I’m not sure how to approach him, and he still hasn’t seen me standing a few feet away. Saying his name somehow feels sincerely weird, so I square my shoulders and slide onto the barstool beside him.
Only once I’m seated do I register that there were about ten other women working up the nerve to do the same thing, coming at him from all angles. He turns slowly, like this happens at every set break and he’s never sure what manner of companion he’s going to end up with.
But when our eyes meet, he startles, face immediately relaxing into a genuine smile. “Hey, it’s the girl from the Netherlands.”
And I can’t help it. Incredulity makes it burst out of me: “ ‘Hey’?”
Calvin’s smile turns a little sympathetic, like he gets it, and waves to the bartender, who immediately approaches. “Whatever she wants,” he tells the older man.
I hesitate. I didn’t come over here to have a drink with him. I came here to scratch that tickle of curiosity in my head that’s been plaguing me for the past few days . . . and maybe tell him off a little. But his inherent easiness is disorienting. I expected him to be shy, or stiff. Instead he’s nothing but relaxed, smiling charisma.
The bartender taps an impatient finger against the bar.
I apologize under my breath before ordering, “Club soda with lime, please.”
“A real wild child you are,” Calvin teases.
I meet his eyes, giving him a forced grin. “I’m on painkillers.” I nod to the cast. “Broken arm.”
He grimaces playfully. “Right.”
The question is so much easier to ask than I’d expected: “So why didn’t you tell them what you saw? They told my family I jumped.”
He nods a few times, swallowing his sip of beer before speaking. “I’m sorry. I am. But I didn’t think the police would believe my version.”
Pre-subway-platform-dive Holland would be losing her mind right now at the way his accent moves every word to the front of his mouth, and think comes out as tink—a tiny coin dropped into a cup.
Okay, Holland of today is losing her mind a little, too, but she’s at least trying to keep her cool.
“Well,” I say, “they didn’t believe my version, either. They handed me a couple of self-help pamphlets and probably aren’t even looking for the guy who did it.”
Calvin turns, meeting my eyes. “Look. Being in the station, I see . . .” He shakes his head. “I see people do terrible shite all the time and then report it themselves. Crime fetish, or somethin’. That’s all I could think about in that moment. Your bum ran off, and I was more concerned with getting you safe than stopping him.”
As he talks, he reaches into the front pocket of his jeans for a tube of ChapStick, absently pulling off the cap and running the balm quickly over his lips. The move is so distracting that I don’t realize I’m staring at his mouth until the bartender loudly deposits a tumbler of sparkling water and limes on a napkin in front of me. Calvin slips the tube back into his pocket as he nods in thanks.
My brain shuffles through memories of Monday night, and I have to admit that what he’s said makes sense—even if it doesn’t explain why he lied to the EMTs. But does that matter? It was embarrassing to be handed the suicide prevention card, yeah, but in reality, Calvin called 911, and stayed to make sure I was okay. Now what feels remarkable isn’t that he fled after I was safely awake in the ambulance, it’s that he stayed that long to begin with.
Calvin holds out his hand. “Apology accepted?”
I take it, and grow a little breathless knowing that he plays his guitar with the fingers he currently has wrapped around mine. A hot pulse works its way down my spine. “Yeah. Apology accepted.”
Releasing me, he stares at the cast for a few seconds. “I see you’ve got no names written on there.”
I follow his attention down. “Names?”
“It’s required when you choose a little-girl color, love. You beg your mates to mark it all up.”
Oh. Something turns over inside me at his playful smile, exposing my vulnerable underbelly. I realize now that a significant fraction of my brain was hoping he wouldn’t be so amiable when he saw me, that he would be defensive and sharp, so I’d have a good reason to tuck my crush away.
“I’m still traumatized by the gore of my friend’s sweaty, smelly, graffitied cast in fourth grade.” I grin over at him. “I’m trying to keep this one pristine.”
The band begins to reconvene on the stage, and Calvin glances over his shoulder before draining his beer.
He stands, and then grins down at me. I’m overcome by his exultant smile. “Well, if you change your mind and want it dirtied up, you know where to find me.”
five
Luis Genova is a magical human, and I don’t say that lightly. When I read reviews of him as Theo in my uncle’s show that say he was “born for the stage,” I feel sorry for whatever uncreative journalist wrote it because it’s not a profound statement; it’s akin to declaring that a bird is born to fly.
