He’s drifted closer to the stage, but stands out of reach. His hair was wet when he came in, but it’s dried into effortless waves that he’s brushed back from his forehead. The sides are shorter, which only seems to accentuate the razor sharp line of his jaw. I’m sure if I dragged my finger along it, it’d come away bleeding.
He’s dressed in workout clothes with the sleeves of his T-shirt hugging his muscled arms. Even poorly fed as a teenager, he always had a little bit of muscle to him. Now, a grown man with access to money and proper nutrition, he’s filled out.
Tattoos pepper his arms and I see one peeking out from the band of his shorts midthigh. I wish I could stare longer, catalog each of them and find out why he got them, but just as I’m ending the song, he snaps to attention. Like he’s been under some sort of spell and the glamour has suddenly lifted.
His eyes find mine, and the storm behind the blue of them sets my nerves on edge. My stomach does a little flip. We hold contact for a breath, then another, before a scowl overtakes his brows and he takes off toward the exit. Myfingers falter on the next chord as he swings open the door and steps outside without a glance back.
The momentary triumph of surprising him, the shot of excitement at seeing him, comes crashing down.
I know his past better than anyone else, so I understand why he would want to forget about it. But there was a part of me that held onto the hope that maybe I wasn’t something he wanted to forget.
He didn’t stick around then, why would he now?
Typically, I’ll play for about an hour or so, but tonight I cut it fifteen minutes short. My fingers grow clumsy and the lyrics of songs I know from heart get jumbled in my brain. No one seems to care when I wrap up the last song and bid everyone a good night.
I don’t play because I’m looking for any sort of warm reception from the typical clientele here. It just makes the days go by a little bit faster doing something I actually enjoy.
Kevin, the owner and my manager, gives me a silent wave as I grab my guitar and head toward the entrance to the kitchen. Everyone takes trash out when they leave, no matter what you do here or what time you get off. So as I grab my purse and carefully tuck my guitar back into its battered case, I grab a bag of trash that’s sitting by the back door and swing it open to the alley.
The sun is setting, but the air is still warm. A pleasant breeze dances through the alley, picking up a few strands of my hair and tickling my cheeks with it. I swing the bag back a little to get some momentum before tossing it up and over the lip of the dumpster. It falls with a heavy thud and releases an unpleasant odor as I stride away.
Old brick buildings line either side of the alley. I dig around in my purse for my headphones for my walk home,and just as I’m about to connect them and step out on the sidewalk, a gritty voice comes from my right.
“What the fuck was that about, Penny?”
I yelp and swing the guitar in my hand. If it wasn’t for Reid’s quick reflexes, it would’ve hit him right in the gut.
Part of me would’ve liked to have seen that I think.
He pushes off of the wall in a spot that was partially hidden from view by a stack of boxes waiting for recycling to come through later this week. Standing here like this, with him towering over me and no bar separating us, I fully take in his height.
I always remember him being tall, but he’s also seven years older than me, so he always seemed bigger. But Christ, he’s gotta be almost a full foot taller than me.
“So you do know my name,” I snip, raising my chin in an attempt to rally some confidence back.
“Why didn’t you say anything when I walked in?” He glares at me.
“Do you mean before or after you thought I was some fangirl of yours trying to fawn all over you?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I didn’t—” He cuts himself off, as if knowing I won’t believe the lie. “You should have told me. Did you think I wouldn’t remember you?” His voice is full of steel, but there’s an undertone of something else…
I mean, he did leave me behind without a second look when he moved, so yeah, I wasn’t sure if he’d remember me. If I had as big of an impact on him as he did on me when we were kids.
But we were just that. Kids.
And we’re not anymore.
I shrug and stuff my headphones back into my bag. “It’s been awhile,” I say.
“Yeah,” he murmurs as his eyes dance back and forthbetween mine, like he’s searching for something. He has a few frown lines marring his forehead and creases at the corner of his eyes like he’s spent too much time squinting against the sun. His skin is tanned with a healthy glow, so unlike the pale pallor I remember on him. The summer air between us grows thick with nostalgia and a small kernel of pride settles in my chest. We both made it out.
If only we could’ve known it then. Maybe it would’ve made the dark days less lonely.
He clears his throat. “What are you doing here?” Then he clarifies, “In LA.”
I set his—my—guitar down between us, and he shoots a longing look at it. “I moved here a few years ago. You know, or maybe you don’t remember, but I always wanted to live by the beach.” When you grow up in a snowy, cold state, the idea of living within walking distance of the sand and water feels like a dream. And when everything seemed too far-fetched for someone like me, I figured I might as well make one of them happen. A small smile tugs up at my lips. “I always wanted to get away from Pittsburgh just as much as you did.”
And sure, maybe there was always the possibility in the far recesses of my mind that maybe, just maybe, one day I’d see him again out here.
