Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(6)
This singer—whoever he was—sent my body into a tailspin. He swept his thick, wavy blond hair to one side of his angular jawline, revealing a face so handsome it belonged inside the pages of a magazine—a face teenage Maggie would have torn out of YM and taped over her bed. It wasn’t just his beauty that leveled me, it was the way his entire body stirred with the song: music meant something to him, which meant everything to me. He moved in slow motion as sweat poured down his neck and onto his tightening veins, his raspy voice turning Dolores O’Riordan’s mezzo-soprano voice into something both violent and gorgeous. The live backup band was at his mercy—their eyes just as wide as mine.
“So, so, so fucked,” I said, open-mouthed.
He finished the song to a chorus of applause and effortlessly jumped off the stage with a one-sided grin. I watched him wrap one arm around his friend, a cheering young woman. I didn’t know which was worse: the thought of him belonging to someone else, or the thought that he could belong to me. He laughed into a drink, going on with his normal life as if he hadn’t just brought a complete stranger to her emotional knees. Instantly, I knew that loving this man could only destroy me.
“You’re next,” Summer interrupted.
She flicked her eyes up to the ceiling and sipped her beer with a straw, refusing to let cheap ale ruin her perfect magenta lips.
“What? I can’t follow him. Are you serious?”
“I called ahead and they slotted you in, birthday girl,” Summer said as she bumped her shoulder against mine. “And don’t be ridiculous. No one can follow you.”
Under normal circumstances, sure. I was the best act you’d see at any karaoke bar, unless Lady Gaga strolled on in. The measuring stick for wowing drunk dive bar patrons in New York City wasn’t set too high. That was then. Before this guy.
“Maggie Vine, get on up here,” the MC said into the mic.
I panicked, eyes darting toward Summer.
“Which song did you choose?” I asked.
Arlene’s Grocery had a list of nearly two hundred songs: classic rock songs. I was an indie folk singer. I did not wear AC/DC well. Summer smiled innocently at the ceiling.
“Fuck me,” I whispered into my beer.
Performing on a stage was an adrenaline rush that I chased, night after night. I longed for the feeling of a hot spotlight on my lashes. I didn’t want to follow this guy, but I could feel my ego thumping as I made my way onstage. I couldn’t resist a live mic.
I darted my eyes down toward the mystery singer. My chest twisted, alarmed to find his playful grin on me. His gaze tightened every muscle in my body. It was not safe to make eye contact with someone this offensively gorgeous. I quickly looked away before his smile could turn me into a puddle.
The MC flipped the songbook pages, displaying the lyrics to “Maggie May” in front of me. I could make Rod Stewart work with my folksy voice. But performing a song that shared my first name was wildly masturbatory.
“I hate you, Summer Groves,” I said into the mic, glaring down at my best friend sandwiched in the crowd. She raised her beer up to me with a sly smile.
The opening guitar riff plucked through the air as I gripped the mic’s shaft. It was still warm from the mystery singer’s touch and damp from his sweat. That alone was a high like no other. I let my dark red lips grace the windscreen, and then I shredded Rod Stewart to pieces. I knew my voice was different. It was soft and dreamy, yet there was always an unsettling yearning behind my tone, as if I was trying to reach the other side of a void—and I was. Gold stars didn’t fall naturally across my chest. My undiscovered talent was drowned out in dingy dive bars, night after night, as cackling groups of people turned their backs to the stage. I supplemented my lack of income as both a solo-act wedding singer and a glorified cater waiter—trying not to spill trays of amuse-bouches inside every exclusive event from Manhattan to Montauk. You could hear it in my voice—the distance between my real life and my dream. And boy, did I want him to hear it.
I let the last verse melt away, and I blinked back the violet spotlight with a wide smile. I could hear Summer yelling too loudly, a high-pitched shriek among civilized cheers. And then I made the mistake of glancing down, because without even knowing him, I cared too greatly about how he saw me. My throat tightened upon his hardened eyes. He was staring at me like he wanted to take me home and keep me up all night.
“You stole my soul, and that’s a pain I could do without.”
I should have listened to Rod’s words. I should have just hopped off the stage and made my way back to Summer. Instead, the song came to a close, and I jumped offstage, landing right in front of his body. The post-show adrenaline had made me braver than I had any right to be.
His eyes were the color of the fucking ocean. Of course they were.
“Hi.” I smiled at him, breathlessly.
“Well, hey there.”
I extended my hand.
“Maggie.”
“Maggie May.” He grinned, taking my hand in his. “Garrett.”
His grip was strong. I made sure mine was stronger.
“I think I’ve seen you play before at the Parkside Lounge,” he said.
I nodded. “I’m there a few times a month.”
“First Tuesday of every month—our band kind of sucks, but our drummer knows the booking agent,” he said, indicating that he also dabbled in this unprofessional life.