Harry plays tonight. For days, I’ve been mapping out the evening, minute by minute. I’ll freshen up at my apartment in fifteen minutes flat. When I get to the bar, I’ll drink a gin and tonic to loosen up and sip water the rest of the night so that I’m not in absolute shambles for work tomorrow. I’ll try to re-create the eyeliner I once (and only once) totally nailed. I painted my toes midnight blue and bought a toe ring at the Walgreens on my way to work. I’ll wear sneakers to the concert, of course—but who knows where the night could take us?
Martha still hasn’t texted me back. “See you at 8:15?!” I stare at my phone, impatient for her reply.
My script waits at the copier, neatly collated and warm to the touch. I swing by the bathroom for a pit stop before taking my seat in the control room. I put on my headset and stare at the digital clock as the red numbers count down to the start of the show.
Sixty seconds. What happens if Harry wants to kiss me? Am I capable of being a cheater? Thirty seconds. But what if a kiss is all I need to decide whether to stay with Trip? What if I could finally know for sure how I feel? Ten seconds. What if I already am a cheater because my heart isn’t where it should be? “Going live in five, four, three . . .”
We air the news without a hitch. Dan the Weatherman recaps his predictions for the weekend. No rain. Forget the umbrellas. Remember the sunscreen. The anchors wave goodbye. The credits roll. Badda bing, badda boom. I’m outta here.
The second I enter my apartment, I turn on the faucet to get warm water running. I eat a spoonful of peanut butter, wash my face, reapply deodorant. I pull on my just-washed dusty-red corduroys and a soft black T-shirt, put on the toe ring, lace my sneakers.
My phone chirps. It’s Trip. I decline the call.
It chirps again. This time, it’s Martha texting back, finally. “10–4.”
It’s already 7:50. Time for the pièce de résistance: cat eyes. I pump the tube and swipe the liner over my right lid. Nailed it. I try again on the left. Damn. After a few more attempts and six Q-tips, I am pretty close to having the look I want: nonchalant, don’t-give-a-damn, what-the-hell, take-me-or-leave-me sexy.
Before leaving, I place my engagement ring in my medicine cabinet, behind an old tube of Retin-A. It could fall off at the concert, right? Better safe here.
At Dudley’s, the bar closest to the Music Farm, Martha waits for me. She sits at the lacquered bar, poking at a green olive in her martini glass with a teensy straw. She’s wearing lipstick. It’s a burgundy-wine shade. “That’s a new look,” I say.
“I do it all the time,” she says.
Never, in all our years together, has she worn lipstick.
The bartender slaps a cocktail napkin in front of me before I have the chance to speak. His bicep is covered by tattoos, mostly of cartoonish monsters with goofy, bulging eyeballs. “What’ll it be?”
I consider a martini but don’t want olive breath. I stick with the plan. Isn’t that what successful generals of invading armies do? “I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.” Martha lifts a freshly painted fingernail to signal she’s ready for a second. “And another martini for her.” I pull out my credit card to start a tab and glance at my ticket to double-check the start time of the show.
“You bought a ticket?” Martha asks.
“Online. I printed it out,” I say. “What now?”
“Nothing . . .”
“You can’t just say that, Martha. What?”
“You know what.” Martha plays with her straw against her teeth. She should bleach them.
“No, I don’t.”
“Just be careful. He plays in a band, Simons. I know you and your little fairy-tale princess romances. I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, but I can feel my flushed cheeks betray me. “And what does that have to do with my ticket, anyway?”
“They’re not a big band, Simian. They won’t sell out or anything, that’s all.”
“I like this kind of music. I love music . . .”
“Simons, you couldn’t name one band that doesn’t get radio play.” She eats her olive and licks the juice from her fingers.
* * *
A dozen people loiter near the entrance of the Music Farm, nearly all of them sucking on cigarettes with laser-like focus. The crowd is mostly college-age. The bouncer checks IDs with a flashlight. He draws black X’s on the hands of the underage girls ahead of us.
Martha’s right: the concert won’t sell out. There aren’t even eighty people here. Neon lights flash and swirl overhead; a large disco ball spins and throws shimmery squares of light all around us. We find a spot near the bar. Martha orders a Budweiser. Sticking with the plan, I ask for a water.
Harry appears onstage, walking toward his drums. Before he sits on the circular seat in the middle of his drum set, he pulls two drumsticks from his back pocket. He presses rhythmically on a foot pedal, creating a steady, tribal beat that awakens the room.
“Hello. Hello.” A velvety voice booms. The lead singer of his band, Stone’s Throw, cups a microphone in his hands.
A few girls in the front row cheer and lift their beers. “We love you, Jason!” one screams. Jason plucks out a few bars from “The Star-Spangled Banner” on his cherry-red guitar. The girls in the front hoot some more. Jason turns back to look at his bandmates. “Y’all ready?”
I recognize the third member. It’s Harry’s best friend, Randy, from high school—the one who spoke in Harry’s defense when he got caught smoking cigarettes. Randy plays the electric bass. He nods to Harry, who strikes his drumsticks overhead.
