Unbreak My Heart(58)

She reaches for my iced tea and hands it to me. “Speaking of rounds, take a drink. It’ll make you strong for the final round of the game.”

“Sometimes I think you use me for the useless facts in my head.”

“You don’t have to think it. You know I do.”

“Love you too.”

“Also,” she says, leaning closer, “your eye candy was checking you out as well.”

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. “Lying liar who lies.”

The hostess taps the mic from her spot in front of Mr. Guitar Hero. “And now, for the final question in The Tuesday Night Grouchy Owl Pub Quiz . . .”

Like synchronized swimmers, Roxy and I straighten our shoulders in unison. I grab the pencil. Hold it tight. This isn’t a first-to-the-bell game, but there’s something about being on high alert that feels right. I’m ready.

Questions zip through my brain, answers following instantly as my mind exercises itself. The Beatles were first the Quarrymen; at sixty-three, Jupiter has the most moons; the Pacific is 8,000 meters deep.

“Which Whitney Houston song is an anagram of ‘mention mine to me’?”

What the what?

I turn to Roxy, and we are matching slack-jawed, WTH memes. Admittedly, pop music is my weakest category, but I can handle the basic questions surrounding the genre. This question is a little left of center though. I try my best to cycle through the diva’s tunes. We mouth to each other the big Whitney hits: "I Will Always Love You.” “Greatest Love of All.” “How Will I Know.”

I shake my head, and Roxy furrows her brow.

I stare off at the stage when the guy with the surfer hair catches my gaze and mouths hi, startling me. Is he talking to me? Oh yes, he is, since he follows that hi with four more words.

Holy smokes.

He slipped me the answer.

I’m officially in love.

I grab Roxy’s arm. “‘One Moment in Time,’” I whisper, and I unleash a smile at Guitar Hero. Because we’re one step closer to winning, and that’s one of my favorite things to do on a Tuesday night during my hour-long escape at The Grouchy Owl.

But wait. How does hottie know a Whitney Houston song? Straight men can know Whitney tunes, right?

Of course they can. God, I hope so. He looks seriously straight. He’s staring at me like a man who enjoys boobs stares at a woman who has them.

I sneak another peek. His fingers slide down the guitar as he tunes it. He raises an eyebrow and locks eyes with me, his lips curving up.

My stupid stomach has the audacity to swoop.

Of course, in my stomach’s defense, the loop-de-loop makes complete sense. Not only is he a babe registering easily at 15.5 on the only-goes-to-ten babe-o-meter, but he’s holding a guitar. The way he wields the Stratocaster cranks my libido up high.

That might be due to said libido’s sadly solo life these days.

As the hostess collects the answer slips, Roxy nudges my shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

I roll my eyes.

“Oh please. You can do it,” she adds.

“I’m not going to go talk to some random guy onstage at a bar, prepping for his set.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I sputter. “Because it’s dangerous, risky, crazy, and I have a thirteen-year-old at home.”

“Isn’t Kyle out right now? Practice or something?”

“Yes, but I need to pick him up in a few minutes, and that means I should go.”

Roxy pouts. “Don’t go before we find out if we win. And don’t go before you talk to Mr. Steamy McMusic.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You go talk to him.”

“I can’t. He has your eye marks all over him.”

“Good. I own the view.”

I stand, and Roxy joins me to give a quick goodbye hug. “Love ya,” I say.

“Thanks for coming out to play. It’s nice to see your face every now and then.”

I head to the door, nearly bumping into the curly-haired Big Ike on the way.

“Hey, Mack. Is Kyle ready for Pine Notes?” she barks.

“Starts tomorrow. He’s so excited.” As the keeper of all musical knowledge in the tristate area, she recommended the music camp my son’s attending starting tomorrow, and it sounds like a fantastic opportunity.

“The teachers there are great. He’s going to love it.”

I give a thumbs-up, wave goodbye, and don’t even bother to check and see if Mr. Guitar Hero is watching me, though I’m tempted.

I head down the street then turn the corner, hoofing it a few blocks to the community center where Kyle practices with some of the other kids his age. He’s formed an ad hoc sort of string quartet with some friends in the city who like the same music as he does. Shortly after I arrive, the kids stream outside, and I smile at my little blond-haired, brown-eyed guy.

Okay, he’s not so little anymore.

But he’s still my guy.

“Hey, monster,” I say. “How was practice?”

He slings his violin case over his shoulder. “It was good. We worked on a new Brahms concerto that’s totally dope.”

“That’s the only way Brahms concertos should be.”

During the short walk home, Kyle regales me with details of the music. His voice rises as he grows more excited, then he smiles at me, the metal in his braces occupying most of the real estate on his teeth.