One night, very early after the production launched and received its first standing ovation, the cast and crew went out to celebrate at the Palm. I was, as I am now, not even an official stagehand and barely worth anyone’s notice, and at the time Luis didn’t yet know my relation to Robert. That night, Luis made the rounds of the entire private room, shaking hands and giving thanks. When he was several people away from me, the air shifted, became charged somehow. There were four of us minions standing together, snacking, trying to stave off self-consciousness, and we all turned and watched him approach as if we were being compelled.
I explained it to Lulu later, describing it almost like if a UFO had landed and deployed some magical brain magnets. We all had to turn and watch him. None of us could continue babbling about how good the calamari was or whether we’d have a Dark and Stormy or a gin and tonic next when Luis Genova was walking toward us. When he reached for my hand and thanked me for all my hard work, he looked me right in the eye and my inane brain lost all capacity for language.
Blinking, I shook his hand, giving him a numb “Okay” before he moved on to thank the person beside me.
Well played, Holland.
It’s not that he’s tall, or particularly good-looking or muscular. He’s just . . . present. The light prays at the altar of his cheekbones. His hair hits his jaw in a smooth black sheet and he tucks it behind his ear, revealing eyes that crinkle into that smile. Lord, his smile.
His smile, which is right here, not ten feet from me.
“Holland, for the love of God, stop gawking.”
I startle, turning at the sound of Brian’s voice. Unfortunately, Luis and Robert—who had been having what appeared to be a lovely conversation and which I would have been happy to witness for a good ten minutes longer—also turn to see what’s happening. Everyone nearby looks at me, their smiles tilting from confused to sympathetic.
Poor fangirl, busted for ogling.
Story of my life, I guess.
My neck heats and I push through the assembled cast and deeper backstage, apologizing under my breath. Admittedly, I get to see Luis a lot, but never standing still like that, so close, and my opportunities are dwindling. He has created a nation of adoring followers, and in only a month, he’s leaving us.
I’m not even a Broadway junkie, and I’m heartbroken. No wonder Twitter is flipping out. No wonder Robert is a stress monster about making sure Ramón nails it when he takes over.
I find a quiet place to sit in the shadows and watch Luis and Robert walk onstage, hugging briefly before Robert waves Lisa up from the pit. She joins them, lifting her violin to her chin and following Robert’s lead before she begins playing. Again and again they practice, blending their two “voices”; Luis has only a handful of performances remaining, but I can see he wants to make them impactful. His final show will be a star-studded event and covered by press that’s already profiled the show a hundred times.
Unfortunately, even to my ear it’s clear that Lisa is no match for Luis in sound or presence, and I have no idea what’s going to come next. Seth is already gone. Luis is leaving soon. Ramón Martín is coming in with a blockbuster voice, and Lisa’s hand is too soft to accompany him.
For the first time, I’m truly worried about my uncle.
Robert finds me in his office later, absently punching holes in a blank sheet of paper. He looks a little dangerous: his dark eyes are bloodshot, his normally smiling mouth is a grim, pale line.
“Are you making a mess in here?” he asks. He takes his glasses off, folding them carefully on the desk.
Sheepishly, I sweep the small pile of punched-out circles into the recycling bin. “I can’t believe anyone uses a single-hole punch anymore.”
“No one does.” He sits in the chair opposite me and bends, putting his head in his hands.
“You okay, Bobert?”
He says pretty much what I expect: “I don’t know how I’m going to pair Ramón. He’ll drown Lisa.”
Robert’s pianist, a man named Luther, is pretty wonderful. “Can Luther carry the solos?”
“On piano?”
I shrug. “Just spitballing here.”
He appears to consider it, and then shakes his head. “The songs don’t lend themselves to keys. The strings have a richness, a vibrancy that the piano can’t mimic. It needs to stir something inside you. Luther is amazing, but we need a musician who demands your attention. Who makes you feel.”
The idea seems to heat my blood, and I straighten. “Wait. Wait.”
Robert looks up, confused.
I hold up my hand. “An idea is forming in my brain.”
His expression clears in understanding. “No, Buttercup.”
“He’s exactly what you’re describing,” I insist. “You’ve never heard him, but trust me—he is.”
“He plays guitar. Honey, I know you’re enamored, but—”