"They're beautiful," I said.
"He seemed like he knew what he was doing," Luis said, which was Luis's way of giving his approval, which I hadn't known I wanted until I had it.
I carried the vase to the end of the server station where I could see it through most of the dining room and went to work.
The lunch shift moved the way good shifts moved—steadily, with enough to do that the time passed without dragging, not so much that anything went sideways. I took my tables, kept my sections running clean, refilled water without being asked. The usual machinery of it. The familiar rhythm.
But underneath the rhythm, something was different.
I felt it in the way I moved through the dining room. Something looser. Something that had set its weight down somewhere and wasn't carrying it in the same way. I caught myself humming the chorus of the new song between tables—just under my breath, just barely—and stopped myself each time. The third time, I caught myself and thought:why?
Why stop?
I was humming because I had written something good this morning and because there were flowers at the end of the server station with no card and because a man had saiddon't go too faron the way out of my door and meant it. The world had, without asking my permission, started to open up.
I let myself hum.
Priya caught me at the pass-through mid-shift and raised her eyebrows at the flowers and then at me. I said nothing and she said nothing and we understood each other completely.
Marco called from the kitchen: "Whoever sent those, tell him the kitchen says thank you. You've been less annoying today."
"Marco," Luis said, from somewhere.
"It's a compliment," Marco said.
It was, from Marco, the highest possible form of one. I laughed and it came out easy and real.
I was three blocks from The Carolinian on my way home when I stopped on the sidewalk, took the business card out of my apron pocket, and looked at it.
Wren Calloway. Producer. Southern Frequency Podcast.
I'd told myself I'd call today and almost talked myself out of it during a slow moment between tables when my brain had found time to construct the full architecture of what calling might mean.
I stood on the sidewalk in the January cold with the card in my hand.
I thought about Tommy sitting across from me in Proof sayingyou play like someone who's been in school your whole life, just a different school. I thought about Geoff closing his book to listen. I thought about the room at The Piazza going soft when the woman near the window smiled. I thought about Marco's version of a compliment and Luis's version of approval.
I thought about the song I'd written this morning, still warm in my throat.
I dialed before I'd finished deciding to.
It rang three times and went to voicemail.
A woman's voice, warm and professional:You've reached Wren Calloway at Southern Frequency. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
The beep.
I took a breath.
"Hi, this is Rebecca Myers. I'm a singer and guitarist based—" I paused.Basedwas a strong word for someone who moved with the seasons. "I'm currently in Charleston, South Carolina. Luis Soto at The Carolinian passed along your card after I played a lunch set there recently. I'd love to talk if you have time. I can be reached at this number." I paused again, because there was something else I wanted to say and I was going to say it before I decided not to. "I write my own songs. I've been writing since I was fifteen. I've never really—I've never sent them anywhere or done anything formal with them. But I think they might be worth something to somebody, and I'm trying to figure out how to find out." Another pause. "Okay. Thank you. Bye."
I hung up.
I stood on the sidewalk and looked at the card for another moment.
Then I put it back in my pocket and kept walking.
That's the decision to want it out loud, Geoff had said. Just that, simply, like it was obvious.
