I lose myself in the music as her voice soothes the room. She plays a variety of cover songs spanning different genres that aren’t normally my jam, but the way she sings them, I dig them. She plays “The Only Exception,” a Maroon 5 hit—and then a few I don’t recognize. I wonder if they are original.
After downing one Johnnie Walker Black neat, I switch to ice water. I want to be clearheaded since I’m driving home. And with the way my mood was going haywire before I stepped inside, I don’t want to get too wired. Besides, that mousy little brunette’s voice has my senses humming. I might as well be drunk with the way watching her and listening to her is making me feel.
She launches into a slowed-down, acoustic version of Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” dedicating it to the man who wrote the song. Chills run through me.
Something about this whole situation seems off. She is so good. What on Earth is she doing playing in this podunk place?
Not that we don’t have decent, local talent, but this girl is way too good to be playing Thursday night gigs at The Hungry Burger for a single digit quantity of people. I narrow my eyes at her, curiosity nibbling away at me.
I don’t recognize her, and although I’ve been gone for a couple of years, I still have a sixth sense of most everyone in the Blackwell County area. How had I missed a girl like her?
Unfolding a napkin, I draw a map more or less of the United States. Practically smack dab in the middle of the Midwest where I am, I mark an “X,” then stare at it while angel energy voice sings.
For some reason, when she hits the chorus, my skin tingles with possibility. My pulse speeds as I glance along the coasts of my makeshift map. I am running down my own dream.
I’m a free man, and it’s time to start over. So where should I go? The East Coast?
Maybe. Where precisely, though? Florida is too hot for my bones. And anywhere Massachusetts and way north—that’d be too cold. I draw a circle around where I imagine the Carolinas are. Maybe somewhere like Charleston would be the Goldilocks zone for me. Not too hot, not too cold. I’ve heard good things about that area, and at least the weather would be agreeable.
Mulling over the midwestern portion of my map, I think about getting the hell out of Blackwell and where I could end up. Michigan? Nah, too cold in the winter.
Maybe I could go somewhere like Nashville. Excitement rushes through me at the thought. I have a friend from the joint named Andrew who moved there after he was released. I bet he could put me up, no problem. Plus, it is one of the music capitals of the U.S. Which, if this night is any indication, I need more of.
The singer finishes her song.
“Thanks, everyone. Once again, I’m Harmony. Have a good night and see you back here, same time next week,” she says simply and shyly compared with how she was just singing her heart out.
Harmony. What a perfectly appropriate name for someone with such a gifted voice. I guess God knew what he was doing when he named her.
The voices of the people in the bar blend into an indecipherable hum and I turn back to my map.
The bartender puts a tab down in front of me. I lay some cash on the bar and get ready to leave.
But I hesitate, not wanting to leave just quite yet.
What I really want is for Harmony to sing more, but I’m pretty sure it’s near closing time.
I glance around, seeing that she’s cleared her guitar, amp, and mic stand away from the stage. She’s gone. And there is just one other guy left in the bar now, staring into his glass of whisky. He probably wanted her to keep singing too.
I stand, staring at the empty stage. Maybe Harmony was just a figment of my imagination.
Maybe I’d dreamed this whole thing. I wouldn’t put it past me. It’s been a few months since I got out of jail, but things still seem somewhat surreal no matter where I go. Everything on the outside world seems a little like a dream—not quite tangible—and she definitely was too good to be true.
Talent like that on the outskirts of Blackwell? Come on, now.
Swiping my napkin map from the bar, I fold it and put it in my pocket. I’m the last patron to leave this place.
Outside, the stars, the full moon, and the fresh air greet me. There is just one car left in the dirt parking lot, and my bike.
I wheel my gaze around, then I spot her.
Harmony is curled into a ball sitting on top of her amp, her hands on top of her head and her face pressed into her lap. Clutching her phone in her hand above her head, she looks as if she might chuck the thing into the cornfields behind us.
My boots sound on the dusty earth as I come around to approach her from the front.
“Hey,” I say. “Nice show.”
“Thanks,” she says, looking up and offering me a forced smile.
“You okay?”
She struggles to push the frown off of her face.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, but the tone of her voice tells me she means the opposite.
I nod back, glancing off into the distance. “You played damn good up there, I gotta say. Thanks for that.”
She blinks a few times. “Oh, really? Did I? I’m always my own worst critic.”
I smirk. Does she really not understand how amazing of a singer she is? “Yeah. Really.”
“Well, thanks again,” she blushes.
I bring my eyes back to her. She’s looking up at me, her expression softer now. Neither of us says anything as we soak each other in.
“You waiting for a ride?” I ask.
“My stepmom ‘forgot’ to pick me up,” she says, using air quotes. “And my phone is dead. So, I don’t even know what I’m waiting on. I have no way of getting home.”
I nod slowly, tipping my chin in the direction of my motorcycle. Her gaze follows my line of sight.
“Have you ever ridden on the back of one of those?”
Her eyes go wide as she looks at the bike, and then at me.
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Really? Never?”
“Never.”
“Well. Do you want to go for a ride?”
She hesitates.
“I don’t know how to ride one of those,” she says dismissively.
“It’s not hard. Not for you. All you have to do is just hang on.”
“My stepmom told me I should never take a ride from a stranger.”
“That’s interesting advice coming from someone who forgot to pick up her daughter. Does she have any other parenting tips?”
She sighs. “Well, it’s my own personal policy, too. Not to be rude, but I don’t know you.”
“Absolutely. You don’t know me. That’s a good policy to have, not to take rides from strangers. I’m pretty sure my mom also taught me that when I was five.” I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face. “I could be dangerous.”
“You’re agreeing with me? I shouldn’t take a ride from you?”
“Well, it’s good to be cautious. You don’t even know my name. I could be the next Ted Bundy for all you know.”
Her eyes go wide, and then she laughs. “Okay. Well, the next Ted Bundy wouldn’t say that.”
“Or…maybe he would.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Double reverse psychology.”
“Okay, stop.” She stands up, laughing. She playfully pushes me. “You’re creeping me out.”