“I’d like to see that sometime,” he says, pulling back enough to look me in the eye, but still close enough that I can smell the leather and clove wafting off him. Does he notice the unexpected effect of his proximity?
“Screamo?” I say too loudly, right into the silence between the song’s last note and the thundering applause. “I can’t imagine you’d enjoy it,” I whisper, embarrassed. “I don’t think wailing, angsty teens and squealing guitars are your cup of tea.”
“You might be surprised,” he whispers back, as a trumpet player takes the stage. We watch Aidan count in, and the band eases into the sort of slow, sexy tune that Chet Baker probably played at romantic hole-in-the-wall clubs across Europe. “You should have seen me back when I was your son’s age,” Pridmore continues, smiling in a way that’s almost mischievous.
“What are you trying to tell me, Professor Pridmore?” I ask, feigning a scandalized tone. “Were youperchancea wild child like me?”
“It’s Hugh,” he says, then pauses to take a sip of his wine. “And oh, how I longed to be. My Mohawk days weren’t my best look,” he says, grinning. “But I don’t regret a moment of it. Frankly, the punk community saved me from myself.” He leans back in his chair, and we both watch the bassist pluck gently on the strings of her instrument while grasping tightly to the neck, her eyes closed. “Oddly enough,” he continues, turning to look at me, “it was a bunch of middle-aged punk rockers—not my scholarly parents or my erudite teachers—who set me on the path I’ve followed.”
The bassist ends her solo to gentle applause, just as the trumpet eases into a lovely melody. I want to ask Hugh what he means, but I wait, listening to the music, hoping he’ll say more.
“I suppose it might be anachronistic,” he eventually continues, “but those old-school anarchists made me start asking questions about what it means to belong.” He pauses, seeming to sink into memories. “Hanging out with them also got me arrested a couple of times.”
“Noooo,” I exclaim, trying to imagine a Mohawked Pridmore in handcuffs. The mental image forms more easily than I would have expected.
“Indeed,” he says, his brown eyes twinkling. “Stealing Noam Chomsky from Borders.”
“You stole books?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“Evil corporation and all that,” he replies, which makes us both laugh. Hugh whispers conspiratorially, “But those blokes, and the books I stole with them”—he nudges my arm gently with his own, sending a lovely and unexpected sensation right down to the pit of my stomach—“they gave me purpose, gave my life meaning.”
“It’s funny how our supposed mistakes can set us on exactly the right path, you know?” I suggest. He looks at me, searching, and an intense energy fills the air between us. Over the next few tunes, I tell him more about my life—as much as I can that’s true, without having to restate the movie producer lie—about how getting pregnant with Aidan shifted my course; about how hard it’s been at times, raising Aidan on my own, without the supportof family; about how despite all that, if given the chance, I’d do it exactly the same way again. Wondering if I’ve overshared, I struggle to find a way to lighten things up. “If you think I’m a hot mess now, you should have seen me before that kid came along,” I say, nodding toward Aidan.
“I don’t think you’re a hot mess, Holly,” he says, his voice low.
Smiling through the blush I feel rising to my cheeks, I reply, “Well, thank you, Professor Pridmore.”
“Hugh,” he urges. “Please call me Hugh.”
“Hugh,” I reply, and it feels good to finally say his name aloud.
We sit in silence, close enough that with any subtle movement we’d be touching. But neither of us moves. Instead, we listen together to the trumpet and piano, as their notes intimately intertwine, bringing the song to a gentle close.
When the applause begins, I look over to see Aidan, easing back on his throne, clapping slowly for his bandmates, but gazing directly at me, his expression searching. Aidan and Jay leave the stage to make room for other musicians, and when they arrive beside us, Hugh gushes with genuine warmth about the quality of their playing.
“Have you been to the Monday night jam at the Switchyards Lounge yet?” Aidan asks Hugh. “You’d love it.” He turns to me, his expression eager. “Right, Ma?”
“I can confirm,” I say. “It’s a great jam.”
“You should take him,” Aidan says to me, grinning. Then he looks at Hugh and adds, “Monday’s her night off.”
I feel my palms begin to sweat—both at the implication of Aidan’s words and the fact that Hugh thinks I’m a movie producer, and as far as I know, movie producers don’t have nights off.
“Sadly, I’ve got to travel to London next weekend, and I’ll be there for a couple of weeks. But if you’re available when I return, It’s a date!” Hugh says cheerfully.
It’s a date?Dear sweet Jesus. I think my son just set me up on my first real date in years.
CHAPTER 17Luisa
Holly had to work at the club today, so it’s just Eli and me. And after three excruciating hours in another one of Pridmore’s “language crossing” sessions, I’m not feeling very optimistic. Today, the professor strapped Eli into a mask to measure the nasal airflow in his vowels. If I never again hear the phrasePee-can whai-ne tastes deh-vai-ne, it will be too soon.
Beside me, Eli holds on for dear life, making some kind of strangled cat noise as I hurl my SUV into the inches of space available between a monster truck and some hapless old lady in a Prius. In my defense, there’s only one way to merge onto the connector at the height of Atlanta rush hour: aggressively.
I grip the steering wheel a little harder, annoyed by the infuriatingly slow-moving traffic and unsettled by this stifling silence between us. Unable to do anything about the traffic, I reach for my phone, scanning my playlists—Greatest Opera Arias, Rock en Español Radio, theTropical Bolerosmix I keep on tap for Abuela. I hit play onThis Is Billie Holiday, and the nostalgic notes of “I’ll Be Seeing You” pour into the cabin. At the sound, my shoulders sink lower into my leather seat. I’m exhausted, yet my heart makes room for memories of Holiday’s voice pouring out of Papi’s office on a sunny Sunday afternoon, mixing with the mouthwatering aroma of Mami’s sofrito as she prepared a big family dinner—back when we were all happy. Or at least I thought we were.
The beeping noise of the tire pressure gauge brings me back to the present. A dashboard warning illuminates, but it’s not until Eli asks me to pull over that I register it’s a flat tire.
I veer onto the shoulder and stop. Eli props his elbow over thecenter console to inspect the dashboard. “How many lights do you have on?” he asks, leaning so far into my seat that his shoulder brushes my arm. The hard sensation of his forearm muscle lingering over my skin sends a ripple of warmth flowing through my whole body—I’m too tired to fight it or push it away. “When was the last time you got an oil change?”
