Somewhere Only We Know(14)

Yeah, I was a babysitter tonight, but I was kidding myself if I said I felt burdened by it. This girl was totally wacky and quite possibly in an altered state, but still …

She had these moments of sharpness that zeroed in on me in this way that was startling. Like her lightning-quick mansplaining retort. Challenging me. Keeping me on my toes.

As I watched her engrossed by the music, I felt myself being pulled under a familiar rush. I crushed so easily. Charlie always sang the lyrics to this old rap song around me, “I’m not a player, I just crush a lot.”

It was true. I crushed fast and hard. But then it faded away quickly and it was gone before it had even started. I’d never had a real girlfriend before because of how short-lived my crushes were. But what was I supposed to do? Stay in relationships out of some sense of duty? Would that even be fair to the girls? The whole point of love was that you truly felt it, that it was so strong that you had to be with that person, as if drawn by some otherworldly force.

At the moment, there was a strange pull to this girl. A girl who was probably drunk, and this whole interaction was starting to feel questionable.

I nudged her with my shoulder. “Yo, Fern. There are cooler places to go that aren’t full of douchebags.”

Her eyes never left the musicians playing on the small stage tucked into the corner of the bar. “No, let’s stay here for a little while!” she shouted to be heard over the music. The bass player seemed to hear her and glanced up, shooting her a wink. She clasped her hands tighter, balancing on the tips of her toes in delight.

Oh, brother.

In her excitement, Fern had this air about her that I couldn’t quite place …

Oh my God. What if she was dying? I glanced down at her slippers. Were they the hotel slippers or were they like, hospital slippers? Wait. No, I saw her at the hotel. That fancy hotel. She must be rich, or something.

Rich people die, too.

My eyes skimmed over her—starting from her baseball cap down to her slippers. She looked okay?

What was her deal? I got this nagging feeling she was hiding something.

The music stopped and Fern clapped enthusiastically, jumping up and down. Like a little kid. Her excitement was infectious and I found myself grinning when she looked at me. “Ooh, you’re into it now,” she said, teasing me.

I wanted to tease her back but the bass player walked up to us before I could. The band had come offstage, taking a break. Up close, the bass player looked like he was half-Asian, half-white. And full hunk.

“Hi, there. Want to join us for a drink?” he asked, his voice rich with a Southern American accent, all smooth and liquid. Not even looking at me.

Give me a break. I looked at Fern, waiting for her to reject this creep. Her pause lasted forever.





CHAPTER NINE


LUCKY


Jack and the handsome bass player with the long eyelashes and toothpaste-commercial smile were staring at me expectantly.

The music had stirred something in me. Even though I had just finished a fifteen-city tour, I still got excited seeing music performed live. The way musicians came together and fed off of each other’s energy. Taking subtle cues from one another, a language without words.

It reminded me of how I felt when I was an obsessed fan myself. The pure euphoria of going to a concert.

I want to make people feel how this music makes me feel.

That’s what I thought as a twelve-year-old.

I was starting to get sleepy again, more fuzzy-headed than before. I looked at the two guys waiting for me to say or do something.

The night was young.

And I was hungry.





CHAPTER TEN


JACK


Fern’s eyes made a path from the guy’s chiseled face, over the rolled-up sleeves of his black button-up, down to his scuffed black Oxfords. The dude was good-looking, fine. If she wanted to stay here and hang with him, I’d be okay with that.

I think. Damn it. She still seemed wasted and I wasn’t sure if this guy was a dirtbag or what.

I was wondering what to make of this annoying chivalrous instinct, not sure if Fern even wanted it, when she glanced over at me questioningly. Something about that subtle thing, that tiny check-in, got to me.

“Sure, but can my friend Jack join?” she asked the bass player.

The guy barely looked at me. “I guess.” Cool, thanks, bro. Real excited.

He led us over to a group of people sitting on low stools scattered around a coffee table covered with drinks. “Y’all, make some room for…” He looked at Fern.

“Fern. And Jack!” Fern said, patting my shoulder. Hard.

The group of people—a mixed bag of ethnicities, ages, and genders—nodded their heads in greeting. It was the chilly greeting of Hong Kong hipsters.

Fern plopped onto a stool and pulled me down next to her. The bass player sat on the other side of her and motioned for a server to come over.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” he said, his voice all velvety and authoritative. He glanced over at Fern with a lazy smile. “What do you want, darlin’?”

Laying it on thick, there, Rhett Butler.

“A hamburger,” she said primly, folding her hands in her lap.

He chuckled. “What about a drink?”

Oh, please. I tapped my foot, not wanting to make any decisions for her, but another drink seemed like a supremely bad idea. I was itchy to get out of this bar, away from this pretentious snake pit.