“In a while, Crocodylidae,” Robert calls back, laughing. They sound like little boys who can’t wait to meet up later and play trucks in the dirt.
Ethan gets up and puts his plate in the sink. “So, what do you need to do to get ready for your performance tonight?”
“Tune my guitar,” I say, shrugging. “But not until I get there.” I may as well stay for the gig at this point. Sneak out tomorrow morning instead. Maybe I can busk downtown again before the gig to grab some extra cash. Leave here caught up on sleep and food and money.
Ethan looks disappointed. “No pre-gig ritual? Smudges of sage? Herbal tea and complete silence to channel your muse?” He takes my plate for me.
“My muse?” I laugh. “I just get up and play. When I’m done I have a beer or something. That’s about it.”
“No fanfare?” He pours me more coffee and empties the pot filling up his own cup.
“On a good week, I play three to five gigs and I drive the rest of the time. There’s no room for fanfare.” I could tell him about my dad’s guitar pick. I bet he’d like to hear it. But I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud.
Ethan smacks the table. “I’ll give you fanfare! Come on.” He downs the rest of his coffee. His eyes tear a little. “Bring your guitar.”
“Where are we going?”
“Up, up! You’ll see when we get there!”
* * *
We walk across town. I like the way our footsteps sound. Half a beat apart. It’s sunny and so much warmer than New York. It seems strange to me that people choose to live with winter when they could see the sun in March.
Ethan points out things while we walk. The one perfect cloud in the sky, crocus buds peeking through the damp spring soil, a tails-up penny he flips over so the next person who sees it gets some luck.
We make our way through campus to a big brick building, stopping at a grey metal door. It’s a back entrance. No signs or windows. Ethan pulls keys from his jacket pocket.
“Close your eyes,” he says, grabbing my free hand and squeezing.
And I do it. So stupid, but I do it. I squeeze his hand back.
I hear him unlock the door. He leads me inside. The door closes behind us with a slam that makes my heart jump. He keeps walking. I take baby steps, trying not to stumble over my own feet, not sure what I might bump into. Both my hands are spoken for, guitar in one, Ethan’s cold, dry palm in the other. I open one eye, trying to figure out where we are and what we’re doing. Everything is black. The eggs and buttered toast sit heavy in my stomach. I’m locked in the dark with a man I don’t know.
I open both my eyes. It is darker than the woods behind the motorhome at the new moon. Something’s hanging from the ceiling, brushing my arm as I walk past. Ropes maybe.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I wonder if Ethan can feel my crazy pulse. I will my eyes to adjust faster. They don’t.
Shit. I let my guard down, like an idiot. I know better. I know better. I’ve walked into the exact kind of scene Margo used to warn me about.
Ethan’s grip is tight on my hand. I try to keep my breath calm and plan escape moves in my head. We haven’t turned. The door is straight behind me, a few feet away. My knife is in my bag somewhere, not ready at my hip. If I drop my guitar, I’ll still have to search for the knife. My palm sweats against Ethan’s. Or is his palm sweating too?
He lets go of my hand. “Stay there.”
I inch backward, fumble in my bag with my free hand. I feel my wallet. Flashlight. A tampon. Chapstick. I can’t find my knife.
I hear the patter of Ethan’s feet walking away and tighten my grip on the handle of my guitar case, ready to swing if I need to. It’s probably fine. I try to picture his face. Kind eyes, sweet smile. He’s not going to hang me from the ceiling and hack me to pieces. He’s not. It’s probably fine. But I really don’t know how I’m ever supposed to trust myself.
“Okay,” Ethan says. “Open.”
I hear the click of a switch and I’m surrounded by light so bright that I still can’t see anything.
And then my eyes adjust.
The light makes blue and purple puddles around us. We’re on a stage, behind a curtain. A swooping staircase climbs to nowhere. A chandelier hangs low, near a giant crescent covered in silver glitter. The ropes make sense, at least. I can see the door. I could escape before Ethan could get to me. My heart starts to steady.
“What is all this?” I ask, wiping my palm on my skirt.