Fearless album, Michael Jackson’s Thriller album, and Nirvana’s Nevermind album.”

  “It’s all so… old…”

  “It was a long time ago–”

  “What are you, fifty?!”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “I’m twenty-four, so it wasn’t that long ago. Why did you buy those albums?”

  “Fearless because of that damn “Love Story” earworm and because I thought she was the cutest girl on the planet and it was easy to imagine her in my bed with the way they photographed her on the cover.”

  “Wow. You’re shameless.”

  “You asked.”

  “Or are you a romantic?”

  “Hardly,” I admit. “Thriller because I saw that video one Halloween and thought it was the shit. That album is still one of my favorites to this day.”

  “Okay, yeah, it’s a classic,” she concedes. “Even if it is a million years old.”

  “Old doesn’t mean bad. And Nevermind, well… because there was a baby with a penis on the cover.”

  “Seriously, some things should be kept to yourself, Will.” She snickers, totally judging me.

  “I was thirteen. And hell, it’s one of the most iconic covers in the history of music. I wasn’t the only one mesmerized by it.”

  “I’m not sure everyone was mesmerized by the baby’s penis…”

  “Well, no, but… it was the novelty of it. It seemed so taboo–you know what? I was an immature kid, I’ll admit it. And I liked the music on that one, too. I still listen to quite a few tracks today. Not very challenging guitar licks or anything, though.”

  “What, are you, like, good or something?”

  “Like, something,” I mimic her. “You listen to Damon’s music. You don’t know if I’m good or not?”

  “No… I can’t judge guitarists… I know Damon’s really good.”

  “Yeah, Damon’s awesome. Where Damon ranks with vocalists, let’s just say I’m higher when compared to other guitarists.”

  “So you’re something and arrogant.”

  “Do some research, Shea,” I tease her, pulling out my wallet and finding my shoes.

  “I should Google Will… what?”

  “Will… from Damon Littlefield’s band,” I respond coyly. “Will fifty cover everything?”

  “You’re not gonna tell me your last name? And I don’t charge Manhattan prices here. Half that, and you’re still leaving me a nice tip,” she answers.

  “Is your last name Livingston?” I ask her.

  “It is.”

  “Mrs?”

  “Miss.”

  I grin. “Miss Shea Livingston, your dinner was on me, and I’d like to leave you a nicer tip for your wonderful hospitality today.” I set the fifty on the counter. “They’re schmucks for shutting you down… which also rhymes with the coffee-shop-whose-name-we-will-not-mention.”

  “You’re getting the hang of it!” she says with a lilt to her voice. “Will…”

  “Rosser. Don’t get used to that, though.” She lifts her brow at me again, showing me that cute dimple. “Listen, when are you closing–for good?” I ask, heading toward the door.

  “Not for a few weeks. Um, when are you leaving Minneapolis?”

  “Not for a few days.” I turn back around and smile at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  At ten in the morning, the whole band takes our first of two daily treks to the convenience store that had remained open throughout the storm. It was our supplier of prepackaged donuts, chips, pizza, hotdogs, pretzels, sodas, candy–really, all the junk food our hearts desired. It was like they had an endless supply of everything, too, which–this particular morning–concerns me. Shea said she was having issues with food delivery. That means this place must have had pizza and wieners stocked away in a freezer somewhere for months, the way Tavo and Damon have been eating them.

  Bread seems to be in limited supply today, though.

  “Lola wants the powdered sugar donuts,” Ben says, reaching for the same package Peron’s going for.

  “Don’t take my only source of happiness.”

  “She’ll kill me if I don’t bring these back for her.”

  “I’ll put your body on ice until the coroner can get through the snow,” Peron says, claiming the breakfast food as his own. “Lola shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  “You’re just jealous.” It’s his response for everything, and I can guarantee, we’re not.

  “Ben,” I say, stepping in between him and our bassist, “back off. Stop trying to pick a fight with him. It’s always going to be four against one with you. Always.” I notice his eyes drifting to Damon, and I can tell from the disappointment on his face that he agrees with me. “Go get her some chocolate and stock up on condoms or something. A real man knows how to make a woman happy, and I’ve never had to use fucking donuts.”

  “I’ve used donuts before,” Damon says. “Big donuts. With big holes, you know…”

  “Don’t need the visual, man,” I tell him, patting him on the back. “But congrats.” I check around the store, looking for something to take to the restaurant later today. There’s a very condensed section for magazines that stocks the top five bestselling novels. They all look pretty lame to me, but it gives me an idea. I decide to grab some water and sodas–my standards–and make my way to the counter to pay.

  “Peron, go get something with protein. Something,” I plead with him, seeing his slushie and donuts. He shakes his head. I leave my stuff where it is and go back through the store, grabbing two small cartons of milk and some peanut butter and cracker sleeves. “All of this,” I tell the cashier, swiping my credit card. After he sacks my groceries, I sort them, putting Peron’s things in one bag and my drinks in another. “Here.”

  “You’re one to talk. Sodas? No sustenance there.”

  “I’m going out later. I’ll have something better.”

  All the guys stop talking. “Where are you going?” Tavo asks.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Your mystery hideout? Where you escaped to yesterday?”

  “Maybe,” I tell them.

  “So this place you go to. It has food. Better food than this one?”

  “It’s up in the air. Food delivery isn’t happening, apparently, so I don’t know what she’ll have today.” Fuck. Maybe they didn’t pick up on that.

  “She?” everyone asks at the same time.


  “The owner. Yeah, the place is owned by a woman. It’s the twenty-first century, big fucking deal.”

  “If it’s no big fucking deal, then tell us where it’s at,” Ben says.

  I hesitate, not wanting them to encroach on my time at Mrs. Livingston’s Kitchen. Granted, if they stepped outside the hotel and went the other direction just a tad, they’d find the place on their own. I probably can’t keep it a secret forever. But I’ll try. “No.”

  “You gettin’ some on the side, Will?” Damon asks.

  “What? No!” I tell him. “It’s just quiet there. I’m taking my guitar today. I’m going to try to write while I’m there since Peron won’t let me even play a fucking chord in our room.”

  “Everything reminds me of Brooke.”

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” I say, sighing heavily. “Get him drunk again today, okay? He was much more fun when I got home last night than he has been in the previous two days.”

  “Can do,” Tavo says, returning to a cooler and grabbing another case of beer.

  My leather boots are nearly dry from two days ago; they’re better than my tennis shoes, so I slip them on. I check my hair one last time before grabbing my book and guitar.

  “I’ll see you guys in a couple hours.”

  “I’m following you,” Damon says, getting up. I let him trail me, but stop him in the hallway.

  “Let me have some time, man,” I beg him. “I was feeling some creative mojo yesterday. Let me pursue this and you may have another killer song by the time we get back on the road. I can’t do it if you guys are hovering, though.”

  “It’s a woman, isn’t it? You put fucking product in your hair, Will. Don’t lie to me.”

  “There’s a woman there, yeah, who was really hospitable. I’d just rather not look like a hoodlum fresh off the streets today, that’s all.”

  He glares at me suspiciously. “If you’re not back by nine, I’ll know something’s up.”

  “I’ll be back way before nine.”

  “All right. I’ll keep Tavo from stalking you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can borrow my coat.” He removes his leather jacket and takes my guitar and book from me. I slip on the garment, already feeling warmer.

  “You’re the best.”