Shy (18 page)

The Neutron Stars are still playing. The place is hopping and jam-packed. I make my way to a table near the left side of the stage where there's an empty chair. I point to the chair, gesturing to ask the other people at the table if I can sit there—there are no empty tables in the joint. This is a good place to sit, even if it's off to the side. I can see the band well, and I can see the tables near the front and the people standing there. Hopefully, I'll be able to spot Wildflower.

The people at the table nod. I sit down and start scanning the audience near the stage.

I don't see her. Maybe she decided to go home early. In that case, she'd be in her dorm room, and I can call or text her, and we can get together and talk. Images from last night come up in my head, of us kissing each other deeply and taking off each other's clothes.

At the thought, I'm on fire again.

I start to get up, but wait, there she is, sitting near the band, practically on stage with them. She's listening with a rapt, happy expression on her face. She looks so relaxed. It hasn't been often that I've seen her looking relaxed. I wonder if she's had something to drink, but I seriously doubt it, as much as she dislikes how her mom acts when she drinks. I stare a hole through Rich Guy Granville, who's probably going to take her away from me.

No. She makes her own choices. Hell, I'm the one who walked out last night.

Again, I wonder if Granville is better for Wildflower than me. He has more in common with her than I do. Look at him, up there, singing and playing complicated piano music on his fancy keyboard. Supposedly, he wrote it. Just like Wildflower writes her own music. To be sure, this guy's chops aren't any better than mine. I can pick like fire on a guitar, mandolin, or banjo, and I write my own music, too. But I can tell that he, like Wildflower, has had classical training, and the two of them could really bond over Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, music like that. I like classical music fine. It's great. But the music I play and write owes a lot more to Bill Monroe than to Ludwig van Beethoven.

It makes me feel not good enough, not cultured enough. Wildflower's mother would certainly agree.

Maybe I can talk with Wildflower when the show is over. I get the feeling they're near the end. Granville holds a hand up and gets everyone's attention, then he says, “We've only rehearsed this song a couple of times, but we've already fallen in love with it. It was written by my friend, Frannie Forsythe, an incredibly talented musician and singer in her own right.” He looks over at Wildflower, locking gazes with her as he says, “It's my hope that one day in the not-too-distant future, she'll join our band.”

My eyes are probably even bigger than Wildflower's on hearing this, and I don't think it's any less of a surprise to her than it is to me, going by her expression. Her mouth rounds in an O, and then a huge smile breaks out all over her face and her eyes dance. Has she ever looked at me like that? Well, not precisely like that, no, but something close in intensity when we almost made love...

I shove the thought away. Damn it, she's choosing another guy, someone who's better for her than I could ever be, and I need to stop thinking about what almost happened last night. But if Ty hadn't come back, then Wildflower and I would have made love, and then we'd be together tonight, instead of me watching her, from the audience, with a band fronted by another guy, a guy she has been with all day, playing with the expensive karaoke machine he got her. Man, life can turn on a dime so quickly, and all because of some random, fucking thing. Damn Ty for coming back home. If it makes me an asshole to say that, then so be it. I'm only saying it to myself.

I wish things could have been different for Wildflower and me.

Granville smiles at the audience, then he says, “Hold on a minute. Before I play the last song, I need to ask Frannie something.”

What?
I wonder.
What?

He moves away from the rest of the band, off to the side, where she's sitting. He whispers in her ear. I prickle at the way she seems to warm and glow with him so close. She grins and flushes a little bit, and then she nods. Granville raises his eyebrows at her, then he says something else. She nods again, and her grin grows even wider. She looks truly like what I call her, a wildflower blossoming under the warmth of the sun.

Have I ever made her blossom like that?

Granville says something else to her, and as I burn with jealousy, he gives her a soft kiss on the cheek that brings on her lovely flush again. Son of a bitch! Then he goes back over to where the band is standing. “Okay, I got her permission.” Wildflower takes a position behind his digital piano. He moves slightly off to the side, holding his mic. What the hell...

