“That’s okay. It’ll dry.”
He set the towel on the counter with a grin and leaned against the honed marble. I held my guitar tighter, lifting my hand in the air. Yeah. I fucking waved, like a toddler greeting a stranger in the supermarket. He slowly lifted his hand up in a little wave, and then his hand went to his soaked chest as he steadied his eyes on me. The last time we saw each other, he did All The Things to my body, but I wasn’t sure if it was as intense for him. There was no question now. I didn’t even need to ask him why he looked like he was about to reach forward and tug me against his wet chest. It was the same reason I wanted to let him. Teenage Maggie Vine was standing in front of Teenage Asher Reyes. Had any time passed? Shouldn’t rational people fill in the blanks of adulthood before picking up where they left off? Did the blanks even matter? The acknowledgment of how absolutely surreal and fucked-up it was that we were both able to do this to each other was a light switch to my soul. I felt my bony legs weakening. Asher Reyes was, as Train would say, back in my atmosphere.
I looked past his angular lines, trying to focus on anything else besides how magnetic he was. The living room was open to the kitchen, with the sun blaring through silk sheers—gorgeous cream beams against white brick. It was a blank canvas, unlike my apartment, which was a chaotic pile of messy patterns. I let my eyes float back to Asher, finding his attention fixed on the Gibson in my hand. He tilted his neck at me, surprised.
“That’s your dad’s guitar.”
All I could do was nod. How did he even remember— No. NO. NOPE. I shook my head and straightened my spine. I would not sob onto his ripped torso, telling him that my dad died two weeks after we broke up. I wanted to. I was dying to see if he still held me the same way. I hugged my guitar tighter to my chest—a reminder that my career was in both our hands. I didn’t come here to press play on a tape that had been paused for eighteen years. I came here for my career. If only he’d stop looking at me like he wanted to press play because I wanted to press play and dear God what would that film look like because I’d watch it every fucking day— No. NO. NOPE.
“You—” I left my mouth open, unsure how to finish the sentence I’d started. He took a step forward and stared at me harder, waiting. “You aren’t allowed to talk until after I sing,” I finished.
“Huh?” he said with a baffled laugh.
“That’s a word,” I said, my eyes darkening.
Asher fought a smile, miming stitching up his mouth and throwing away the key. He nodded to the door in the corner of the loft, which led outside to an expansive wraparound patio.
Thankfully, the outside breeze blew the lust out of my lungs as I folded my hair behind my ears, with wide eyes taking in Asher’s private patio. No one should have this amount of square footage to himself in Manhattan. It was the kind of space that made you think the impossible was possible. It was the romantic’s side of reality, and I loved it instantly. One side housed a gorgeous dining area with twinkle lights, while the other looked like a modern meditation garden atop faux grass—full of colorful poufs, candles, and low couches. Asher kept his mouth shut as he outstretched his palm, pointing to a lanky man standing by the patio’s edge. Asher’s co-producer turned toward us, tucking his phone into his jeans and adjusting his thick wire-frame glasses. He forced a flicker of a quick smile, as if being polite wasn’t his default.
“Maggie,” I said, outstretching my hand.
“Amos.”
Amos shook my hand, then glanced at his watch. I nodded, completely fine with the personal disconnection. I wasn’t here for pleasantries, either. Maggie Vine was here to blow him away.
I sat cross-legged atop an oversized Moroccan pouf, loosening the strings on my guitar until my ears were dancing. I eyed Amos and Asher sitting across from me on a maroon couch, with Asher’s eyes refusing to leave my guitar. Amos flicked lint off his jeans, waiting for me to disappoint him—already bored. I sucked in a deep inhale from my diaphragm and took my eyes off the skeptical producer and set my attention on Asher.
A smile hit Asher’s cheeks, shooting a spark of adrenaline through my bones and sending my song “Up North” out of my whole body. The song started out dark, with lyrics that tasted like metal: A silver lining in a barren atmosphere. Then it dipped into something savory and hopeful—a lemon bar on my tongue, blinding rays of sunshine: Come bring your crown, I’ll wear a gown. I could relate to the main character, Yael. The wild spoke to her soul, and she couldn’t help but be pulled into a scary, gorgeous, scorching, florescent orbit. As the song turned golden, I tore my eyes off Asher to focus on Amos. Amos chewed on the edge of a plastic coffee stirrer, and while I had a hunch that this guy didn’t show his hand for a living, I sang louder and deeper, with eyes like gunmetal, until Amos’s expression finally widened upon my key change at the haunting bridge.
Holding on to you is like wishing upon a star I can’t see But hope’s always the last friend to leave So come keep me warm up north
I know, it’s a reverie
Fold your arm around my shoulder
We could be the real thing
I let the outro hang in the air until there was silence, and I realized Asher’s entire body was leaning forward, his lips twitching with a smile. He was so much like me—horrendous at hiding a beating heart. Unlike Amos, who stood up and nodded at me. I shot up quickly and slung my guitar around my back. My ego rebuilt itself every time I sang in front of an audience, giving me the spine to openly smirk at Amos, a smirk that let him know that I knew he fucking loved me.
Finally, a fleeting grin betrayed Amos’s face. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.
“Awesome,” I said, ever so coolly.
Asher and I walked toward the door in silence, entering the living room. We crossed the room, eyes flickering up at each other, both of us chewing on big smiles. I hesitated, then pressed the elevator button, even though all of me wanted to take a seat on the sunken linen couch and never leave.
Asher stepped forward, amber eyes taking in mine.
“Can I talk now?” he said, grinning.
I lifted my chin and crossed my arms. “I’ll allow it.”
He stared at me like he was about to recite Shakespeare.
“Your name should be in lights.”
I pressed my hand to my reddening cheek with a grin. Funny enough, I rarely suffered from imposter syndrome. When things went well, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be at the exact right time. But things hadn’t gone well in a very long time, and his effusive tone wrapped my beaten ego in a gold-leaf bandage.
“Thank you,” I finally said, daring to match his soft smile.
“Why haven’t you made it?” His tone was casual, as if the answer should be just as simple.
I choked on a laugh.
“Why haven’t I made it…？”
My tongue searched the corners of my gums for the words. There was too much to say, and while he was the guy I historically said everything to, right now, silence was easier. So, I shook my head. Without tearing his eyes off me, Asher stepped forward, catching the now-closing elevator doors. I hadn’t even heard them open. He pressed his back against the elevator door, keeping it ajar. His eyes followed mine, to the delicate tattoo of a crescent moon on the underside of his hard biceps.