Jack looks up at me, his face unchanged. “Play what?”
“That.” I gesture widely toward the band corner, where the upright bass awaits.
A mix of terror and excitement moves across Jack’s face. “They wouldn’t allow that. You’re testing me.”
I give him my best smile. “That seems to be the theme of the night. I talked to the band. The bassist agreed to let you use her bass. Just don’t pop a string.”
Jack wiggles his fingers in anticipation. “I didn’t plan for this.” He looks from the bass to the diners, his face flushed.
He’ll never do it. Unless my read on him is completely wrong? Does this serious, by-the-book man actually have it in him to go up in front of strangers and play an instrument? I really hope so.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, of course I’m not going to pressure you,” I tell him.
“Would going up there to play make you happy?” he asks.
“More than you’ll ever know.”
Jack gets up from his seat and walks over to the corner, whispering to the pianist. He positions himself behind the double bass, taking a second to admire the instrument. He avoids making eye contact with anyone as he begins to pluck.
And now the joke’s on me. He commands the bass effortlessly.
Jack knows the chords by heart, his fingers moving fast and smooth across the strings. They’re playing Billie Holiday’s “What a Little Moonlight Can Do,” and it’s perfectly upbeat. Despite the catchy tune and his graceful playing, Jack still looks nervous. All eyes are on him, and it doesn’t seem like this is something he’s used to.
Everyone continues eating their meals while some occasionally clap and shout, “Yes!” I snap my fingers, moving my shoulders up and down to the music. His mouth forms a firm, focused line, and he keeps his attention trained on the floor in front of him.
He looks up at me for the briefest moment, and our eyes connect. Suddenly, we’re smiling at each other, and I swear time slows down. The music becomes drowned out, like a passing siren moving farther and farther away.
Then, all at once, out of nowhere, like drifting into sleep or love, Jack is transformed. He and the band effortlessly transition into their second song together. The stiffness of his posture melts into a slight hunch over the instrument. He closes his eyes, and his face relaxes, the hard angles of his nose and jaw softening.
The music around me comes back in full force, as loud as ever.
Jack’s not an amateur. He’s good.
Within seconds, he’s breathed new life into the rhythm of the bar. My heart picks up a beat watching Jack lose himself in the music. Now they’re playing a double-time version of “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” the notes filling the air. I find myself singing along to the music with a few other people at nearby tables.
When Jack opens his eyes, he looks directly at me again. I’m still singing along to the music, knowing most of the lyrics. Jack shoots me another smile that practically screams,How absolutely wild is this?
And it is. Everything about this night is absolutely wild.
The man up there is not the Jack I met at the print shop or on the rooftop. This one’s more alive, less reserved.
I get out of my seat to dance with an older gentleman who’s swaying to the beat and clapping along. He takes my hand in his and gives me a twirl. I spin out, feeling the fullness of the chords reverberating through me.
Jack leans forward toward the microphone positioned in front of the bass and opens his mouth slightly.
He isn’t…
It’s a hesitation so slight, I almost miss it. Then I hear his voice singing along with my own, his low register booming out of a speaker on the bar. “It wouldn’t be make-believe if you believe in me,” he sings. He’s off-tune, and his voice cracks every other line.
He may be a professional musician, but he is not a professionalsinger. It doesn’t matter. The fact that he’s singing at all is charming as hell and, in all honesty, might be the most enchanting thing I’ve ever been witness to.
Only three minutes have passed, but it might as well have been thirty years. I fully lived each second of that song. Jack looks like he’s about to burst at the seams with excitement. He shakes the pianist’s hand and returns to the table. He leans back in the chair and chugs half his glass of water, smiling at me with a shine in his eyes. “Thank you for that.”
I shake my head at him, my cheeks aching from smiling so much. “And you don’t believe in fate.”
Chapter 7
JACK