“Frannie will be playing for you, too. With all of us joining in, of course. It'll be a team effort, but it's her song, and it's a wonderful one. So enjoy. Hopefully, we'll soon be playing many more of her songs, with her as an integral part of our band. And we'll be the lucky ones.”

Right on stage, he kisses her on the cheek again. I'm seething with jealousy, but I have only myself to blame. My gut churns, and my eyes feel like they're about to bug out of my head. I don't want to look, I don't want to hear, but I can't help but look, I have to know what's going on, and damn it, I have to see Wildflower do this. It's blowing my mind that this is sweet, shy little Wildflower, up there with that band, getting ready to perform.

Granville signals to their rhythm guitarist to start the song, then the drummer joins in. He doesn't make any sign to Wildflower at all. Clearly, he's letting her get comfortable and chime in when she's ready. She stands up there, looking a little bit frightened. I hope she doesn't freeze again in front of all these people the way she did at the coffee house last night. It would break her heart, and it would break my heart for her.

The lead guitarist does some cool stuff with the song, then Granville starts to sing. The band sounds so good, so tight, that for a moment, I forget it isn't their song but Wildflower's.

Then it hits me. I've never heard this song. It must be a newer one.

One she's never played for me.

Jealousy roils me again, but also sadness. Have I really pushed her so far away from me with all my back and forth? I know the back and forth looks bad, but I've only wanted what was best for her, and I haven't been able to decide what that is. I love her, and I support her, and she needs love and support more than anyone I've ever known, with her talent and crippling self-doubt. But she also deserves better than me, especially if I wind up anything like my dad.

Look how good Granville has been for her already.

As if acknowledging my thought, she starts to noodle on the digital piano. By the time Granville sings the chorus, she's playing more confidently, though still not letting herself go and wilding out like I know she can. She really hasn't wilded out on the piano much in front of me—her shyness is that deep—but I've seen glimmerings of it here and there, and I hope she can shine, somehow, tonight.

Even if it means she's Granville's girl and not mine.

When Granville goes into the second verse, Wildflower is playing very well and looking relaxed. Granville is letting her remain low-key, not forcing her into the spotlight, and despite my jealousy of him, I wholeheartedly approve of how he's encouraging her but not pushing her. It's just the right balance. If he pushed too hard, she might fall way back or freeze, leading to something like the other night. After last night, the Wildflower I've always known would probably have not been able to do any performing for a long, long time. But here she is, the very next night after that humiliating experience, actually playing with a band.

Mostly, it's Wildflower's talent and ability making these good things happen. But it sure looks like Granville's encouragement has been a lot more helpful to her than mine ever was.

To my surprise—no, outright shock—while she's up there playing, she starts singing the chorus along with Granville. She's not pumping it out. She's singing softly, and since she doesn't have a mic in front of her—Granville had moved it from its position so he could sing into it while she played—I can barely hear her. But she sounds nice. Not pressured. She's doing something like backup singing. Granville glances over at her, probably as surprised as I am.

I've never heard her sing before. Not like I'm getting to hear very much, but...

She's never sung for me. She has sung for him, and now she's singing for this whole audience, but I've never been able to sufficiently encourage her to sing for me.

Now what's wrong with that?

Me. I'm exactly what's wrong with that.

I don't belong here.

And I don't belong in her life. I guess it's a damn good thing Ty came home last night, preventing us from making love and belonging to each other. I know that if we had made love, I wouldn't have been able to let her go, wouldn't have been able to surrender her to Rich Boy Granville. Fate has arranged things in her favor so she won't be stuck with someone like me to bring her down.

I don't think she's seen me. Her gaze seems to stay slightly above the heads of the audience, looking out to some horizon. I've seen her look like that while playing in her classical recitals. I guess it's a Wildflower thing, since looking directly at people in the audience probably makes her nervous. Since she hasn't seen me, I'll just slip out.