A gritty sound pours from the stage and pools into the empty spaces around me. It enters my mouth, my bloodstream. I let it overtake me.
Harry doesn’t bother to look up for most of their set. He wears a Braves baseball cap pulled low; it hides his eyes. His lower lip glistens in the passing flashes of light. His arms and legs seem to move independently of each other. I’d never studied the movements of a drummer before, and I’m transfixed. I could watch him for days. In what feels like minutes, their set is over.
“Thank you!” Jason waves and lifts his guitar. The crowd has swelled now to several hundred who have come to see the headliner.
Martha heads toward the wooden staircase alongside the concert pit. It’s cordoned off. She removes the rope and sails confidently up the stairs. I follow closely behind, nervous that a bouncer will bark at us. No one says anything, though. At the top of the stairs, she pushes open a dingy door and enters the green room.
Jason, Randy, and Harry are already seated, fresh beers in hand. Jason and Randy sprawl at either end of a ratty couch. Harry’s against the far wall in a torn leather armchair. Martha takes the only open seat in the room, between Randy and Jason.
A guy with a Music Farm badge enters the room. “Good show, guys.” He lights a cigarette and reaches across a low table to hand one to Martha. She takes it without saying a word and falls back into the couch like she’s watching Jeopardy! reruns in her living room.
Unsure of where to stand, I lean against the wall. I’m exposed. Perhaps unwelcome. I change my strategy. “I’m going to get a beer.”
“We’ve got free beer up here,” Harry offers. He disappears into a storage room and quickly reemerges with a PBR and a metal folding chair. I try to look as disinterested as possible when he hands me a cold one and opens the chair, placing it next to his seat.
The guys discuss the Music Farm’s new sound system. Martha coolly chain-smokes, giving occasional, surprisingly tech-savvy advice on how to control the reverb. She and the guy with the badge exchange thoughts on something about “settling.” I guzzle my beer, hoping to think of something helpful to say.
Thankfully, the thrash of a guitar fills the room. The main act has started. There’s a hole in the wall that gives a profile view of the stage. I walk over to it. The band performs one song, then another, and I sink at the thought that Harry might not join me. Without warning, an arm grazes against mine. I jump.
“Whoa there, didn’t mean to scare you.” He moves in closer, stands behind me. His hot breath tickles my ear. “So, are you going to come to my show and not talk to me?”
I wriggle my empty can. “I’m just here for the free beer.”
“Oh, really?” He traces a finger along the outside of my arm.
This would be a time to win him over with my wit, if I had any. “Yep.”
We spend the next hour watching the show, moving apart only for Harry to fetch more PBRs. Every now and then our bodies touch; each time an electric charge surges through my core. I drink another beer, then another; with each swallow I suppress the voice that says, Simons, what if Trip saw you? You know you still have to go to work tomorrow, right?
Harry runs a finger down my neck, unzipping my inhibitions. He presses his pelvis into my back, reaches his hand around my waist. His hand rises up to my throat, pulling my head back to kiss him. I’m aware of this, but more as an observer than as a participant. I follow the lead of my body, of his body, and we kiss.
I feel young, gorgeous, and brave. I feel daring and sexy. I also feel drunk.
“Thank you, Charleston!” The lead singer waves and the crowd cheers, jerking me back to reality. The floodlights turn on over the stage and in the greenroom. The invisible becomes visible: stains on the carpet, cracks on the walls, dried paint peeling from the ceiling. Everything looks dirty, defiled, and profane. Fuck. I just kissed another man. “Harry, I’ve got to go.”
Harry moves to block my exit, his large shoulders a citadel. “Stay.”
I want to stay, but this is not how I want to start my new life without Trip—as a drunk cheater. I’m not being brave; I’m being a coward. “I have to go. I’ll see you soon?”
“I don’t know.”
Is he teasing? With his eyes shaded by his ball cap, it’s hard to tell. The room starts to spin. A wave of nausea rises from my gut. I swallow hard. “Goodnight.” I spin toward the staircase, gripping the railing on the way down. My head throbs, the pulsing of my temples intensifying with each step. But beneath the beat of pain is a thought that’s clear, pure, and unequivocal: now is the time to end it with Trip.
On King Street, there are no private places to make a call. Around the corner is an empty back alley, quiet, lonely, anonymous. I sit on a small stoop beneath an awning and dial Trip. The phone rings and rings.
Well, shit.
I stand to leave but am tossed back to the steps by crushing nausea. A gripping force seizes my body. I throw up, heave over and over. Soon, mercifully, there is nothing left. When I lift the back of my shaking hand to wipe my sticky face, the name of the store comes into view: Lowcountry Bikes. It’s one of the few remaining independently owned businesses uptown, and the small group of retailers running the joint help lead the charge in converting our dangerous roadways into safer biking routes. Oh my God, I’m such an asshole. I find a couple of dead magnolia leaves to scrape my throw-up off the steps. With my stomach empty but my head still pounding, I stumble home.