“What are you doing here?” we both ask at the same time.
He must have changed since we wrapped up for the day, because now he’s in faded jeans and a drama department T-shirt from our freshman year. It’s clear that I’ve caught him off guard, because for once he looks away faster than I do.
“I was…”
He gestures back, the door to the Milkshake Club swinging shut behind him.
“Were you just in there?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His eyes are back on me again, taking in the sweaty hair and the unitard and the leggings like maybe he just caught me off guard, too. I stand up a little straighter before he lets himself think it. “But don’t worry, I’m leaving.”
“Wait, why?”
He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “What, you want to hang out?” he deadpans.
I stick my tongue out and make a blech noise. “No. It’s just…” The thing is, the Milkshake Club is so much a part of me that I’m pretty sure if something cut me, I’d bleed mint chip ice cream and punk rock beats. Some of my earliest memories are of Heather putting noise-dampening headphones on my ears and my dad hoisting me on his shoulders so I could watch the early sets of up-and-coming New York rock bands. “You didn’t like it?”
“The Milkshake Club?”
It’s weird hearing those words out of Oliver’s mouth, like watching two planes of my existence collide. But I still have to know.
“I— Yeah, I like it,” he says, shrugging. “I mean, I have fun there.”
“But not tonight,” I prompt him.
“Well, I guess not. I mean…” He stops himself, shaking his head like he’s surprised he said that much. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
He looks genuinely puzzled. “What do you care?” he asks. There’s no hostility in it. Just genuine curiosity. And then I feel bad, because I don’t really care about him so much as I care about the club.
I think.
It’s just, in the last few days, we’ve mostly behaved ourselves. Oliver because he wants to use Georgie as a reference and me because I’m desperate to redeem myself in front of Steph, but behaved nonetheless. And it’s hard to spend that much time with someone and not pick up on their little moods and tells.
Like for instance, the way his lips just twisted to one side, the way they always do when he’s weighing whether or not he should say something. Or maybe when he’s just weighing whether or not to say something to me.
“I’m allowed to care. It’s not a crime.”
Oliver sighs. Looks back at the closed door to the club, and then down the street, and then finally back at me. He seems surprised that I’m still standing there, like I should have lost interest by now.
“My brothers…” He starts the sentence reluctantly but finishes it anyway. “They’re in a band.”
My eyes widen. I’m about to say Get out and ask a thousand questions, but by some miracle he doesn’t notice and keeps talking.
“I was trying to see if I could get them a slot to perform. But it’s all booked up for the next few months anyway, and they don’t have enough exposure to even really be considered, so.” He shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to try again later.”
Woof. He may think he’s up against some odds, but they’re probably worse than he thinks. Carly, the woman who books talent for the Milkshake Club, is one tough egg to crack. She likes to scout talent on her own. Her nights are split between the club and roaming all over Manhattan to smaller gigs and open mics to find acts for the eight P.M. set, and most acts for the ten P.M. set are already well-known enough in the city that they’re drawing in their own crowds.
It’s not necessarily a dealbreaker if they’re not, but one thing’s for sure: Carly doesn’t like to be told to book anybody. Carly likes to tell people she’ll book them.
“What’s the band’s name?”
Oliver opens his mouth and then closes it, narrowing his eyes at me. “Nice try.”
Only then does it occur to me that it might be something embarrassing. “Six Seconds of Autumn?”
“Oy,” he says, his shoulders loosening up a bit.
“None Direction?”
That might be a hint of a smile.
“The Tweetles?”
He rolls his eyes, but not in an annoyed way. In this knowing way, like he’s got his own version of an eye roll especially for me. A slight improvement from the scowl especially for me. “I’ve gotta get home,” he says, aiming himself back down the street.
“You want exposure?” I call to his turning back. “I’ve got the biggest mouth in Manhattan!”
He shakes his head at me, the barest of laughs in the words: “Good night, Millie.”
I’d be madder about it, but there’s something gratifying in knowing I got that laugh out of him, so instead I blow him an exaggerated kiss. “See you bright and early.”
After I check in with Heather, I pull out my phone to check in with Teddy by sending a stream of salsa dancer and barfing-face emojis. Both his parents were off tonight, so they decided to get Artichoke Pizza (I’d anticipate leftovers if I wasn’t sure Teddy would eat them on the way home). But before I pull open my texts I see a notification for an email in my inbox from the meetup site Teddy used to find Broadway Bugs.
No—not just an email. An email from Beth herself.
Hey Millie! So glad you and Teddy RSVP’d to our next shindig—can’t wait to see everyone in their Wizard of Oz finery! I was wondering if you have any time in the next week or so if you wanted to grab a muffin and chat? Teddy mentioned you lived nearby!
Cancel the barfing-face emoji. This is shocking enough that I might legit barf. She left her phone number at the end of it, and a bunch of times she’s free tomorrow and the next day, which can only mean one thing, right?
She knows who I am. No—she knows who I am to her.
And just like that, the search narrows itself down from three to one. The summer of Mamma Mia is over, the “mamma” part of the mia fully accounted for.
Teddy picks up on the first ring.
“Why are you physically calling me?” he asks in alarm.
“Because,” I say, only then realizing that I’m so winded from shock that I have to suck in a full second breath. “I think we found my mom.”
CHAPTER NINE
Because I apparently feel like playing fast and loose with both my nerves and my bladder, when Beth meets me the next morning before the internship, I order a Venti iced Americano and then immediately drop three packets of sugar into it.
“What are the odds we’d have the exact same order?” says Beth at the self-serve counter, plopping her drink next to mine and grabbing three sugars of her own.
My heart is pounding somewhere too loud to be my chest. “Must be a West Village thing,” I joke. But it really could just be a genetics thing. I’ve always loved dessert, and Cooper Price thinks apples are too sweet. I had to have come from somewhere.
And maybe Beth’s about to tell me exactly where that was.
Beth finds us a table in the back, positioning us away from the rest of the morning-commute crowd and leaning in just enough that it’s clear that whatever she’s about to say isn’t something she wants broadcast to the rest of the café. I’m so nervous I feel like I’m going to do something stupid, like start drooling, or spill my entire drink. It’s not a feeling I’m used to having anymore.