“So we’d be married, and I’d get to be in the show?” he asks. “Just like that?”
“I think so. You’d have your dream, and Robert would have his new musician.”
“I’d also have a beautiful wife. What would you have? Other than a famous Broadway musician husband, that is.”
He thinks I’m beautiful? I hold his gaze from across the table, not blinking, barely breathing. “I’d get to help my uncle. I owe him so much.”
I conveniently leave out the part where I would get to look at Calvin daily—and that would not be a chore at all—hear him play, be near him. Yes, I wanted him for months before ever speaking to him, but he’s so clearly full of joy, and passion, and a playfulness I never could have predicted. I’m even more attracted to him now that we’ve spoken. He’s witty. So talented . . . but not arrogant. Way too sexy.
Calvin looks down at his salad and I can tell he’s mulling this crazy offer over. Oh, my God, he thinks I’m a headcase.
My stomach turns to concrete.
“Holland,” he says slowly, more somber than his previous impish tone. “I appreciate what you’re offering, I really do, but I worry that it’s a burden that you really shouldn’t have to bear. I wasn’t trying to butter you up earlier—you really are beautiful. What if you meet someone in the next twelve months, and you want to date him?”
It’s hard for me to imagine wanting anyone other than him right now. But maybe he’s asking this from his own perspective. Maybe he doesn’t want to be stuck in a situation where he can’t date and sleep with other women.
“Yeah, I mean . . . if you want to date other women in that time . . . maybe you could be discreet?”
“Shite. No. No, Holland, that’s not what I meant. This is beyond generous. I’m still in shock. That Robert Okai wants me in his show . . . that I impressed him. But you, wanting to make my dream possible?”
He lets out a long, controlled breath.
I’m not sure what else to say. I’ve laid it all out on the table and am holding my breath in these long, painful spans, just waiting to hear what he says.
Finally, he lifts his napkin and wipes his mouth again before setting the cloth neatly at the edge of his place mat. His face explodes in a grin. “I’m in, Holland. On one condition.”
I feel the way my brows disappear into my hair. “A condition?”
“Let me take you out.”
I nod, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I look around the restaurant. “You mean like . . . a date?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I like to date a girl before I marry her. Besides, to pull off this mad plan of yours, I reckon we need to look like we’re in love?” When I nod, he continues. “Come out with me tomorrow night and let’s see if we can stand to be near each other. You’re not going to want me in your apartment if you can’t handle me at a bar.”
He has a point, but I laugh at his wording. “Handle you at a bar? Are you trying to scare me away?”
Calvin leans in. “Not in the slightest.” His eyes move to my mouth, and his voice goes low and warm. “Besides, something this big warrants at least a twenty-four-hour think, yeah?”
Swallowing, I give him a trembling “Absolutely.” We’re talking about a transactional marriage, but I feel like we’ve just enjoyed a tumbling round of foreplay.
Sitting up, he nods to where my phone is resting on the table, and I slide it over to him. He types in a message and a moment later, his phone vibrates with a text. “There”—he slides mine back across the table—“I’ll send you the details and we’ll see each other tomorrow night.”
I’m supposed to meet Calvin at Terminal 5 at eight o’clock. I’m a little better at handling the cast by now and get dressed on my own, deciding on a pair of loose ripped jeans for easier bathroom excursions, a black sweater, and my favorite boots.
It’s a long walk, even by New Yorker standards, from the train to the venue on Eleventh Avenue. I have a cab drop me off as close as the crowds allow, and text Calvin that I’m here.
With an arm up in a wave, he steps off the curb in front of the building, his long legs wrapped in dark jeans, a gray jacket over a white T-shirt. His hair is shiny beneath the flickering neon sign, and when he’s close enough to take my hand and lead me inside, I smell soap and fabric softener. I give myself precisely three seconds to imagine how it would feel to press my face to his neck and huff him.
“This okay?” he asks.
I pull my eyes up to his face and then look around, really taking in our surroundings for the first time. Calvin has managed to get us into a show that—according to the signs outside—is completely sold out.
“You’re showing off, aren’t you?”
His laugh is a bursting, delighted sound. “I’m absolutely showing off.”
