“That she doesn’t matter,” I say. Mom nods, and moves her foot so I can get up. There’s a knock on the door from room service, and Mom leaves to deal with it.
I find my clothes and jump in the shower, using every minute of this solitary time to summon the courage to go talk to Melody. The hot water gets the blood pumping to my brain and panic starts to set in.
What if I’m wrong?
It’s easy for my mom and everyone else to tell me how stupid I’m being. They weren’t on our dates. They never looked into her eyes as she told the story of her upbringing, the events that led her to believe what she does. If she turns me away, it’s me—not them—that’s going to have to deal with the heartbreak. Sure, they’ll be there to support me and say the right things, like my other friends after the car accident, but they won’t have to deal with the fallout. The late nights when you do a mental play-by-play of every moment spent together, wondering what you missed that made it all go wrong. They don’t have to avoid certain places because the memories are too painful, or skip songs on a playlist because it opens the wound again.
But at the same time, I know I have to see her again. I could ignore it, convince myself that it wouldn’t have worked out any way, but I know myself. Loose ends are fertile ground for self destructive behavior, and knowing I walked away without even trying will haunt me, casting a shadow over any relationship in the future. If I don’t have the heart to go after her, then I wasn’t worthy of having her to begin with. The fear of rejection is strong, but with a solid playlist and a night out, I’d eventually get over it. But I’ve lived with regret—it’s practically been my roommate for the past six months—and the feeling of knowing you didn’t do everything you could is one that I don’t wish upon anybody.
The water is getting cooler, a reminder that I’ve taken long enough, and I get dressed quickly. Mom asks me if I want a shot for my nerves and I consider it, but politely decline, wanting my mind as clear as possible.
Mom gives me a once over, licking her fingers and pinning down wayward eyebrow hairs.
“Alright,” she says once she’s satisfied, “let’s go find your girl.”
Twenty-Four
Coffee and Condolences
“You’re officially on the list, Little Brother,” Lily says triumphantly, returning to the table from the bathroom. “You’re in the show.”
“Just like that?” I ask, impressed. “How’d you manage that?”
“Even got you the prime time spot at the end of the night. So, don’t ever say I didn’t do anything nice for you.”
“That’s not what I asked, Lily.”
She realizes I’m serious and comes clean, “Alright, I know the guy that runs it. His name is Mark, and he kinda has a thing for me.”
“And?”
“And … I might’ve told him I’d suck his dick if he put you on the performance list tonight. So, no pressure.”
“No pressure? You don’t even like men,” I remind her.
“Yeah, I could see how that might be a problem. Unfortunately, telling him that didn’t seem conducive to what we’re trying to accomplish.” She grabs my cheeks. “So, maybe you should stop worrying about what I’m doing with my mouth, and focus a little bit more on what you’re about to be doing with yours. Ok, Shakespeare?”
Before I can respond, our mother returns from the hostess stand. I think she’s annoyed, judging by her pursed lips. “Can you believe they charged us gratuity … on three people?”
“Really?” Lily replies. “That’s what’s pissing you off? Not the twenty-one dollar Bud Light?”
Mom shoots her a look of disgust.“I can handle New York City prices, but it’s understood that gratuity is only on parties of eight or more,” she complains.
“I guess you’re right,” Lily concedes. “Who are we if we don’t stand by our morals?”
“You just conned someone out of an open mic slot by pretending that you’d give him a blow job,” I remind her.
“I believe I did that to help my little brother find his muse,” Lily says. “But, as always, you’re more concerned with the methods instead of the results.”
“Will you two give it a rest?” Mom practically begs. “We haven’t been back together a whole day and you guys are already at each other’s throats.”
We leave the restaurant and walk through Central Park, passing the spot where Melody and I had our first date. It feels like a million years ago when I think of how our relationship has grown since then. I laugh looking at the bench I hid behind, unsure if I could go through with the date. Or the bike stand, where I thought she was nuts for asking me to ride through the city.
“You guys go on ahead,” I say. “I’m gonna hang out here for awhile, get ready for tonight.”
They exchange glances of uneasiness, probably thinking I’m gonna use it as an opportunity to skip out on the open mic, but I assure them I just need some time to prepare for tonight. We agree to meet at Romancing the Bean and they head off, leaving me on a bench in the company of the squirrels.
I spend some time jotting down notes of things to say tonight. I haven’t written a poem since high school. I lack the coordination to make a beat poem, so I settle on something like a letter. The words come flowing out of me. Narrating the last few months of my life as a spectator helps me appreciate the journey. Panic creeps in and out, fear of humiliating myself, or Melody telling me that the timing isn’t right.
I find solace in the fact that if it goes wrong, I can shave my head and move to Thailand, where the exchange rate will allow me to live comfortably for the rest of my life as a bartender named Paco.
Under normal circumstances, I would enjoy the open mic night at Romancing the Bean. The clientele is more diverse than the morning regulars, with the hurried young professionals being replaced by middle age dreamers looking for fun night out without the stress of going to a bar. Lily is outside smoking when I arrive, and I can tell she’s already had a couple drinks.
“I bet Mom you wouldn’t show up,” she says. “It wouldn’t be the first time I lost out on something I was sure about. How you feeling?”
“Not as nervous as I thought I would be,” I tell her. “Where’s Mom?”
“She had to use the restroom. Don’t worry, I’m making sure to run interference if she goes near your girl. She looks sad by the way, your girl.”
I’m not sure if this bodes well for my chances or not, but I’m happy to know the four bowel movements I had due to butterflies weren’t for nothing. “We should go inside,” I say. My spot was in the next fifteen minutes, assuming it’s running on time.
“Hey,” she says, “before we go in, and I mean this in all sincerity, I’m proud of you. If she turns you down, know that you won’t have to deal with it alone.” I pull my phone out and hold it up. “What are you doing?”
“Say what you just said one more time, but do it real slow,” I tell her. She frowns and gives me the bird. “What? If I told mom you said something that beautiful, she’d never believe me.”