Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(13)
Over the last year, steam had started picking up. I was playing at different venues in the city five nights a week. I sold a handful of demos after each show. It was a high like no other when people put cold hard cash into my sweaty palms just so they could hear me sing again. A few months ago, I crushed an open mic night in Murray Hill, and the director watching offered me a Wednesday residency. I was starting to recognize the faces in the crowd, and I realized the same people were coming back to drink cheap beer in an old dark bar just so they could hear me sing, again. My Stevie Nicks cover on YouTube did a crawl from 12 to 5,245 views. I had fans. But it was inside a chilly, bustling TJ’s on a Monday night with no spotlight on me, where I felt the most seen.
I was aware that Garrett had a girlfriend. He probably looked at her the same way he looked at me in front of the checkout counter, and the possibility of witnessing his affection for another woman made me want to meet an untimely death. Equally appalling: Garrett believed I was the most authentic person he’d ever met, and if he stepped into my world, he would see Maggie Vine faking it with someone else—which was exactly what I had been doing for the last two months.
His name was Craig. He was an estate lawyer who I met at a child’s birthday party. Summer said there was no bigger red flag than a forty-year-old man giving his number to Sleeping Beauty at his niece’s birthday party, but that’s what happened. I threw his number away, because nothing about a man who wore his company logo stitched onto his puffy vest which he then wore over a button-down shirt screamed, “I will find your clit!” When I didn’t call Craig, he got my number from his sister and called me. He was wildly charming on the phone—charming enough for me to forget the fact that he purposefully popped his shirt’s collar. Craig was the type of guy you want to introduce to your mom. He adored his family—half of the pictures in his phone were of his niece, Noa. He made more money than he knew what to do with, so he donated to the Frick, the Met, MOMA…yes, he cared about art. He traveled from Tribeca to the worst bar on the Lower East Side just to watch me sing on a rainy Tuesday night. He had a soft speaking voice, cute dimples, and a sparkly smile. I enjoyed his company, and there was absolutely no good reason to stop seeing someone this perfect in person and on paper. He was blue skies. But unfortunately for Craig, every Monday night when I stepped into Trader Joe’s, I was reminded that fireworks existed.
I exhaled as I looked at my newly bronzed, newly twenty-four-year-old face in the mirror. “Mr. Brightside” boomed through the walls, where outside this bathroom, blue skies and fireworks would light up the night, bursting my bubble.
Summer opened the door, grabbed my hand, and tugged me out of the bathroom. We shoved our way past the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, toward the stage room’s bar. I slowed my steps, my insides growing hot as I spotted Garrett by the bar. He leaned one broad shoulder against the brick wall with a beer in his hand, watching the drunk singer onstage butcher the Killers. Garrett went to Trader Joe’s straight from work, so the only casual I was used to seeing Garrett wear was business. Rock and Roll Garrett did everything for me—forest-green Henley, fitted dark jeans, damp tousled hair.
My heart pounded faster as I approached his body. He turned in my direction and momentarily froze, clenching his jaw, swallowing hard, and blinking me back. I glanced down at my floral off-the-shoulder dress, realizing that Garrett hadn’t seen me this dressed up…ever. He inhaled, then melted into a smile, wrapping his arm around my bare shoulder and bringing me in close for a hug. He was freshly showered, and spicy musk and vanilla swirled around me, a scent I had only gotten a hint of, because he rarely held me this close inside a grocery store.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you going to introduce me, or what?” Summer interrupted.
We broke out of the hug, turning toward Summer, who stared at us as if we were a complicated painting. His arm was still loose around me, his fingers grazing my waist.
I’d give anything to stand just like this—his skin pressed against mine—until the sun comes up.
“Summer, Garrett. Garrett, Summer.”
Summer nodded at him, tipping her wine to his beer. “Grocery Garrett.”
“Oh, is that what she calls me?” he asked, giving me the side-eye.
My cheeks grew hot. Now he had confirmation that I talked about him outside our bubble—that he also mattered to me on Tuesday through Sunday.
“What do you call her?” Summer asked, playing the role of the protective parent.
“Maggie May.”
“I think that one’s my fault,” Summer noted.
I hid my mouth behind my empty drink, my cheeks burning.
“Can I get you another?” he asked me, nodding to my beer.
“It’s my birthday, so I’ll allow it.”
I’d allowed him to buy me a lot of things over the last year. He did so slyly, never outright asking, but rather, he would place random food, candy, or drinks inside my shopping bag as we left Trader Joe’s. I would sprint the long three blocks back to my tiny apartment, race up the four flights of stairs, giddy to discover what mystery lay inside—what little piece of Garrett I could bring into my real world. And here we were, in the real world.
“Let me guess. You’re drinking some fruity, made in your mama’s backyard, weird drink disguised as beer?”