We check our coats and head to a sweeping balcony that looks out on the stage and the general admission area below. There’s an identical level just above, with industrial steel railings, a bar, restrooms, and small clusters of couches scattered around.
“Are we here to watch?” I ask, looking out at the giant disco ball suspended from the center of the massive ceiling. “Or are you playing?”
“I’ll be in for one set, yeah. It’s a miniature festival. One of the bands I play with was invited.” Calvin pays for our drinks and hands me my glass before leading us to a VIP section roped off next to the railing. “This time there will be no spandex or dangly earrings, I promise.”
I laugh and peek out over the railing. The floor is starting to fill. Those lucky enough to get in are already crowding their way to the front near the stage.
“You guys weren’t bad. Despite all the crotch-strangling Lycra. How many bands do you play with?”
“It changes,” he says, “but four, at the moment. Funny enough, the crotch stranglers do pretty well for themselves. I was only brought in a few weeks ago when their original guitarist threw his back out doing a fancy high kick.” He takes a sip of his drink and the limes jostle against the ice cubes. “The pay is good, so I didn’t ask too many questions.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“I just want to play music.” He looks down at me, and his eyes are so wide and earnest. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” The way he says this plucks at a tender spot in my chest, the part that sees my laptop rusting away under a pile of takeout menus and junk mail. My degree sits useless in the proverbial box under my bed. Music is Calvin’s passion and he’s found a way to do it, no matter what. I’ve always been obsessed with words—so why can’t I seem to write a single one?
“So what exactly do you do at the theater?” He gently bumps my shoulder with his. “Besides sell T-shirts and scout talent, that is.”
I set my drink down, right next to where someone has written the words P.L.U.R.—Purity, love, unity, respect on the metal table between us.
“I’m basically peon number three. I take pictures backstage and work front of the house.”
He tilts his glass to his lips, smiling over the rim. “Very cool.”
I wonder how big a lie that is for him to tell. Calvin, with so much talent and passion that he stayed here illegally hoping to get a job, telling me—a twenty-five-year-old selling T-shirts—that my job is very cool. It almost makes me feel more ashamed.
“It isn’t what I want to do forever,” I say quietly. “It’s just what I’m doing for now.”
He opens his mouth to say something just as the house lights go out, and the stage lights come to life.
The first act is an EDM group. Three DJs stand onstage, each behind a laptop and various mixers, heads bowed and obscured by giant headphones. The floor erupts at the first beat and even though I’m not too familiar with this genre, I totally get it. There’s a high that comes from live shows, a collective energy in a large group of people all gathered for one reason. The beat slices through the melodies and then drops; the crowd bounces and undulates like ripples in water.
I look over to see Calvin with his eyes closed, body moving to the beat, lost in the notes along with everyone else. I close my own eyes and let myself dance. The bass is so loud it feels like a monster heartbeat pounding through me. By the time the last song ends and the lights go up again, I’m flushed.
“They are so good,” I say, finishing my drink. “I would never have pegged you as an EDM guy.”
“The thing about this music is that if you just stand here and listen, you’ll never appreciate it. You’re supposed to be part of it—part of the party. I think that’s why I like it so much.” He does a quick check of his watch. “Listen, it’s almost time for our set. Will you be okay here?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re playing three songs, so if you want to come down during the last one I can meet you backstage.”
I nod and smile up at him.
Am I really here? On a date with Calvin?
I’m momentarily light-headed. We’re negotiating getting married.
He wraps a hand around my upper arm and gently squeezes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” I pull a few strands of hair out of my face, and notice when he glances at my lips. “This is just sort of surreal.”
“I know.” He pauses, seeming to be on the verge of saying something more about this, but in the end just tells me, “I’ll give them your name and see you in a few?”
“Good luck.”
At this, he gives me a grin and leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that nearly annihilates me, before heading down the stairs.
Calvin’s band is on about twenty minutes later, and when he looks up while tuning his guitar to offer me a little wave, my knees grow rubbery.
He was right about the distinct lack of animal print. There are four guys in total, all of them in varying degrees of distressed skinny jeans and vintage band T-shirts, all of them hot. Calvin is playing a guitar I’ve never seen him use before—it looks acoustic but plugs into an enormous amp near his feet.