I've seen what I need to see. I don't need to talk to her, though I still want to. But I shouldn't. She's on a new trajectory in life, and I don't want to confuse her, mess things up for her.

Time for me to let her go.

I can't believe I'm up here in front of these people, in this packed place, singing with a band. It's surreal. I feel like I've morphed into another person. Well, almost. I'm not exactly Nikesha Sloane. Not yet in her league. I can't sing loudly because I feel a bit nervous and tight-throated. If I tried to project my voice out, I'd sound quavery and uneven, and then I'd choke. But I'm playing the piano just fine in front of all these people, even if I'm not totally letting myself go, and I'm singing softly and having a good time, no pressure, while the band is doing a great job with my song. What a wonderful day this has been! And I have Granville to thank for it. He is a delightful friend. Perhaps something more than just a friend. There's definitely an attraction there.

On his end, he's made that very clear.

It's there on my end, too, I have to admit.

It's a different attraction than I feel for Jake, but it's there. Granville is warm and comforting and handsome and sexy, and man oh man, he has the bluest eyes I've ever seen. And he's brilliant, mature, steady, and kind, while still being independent-spirited. A delightful combination.

Hey, I might really join this band. They're all so nice. I could work my way up to being able to sing solo in public. Who knows where it could go? Lots of fun, and I could continue my music studies and music major for backup so Mom won't have a heart attack.

I feel mounting enthusiasm about my future instead of compression, repression, depression, and oppression. It feels great. I could get used to this.

Then my heart nearly stops because there's Jake, in the audience. He's looking at Granville with a dark expression. Before he can switch his gaze to me, I look away, feeling oddly guilty. He has tried so hard to get me to sing in front of him. And now, here I am singing, and it has nothing to do with him. At all.

It must hurt.

But it isn't his fault. Not the way he must think. My nervousness about singing in front of him has been all tied up with my strong attraction for him. We've been friends for years, but when we grew up, I discovered that, truly, he makes me melt. He's big, rugged, and handsome in a craggy way, kind of like an Old West sheriff who's been transported into the modern era. He's like a guy who has found himself out of time and out of place, a frontiersman in the modern, digital world. I love his tough, rugged independence, his gruffness, and his passion. He can make my heart skip beats just by looking at me. And then he expects me to just calm down and sing for him when he's making my blood pound and my breath grow short?

I don't look straight at him—I feel too guilty to meet his gaze, though I don't really know why I should feel guilty. It's just how things have worked out. But the situation hurts my heart and I can tell by looking at him that it's hurting his heart, too.

The Neutron Stars and I finish the song, and before the last note has faded, Jake abruptly gets up from the table where he's sitting, doesn't spare me or the band another glance, and leaves the Loving Spoonful.

After the show, while Granville and the rest of the Neutron Stars talk to me about how well I did and how they love my music and would welcome me into their band, I glow with excitement about my future. I see real, concrete possibilities for my growth as a performing musician and singer.

But I can't help but think about Jake.

It's very late, so Granville drives me back to my dorm room. We sit for a few minutes, in silence, outside the front of the building. It's a comfortable silence, not like the silences that sometimes crop up between Jake and me, fraught with unsaid words and a prickly kind of tension that makes my blood burn and my heart ache. This silence, with Granville, is calm, comfortable, accepting.

He takes my hand. “I'd love to see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Give me a call in the morning,” I say.

“I had a great time. And I'm honored that you got up there and played with us. And sang. What a wonderful thing to do. And it seemed like you were having fun, too.”

“I was. Thank you so much for everything. I feel light years better than I felt last night. Last night, I would have thought there was no hope for me, but tonight, I'm giving serious consideration to joining your band.” I glance sideways at him. “You just never know what life will bring.”

“That's the truth.” He leans toward me and cups the back of my head with his hand. Our lips touch. We kiss softly, sweetly, then he slightly increases the pressure on my lips. A warm and melting feeling sweeps through me and I part my lips a little bit and he responds for a moment, kissing me more passionately. Then he draws away. “Frannie, can I ask you something?”