“A beer?”
“Okay, a beer sounds more like it.” I needed the liquid courage. I wasn’t blindfolded anymore.
“We’re gonna get along, Little P, I can tell. We can go to New Belgium and share a flight or two.”
“Okay,” I said.
I left my things in the Honda and hopped into Gavin’s car, where we were immediately greeted by The Smiths on the radio. Gavin knew every word to “This Charming Man,” and he also had a pretty decent singing voice. There’s something about a man who can sing and isn’t too shy to do it in front of a girl he’s just met.
“You sing pretty well.”
“I can’t actually sing that well on my own. It’s like I can only do impressions or something. That’s why our band does a lot of covers. Hey, do you mind if we run by my apartment so I can grab a T-shirt? One that doesn’t have a giant hole in it?”
“That’s fine,” I said, though I was feeling a little uneasy about going to his apartment.
When we got there, I was surprised to find a very clean, two-bedroom upstairs apartment with big windows that looked out onto the street in front. I followed him into the living room as he pointed things out. There was a little dog following us, nipping at my heels. Some kind of terrier.
“That’s Jackie Chan, Mike’s dog. You can pick him up; he’s nice.” I’d always wanted a dog, but my mom wouldn’t allow it in her pristine house. “Mike’s not home so make yourself comfortable. Kitchen’s there, bathroom’s there. This is my room.”
I stood in the doorway and looked in. There were three guitars in the corner: two acoustic and one electric. “You said you’d play that one song for me.”
He was looking in his open closet for a T-shirt. “You already forgot our song?”
I hadn’t, though I had a feeling he had. “ ‘Just Like a Woman,’ ” he said as he glanced over and smirked. “I’ll play it for you soon enough. We need to get those beers first.”
He did remember.
When he tore his T-shirt off, I almost passed out. He was built—thin but defined, and he had random tattoos everywhere.
His jeans were hanging low and I couldn’t take my eyes off his waist. Grabbing a T-shirt off a hanger, he turned and faced me as he pulled it over his head.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, P?”
Oh, just your perfect body, and your jeans hanging off your hips.“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing?”
“Well, actually, I’m wondering what all your tattoos mean?”
“A lot of different things,” he said. He pointed to the wordKimbirdon his chest. “This one was a mistake.”
“Are they all about girls?”
He laughed. “No. Are you kidding? That would be a lot of girls. I feel like you’re getting a bad impression of me.”
“Well, I know nothing about you.”Which begs the question... why am I in his apartment staring at his half-naked body?
“This one is definitely about a girl.” It was the wordCarissain script on the inside of his arm, just below his elbow. “The only girl I’ve ever loved.”
“What happened between you and Carissa?”
“Do you really want to talk about my exes?”
“Well, I’m asking about you.” And yes, I did want to talk about his exes.
Taking my hand and pulling me toward the door, he said, “We can talk about Kimber and Carissa over beers—that’s fine—but you have to tell me everything about you, too.”
A FEW MINUTESlater, we pulled into the parking lot of the New Belgium. “I’ve never been here. Do you think they’ll kick me out for wearing sweats and slippers?”
