“Listen. You play me a song, and I’ll do anything you want in return,” she says, striking me a deal I can’t refuse. There’s something devious in her cool tone, and I like this side of her. She looks up at me from beneath long black lashes, with those big doe eyes, and I can’t resist her.
I quickly go inside to grab my guitar, ignoring Ruby—my sister—who knows I’m up here with a girl. She’s here hanging out after having dinner with my parents and her fiancé, teasing me as I run back out the door.
Ruby and I have never been super close, our six-year age gap being the main reason, but we’ve always been the type of brother and sister who banter back and forth and have fun while doing so. She’s the golden child, following in my mother’s footsteps, poised to be the next committee head of multiple Chicago organizations. I’m the black sheep of the family. I don’t fit in with them, but I don’t think I want to either.
I get back up to the rooftop and smile at Ava, who waits for me patiently, the warm glow of the string lights accentuating her own smile.
I already know what I’ll have Ava do in return for this. And I can’t wait.
Track Four: Kiss Me
by Sixpence None the Richer
AVA
The way he makes love to the strings of his guitar, using only his fingers, is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I watch as he strums them, his fingers dancing to a memorized tune. It’s mellow and warm and one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard.
He doesn’t look at me while he plays and he doesn’t sing either. Instead, he hums. I can’t help but get lost in it, swaying back and forth. I want to get up and dance, but I don’t. It might be too much. I resort to closing my eyes, allowing his music to transform me in every good possible way. I allow myself to be swept up this moment, in his passion that mixes with the tired city noise around us.
I don’t know how much time passes—maybe three minutes, maybe twenty—but if there is one thing I know, it’s that I could listen to his sound forever.
The moment he puts down the guitar, a mischievous yet shy smile spreads across his face. I can barely see him now, with the sun completely gone and only buildings taller than this one helping to light us up. I start to tell him how much I loved his performance, how beautiful it was, but he’s quick to change the subject.
“My turn, Ava.”
“Oh, God,” I say. “This already sounds like trouble.”
“Kiss me,” he says. His infectious smile grows even wider, stretching across his face.
I notice a tiny chip in one of his teeth. So, he isn’t perfect. But the slight imperfection adds character to his beautiful smile. One tiny, simple flaw.
“Kiss me,” he repeats, pulling me from my thoughts.
And that’s exactly what I do. Right there, on a wooden bench on the top of Chicago, sitting on a plaid blanket he must have brought up here before I arrived. I inch toward him, cup his face in my hands, and meet his lips with my own. He’s warm and soft, and tastes like vanilla chapstick. I pull back a tiny bit and he hungrily leans forward, wanting more. He bites my bottom lip softly, just enough to let me know he’s in charge, and I grow warm with want.
We stay like that for longer than I’ll likely remember. Just the two of us, the rooftop, and the stars shimmering above us, intertwined in each other.
My mom and dad singing My Sharona downstairs in the kitchen wakes me up at the beautiful hour of seven AM, and I want to die.
But then, allowing my eyes to flutter open as my mind loses the sleepy glaze, I remember River. I remember the rooftop and that bench and talking with him for hours, and kissing him for just as long. Suddenly, My Sharona doesn’t sound so terrible. It sounds kind of…well, it still sounds terrible, but thoughts of last night help move me along anyway.
I make it downstairs, the smell of bacon grease wafting in the air, and my parents are onto the next old song. My mom’s wearing a cream-colored apron that reads, “This is Actually Takeout” while my dad has on a black raggedy one that says, “I Can’t Cook for Shit”—how fitting.
I watch them for a few minutes before I inch closer. I carefully stay out of their line of sight, not wanting them to know I’m here. I enjoy seeing my parents like this. It feels vulnerable, but in a good way. My dad lightly taps on the bottom of a pot as my mom sways her hips to the sounds of an Eric Clapton song reverberating through the record player’s speakers. My mother’s dark hair is a wild mess on top of her head, and she’s stuck a crochet hook in it to hold it in place. My dad has his black robe on under his apron, and his high tops on his feet. They’re both messy and weird and perfect.
Wonderful Tonight—a song I’ve come to know as my parents’ first dance song at their wedding—starts quietly rumbling through the speaker, and my dad drops his cooking utensils and grabs ahold of my mom by the hips.
I hang back, watching them sway in time to the music, wondering how they’ve managed to find this kind of love. When the song is over and the two have broken apart, my dad starts flipping the crisp pancakes off the griddle.
“Hey, guys,” I say, finally announcing my presence as I walk in—disrupting their morning date, no doubt. I grab a banana and peel back a couple of layers to munch on it.
“Ooh la la, how was your date, kid?” my dad asks, scraping a burnt piece of batter from the griddle.
This dude is too much. “Dad, number one, can you stop with the ‘ooh la la’ thing?” Most teenagers wouldn’t spill about their date to their parents. Hell, I know my best friend Hailee wouldn’t. It just feels natural to me though. “Two…” I smile.
“Oh, honey! It went well!? Tell me all about Randy,” my mom says. She’s grinning excitedly but doesn’t really know anything about it like dad does. She just overheard us talking about it on my way out last night.
“It’s River, Mom,” I correct her, rolling my eyes but not taking offense. “It went well. Dad basically pushed me into calling him, all because he knew a quote from his friend Jim.”
“Jim who?” She looks confused, and my dad and I both laugh; him because he thinks everything is funny, and me because I’m delirious from the lack of sleep.
A week later, I’m standing in Iconic—the music venue and bar below The Vinyl Kitty. It’s alive with the sounds of Blue Label, River’s band. On Wednesday nights, Iconic is an all-ages bar of sorts, serving mocktails and hosting live music for the younger crowd of the Chi-town area.
River seemed nervous when he invited me, shyly asking if I had plans on Wednesday night. It was cute, a change in pace from his confident but quirky demeanor. His nerves then are lost on me now though, because I’ve never seen him more in his element than he is tonight.
My eyes stay laser focused on him. He’s on the left of the stage, next to the band’s blond frontman. The other guys are all my type as well, but none of them matter in comparison. They don’t hold a candle to River. His sun-kissed arms curve and flex, expertly holding his shiny black electric guitar as he strums to an original beat. Tiny circular beads of sweat roll down his temple to his perfect jawline before finally dropping to the stage while he works his guitar—gazing down at it like it’s the only thing that matters. He shakes wild strands of hair from his face as the stage lights hit him, light rays bouncing off his body.