“What an asshole,” I growl.
The microwave dings, but I ignore it, instead going to the fridge to grab a beer. I snap the top open and drink half of it before slamming the can down on the counter.
For the life of me, I can’t get this afternoon out of my head.
I’d excused myself from the meeting once they finally broke for coffee, leaving them to go over the list of possible replacements on their own. Even without eavesdropping in the hallway, I knew they were all lukewarm on the alternatives, no matter how talented they may be. Seth is a douchebag, but his charisma is undisputed, and he and Luis seemed to move in perfect unison when they performed together. We need someone like that for Ramón Martín—whose voice is like rich honey—and given the fluency of his playing, I know that person is Calvin.
I pick up the beer again, finishing it and crumpling the can in my left hand. Returning to the fridge, I grab another, making a mental list of the present circumstances.
1. Ramón starts rehearsing in two weeks.
2. Lisa isn’t even pushing to claim the lead violinist chair; in fact, she offered some names to Robert.
3. Robert brought Calvin in after listening to him play at the station for a mere three minutes. My uncle has a musical ear that goes beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed—and I spent a good part of my childhood in the symphony hall, watching him.
4. Without a doubt, we need Calvin.
How could Brian think I would do something like this?
I close my eyes, wondering at the ball of heat in my chest.
Would I?
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
By midnight I’m back to pacing the apartment.
By one I’m on my phone, frantically researching visa requirements and examples of immigration leniency. There aren’t many.
By two my battery is almost dead. I decide I’m worrying over something completely beyond my control and spend the next hour going through my clothes and getting rid of things I haven’t worn in years.
By three thirty I’m on my bedroom floor, tethered to my phone again, which is itself tethered to the outlet. Scouring theater gossip sites, I look for productions that have lost two major leads at once, hoping I’ll identify a slew of shows that came back bigger and better than ever.
Spoiler alert: I don’t.
By the time the sun starts to brighten the sky, and after zero hours of sleep, I feel a little crazy, but Brian’s suggestion feels less so.
Empty hangers swing on the rod overhead as I stare at my closet ceiling. Exhausted and apparently beyond rational thought, I decide to make another list—this time of the pros and cons of marrying Calvin. This activity could probably be taken more seriously if I weren’t also wearing an old bridesmaid dress and a pair of knockoff Valentino flip-flops from Chinatown last summer.
“Pro: he’s gorgeous.” I sit up, searching a discarded handbag for something to write on. “Let’s start with that.”
The back of an envelope works, and I add the first item to the Pro column.
Con:
I don’t know him.
Con:
This idea is varying shades of illegal.
Oof. That’s a big one. I swiftly move back to the pros.
Pro:
Robert really wants Calvin, even if he’d never admit it.
Pro:
I adore Robert more than life itself.
Pro:
Calvin was made for this role. I know it.
Pro:
Robert has done more for me than any single person. This could be my chance to repay him. When will I ever have this opportunity again?
Pro:
I can’t figure out another way to make this work.
There’s something else inside me, urging me forward. Why on earth does it feel like I nearly want to leap without looking? I look over the list, knowing what’s missing. Even in my head, my voice is a shameful whisper.
Pro:
I sort of really want to do it.
Con:
But would I feel pathetic? Having had a crush on him all this time?
I shouldn’t rely on my own infatuated brain here; I need to bring in reinforcements. I can’t call Robert and I definitely can’t call Jeff. He’d skin me alive for even suggesting it. I won’t even bother to call Lulu, because she already wants me to pole dance down at Private Eyes so that I can give her stories to help her empathize and relate in various auditions. Without even asking, I know I can put her in the Fuck Yeah, Marry Him column.
So I do what I always do in this situation: when I can’t talk to Robert, I call my brother.
Older than me by nineteen months, Davis is a bank teller in Milwaukee by day, and a rugby fanatic by all other hours. Where Robert and Jeff are refinement and culture, Davis is mud and beer and cheese sticks. It would never occur to him to grow a beard to be trendy; he grew one in college, years before the hipsters did, purely because he was lazy.
I give him the courtesy of waiting a couple of hours, so I’m nearly frantic by the time I get him on the line at eight. “Did I wake you up?”
“Holls, most of us don’t start work at three in the afternoon.”
“Okay, good.” I begin pacing my tiny kitchen. “I need your solid advice. Robert brought the busker in yesterday to play—”
“Jack?” Davis asks, and then snaps a bite of something crunchy. I’m assuming less apple-slices-for-breakfast and more Cheeto.
“His name is Calvin.”
“Who is Calvin?”
“The busker.”
“A different busker than Jack?”
“Oh my God, Davis!”
“What?”
I close my eyes, leaning my head back on my couch. Something is lumpy beneath me, and I reach down, finding my vibrator. Nice. Perfect moment to feel the full power of my singlehood. I shove it under the other couch cushion.
“Jack is Calvin,” I explain. “I never knew his name, remember? It turns out it’s Calvin.”
“Oh, got it, got it.” A bag crinkles on the other end of the line. “So where did Robert want him to play?”
I groan. “At the theater. Just listen, okay? I’m getting to all that.” Davis has this way of distractedly carrying on conversations while he watches TV or plays on his phone that makes me want to spend my precious money to fly to Milwaukee and just slap him. “So, Calvin is the busker. We’ve learned that he’s Irish. He went to Juilliard.” I wait—no response to this from Davis, so I continue. “Robert brought him in yesterday to play, and he’s amazing. Everyone wanted him to join the orchestra.”
He mumbles, “Okay,” and then laughs at something on the television.
I really need his full brain on this. Despite claiming to be a rugby brute, Davis is sharp as a blade. So I retaliate with force, using the nickname he despises. “Dave.”
“Ew. Gross, Holland.”
“Turn off The Bachelor. Listen to me.”
“I’m watching last night’s John Oliver.”
“But can you listen? Nasty Brian suggested I marry Calvin so he could join the show when Ramón Martín comes on.”
The sound of the television disappears in the background, and Davis’s voice returns, stronger. “He what?”