“Life is too fucking weird sometimes,” she muttered.
“A-fucking-men.” Kenzie put out his cigarette and flicked the butt into the gutter.
They exchanged wry half-smiles.
“That was probably my mother you met. I’m the family drama. Hope you won’t mind sitting with me.”
“Yeah, the thing is…” He scratched the back of his head. “I’m not sure I’m up for this.”
“Look, whatever she told you about me—”
“She didn’t say anything. I’m just pretty beat. Not sure why I even came out tonight.”
“Considering you did and ended up with a free concert ticket, maybe that’s the universe telling you to see Suzanne Vega.” And me. Desperation curled at the edges of her voice.
He raked the toe of his boot against the sidewalk. “I have always wanted to see her live.”
“It’ll be great, you won’t regret it.” Such a strain to keep her voice on the light side of cajoling, not to veer into pushy.
The line began to move as patrons were let into the club.
After tilting his head side to side, he landed on a decision. “Okay. I guess let’s do this.”
Yes!
“I’m Oona, by the way.” Your future employer and best friend.
“Kenzie.”
The venue accommodated less than two hundred, with a stage in the corner, tiny candle-lit tables, velvet banquettes, and ornate columns. Oona and Kenzie’s table was two feet from the stage.
“Whoa, this is really close.” Kenzie fidgeted in his seat, his face strained.
“I know, isn’t it great?” She tried to evade his dismay. “So are you from New York?”
“No. I came here because…” His eyes swept the room and he chewed on a thumbnail.
“Because…”
“I, uh…” He stood. “I need to step out for a minute. One more cigarette before the show.”
“Do you want me to order you a drink?”
“Gin and tonic, thanks.”
Before she could say anything else, he wove around the tables in a swift path to the exit. It was hard not to follow him.
She’d prepared for a rough night when imagining Madeleine at the concert with her, but Kenzie? Though this was supposedly their first meeting, and Oona hadn’t counted on instant rapport (well, maybe a little), she also hadn’t expected him to be so nervous and haggard-looking. It was hard not to assume the worst. Was it drugs, illness, illegal activity? What else could explain it?
Oona ordered two gin and tonics from a passing cocktail waitress. They were brought over quickly, and as the minutes ticked by, Kenzie’s drink sweated in a pool of its own condensation. Maybe she should try to find him, in case something happened. In case he was hurt.
The lights began to dim. If she was going to look for Kenzie, it was best to leave now. She slid her chair back and—
Someone headed her way, head down, in a gray-and-black jacket. Leopard spots?
They were. Kenzie slid into his seat. Everyone around them applauded as Suzanne Vega took the stage.
Oona leaned over the table. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
“Me neither.” He guzzled his cocktail as if it was a glass of water.
“Are you okay?”
The first song began before he could answer.
Oona shifted her attention from Kenzie to the performance. At least he’d returned.
Onstage, no frills: just a singer and her acoustic guitar. Her voice a buttery alto, her lyrics filled with shades of longing and loneliness, cautionary tales, and subdued desire. Between songs, her anecdotes were clever and self-deprecating, told by the shy girl you wish you’d befriended, grown up into the wise older sister you wish you had.
How sad, that this singer seemed more knowable to Oona than the young man next to her, who hugged his elbows like he was trying to fold in on himself. He applauded with the rest of the audience, but his face was inscrutable; his eyebrows pinched together like he was looking at something faraway and confounding. But he did remain seated, at least for the first dozen songs.
It wasn’t until “In Liverpool” that he began to tremble, closing his eyes as Vega sang of missing something or someone impossible to have. Oona tilted her head back and breathed through her nose, a trick Cyn had taught her to impede threatening tears. Would he reveal the root of his suffering, allow her to try to ease it? Reaching a hand out felt too bold, so she kept her fingers entwined in her lap until the song ended.
At which point, Kenzie stood. “I gotta go,” he said over the applause, and made a hunched-over retreat.
This time she followed him outside.
“Kenzie, what is it?” She walked double time to match his brisk strides. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.” A quick run and she blocked his path, forcing him to a halt. Never mind that she was acting too familiar for a supposed stranger. Ignoring his pain was not an option.
If Kenzie found her boldness off-putting, he didn’t show it. Instead, he fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, lit it with shaking hands. “I would’ve been fine if she didn’t do that song. It always gets to me.” A cloud of smoke gathered between them. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be there anymore. It was all too pretty and hushed and quaint.”
He wasn’t walking away, so that was progress. Surely there was a way to get him to open up. “Would you rather be somewhere loud and ugly?” No sarcasm in her question.
“Only if I can get blind drunk there.”
“Then let’s find you a dive bar.”
A defeated shrug. “Why not.”
Oona navigated them to St. Mark’s Place, glancing at the Japanese restaurant that formerly housed Vamps (Where’s Crosby working these days?) before stepping down into a dusty bar. Low ceilings; walls, floors, and furniture made of wood; a fat orange tabby curled up beside the jukebox. Being a Monday, the place was dead except for a couple of grizzled middle-aged men in flannel shirts watching a muted football game and a cluster of lanky NYU students playing darts. Kenzie selected a quiet corner table beneath a burned-out light.
“Beer okay?” Oona asked.
“If it also comes with a double shot of whiskey. But it’s my round.” He held out a twenty; the stern jut of his chin told her not to argue.
As she waited for the drinks, she kept glancing his way, as if he might take off again, but once he planted his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he didn’t move. The bartender filled the pitcher, and the sour whiff of beer reminded her of her father kissing her good night. A smell she associated with reassurance.
She returned with a pitcher of Bud, two mugs, and a double whiskey, which Kenzie knocked back right away. Something on his middle finger glinted.
“I like your ring.” Oona motioned to the silver band made of two elongated wings.
“Yeah? Someone gave it to me when I was going through a shitty time. Though the last month has been even shittier.” He poured the beer, handed her the first mug, and drained half of his before she even took a sip.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know.”
Sweat beaded on her upper lip. Choosing words was like choosing wires to dismantle a bomb—the right ones could tame the situation; the wrong ones could blow it up. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”