“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.
He smiled, admiring my eyes and my lips and my shoulders.
“Well, that’s good to know,” I said.
I smiled coolly and inhaled sharply, as if breathing him in for one more second would be akin to sitting with tear gas for too long. I knew what would have happened if I had stayed. I wasn’t yet ready to be ruined by this man, so I walked away without looking back.
4
THIRTY-FIVE
SUMMER STARED ME DOWN, AS my eyes locked on the chandelier above me in her closet. Garrett and I had been inseparable since our early twenties, and the dissolution of our complicated relationship was a fault I’d tried to remedy six weeks ago. I thought our conversation had gone well. I assumed we’d be back to being Garrett and Maggie—or maybe something more—after we hugged goodbye in the coffee shop, his chiseled jawline brushing my cheek; his musky vanilla scent filling my lungs with a chaos of lust and regret. We went our separate ways with smiles—mine was genuine, his turned to agony.
A week after we’d sat side by side, I texted him a simple hey—a casual, unassuming, can’t hurt a fly, lowercase “hey.” Three dots immediately followed. My heart fluttered, and then, the dots disappeared. I had spent the last several weeks masochistically going back over our text chain, staring hopelessly at his non-response. After a successful night gig, I’d plop on my bed with tequila and coffee swirling inside me, grab my phone, prepare to text him every thought in my brain, but I was only brave enough to graze the keyboard. The woman who fearlessly sang her heart out in front of one hundred strangers couldn’t even text a dude.
Hey! Did you get MY “hey”？
Did I say too much?
Every unsent text became a new ache in my chest—until the collective weight punched me down to a devastating reality: I poured my heart out to the man who used to light my soul on fire, I told him a horrible truth, and it made him go away.
I let my teary eyes float back to Summer, who shook her head at me.
“Can you two get it over with already?” Summer said, rolling her eyes.
“There’s nothing to get over. We were never under.”
I turned away from Summer so that she couldn’t see my ears and cheeks reddening.
Why do I have to wear my emotions all over my skin?
“Just go make babies with him. No time like the present.”
“Summer, he has a girlfriend.” He did. And she was perfect. Her hair fell across her shoulders like a Garnier Fructis commercial. “You know…I have a better idea. Why don’t I roam the bars, bring a guy home, and let him come inside me? Cheaper than embryo shopping and IVF rounds.”
“Playing Russian roulette with herpes sounds like a cool plan, Maggie.”
“I do enjoy being STI free.…” I mused. “Ugh, I should have just stayed with the Vine Group. I had health insurance, steady pay…if I hadn’t jumped ship, I would be able to afford like half an embryo, probably.”
Summer grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes onto her.
“You were fucking miserable, Maggie. I’m not letting you work for your mom ever again. Plus, you just booked your largest gig in five years. You should be looking forward, not playing a game of What-if.”
Summer Groves was a realist, yet somehow my biggest cheerleader, which made her belief that I could succeed the most important belief in my life—second to me believing in myself. A part of me wished she’d give up on me already, so I could have another reason to give up on myself.
“Back to Garrett. It’s not the worst idea I’ve had. And I shaved my head in solidarity with Britney in 2007, so that’s saying something. He’s financially stable, you totally love him, your babies would be gorgeous, and he’d support you while you got your career back on track.”