Page 58 of Writing Mr. Right

“Like what?”

“My parents always get me tickets to the symphony orchestra for my birthday, and the show is tonight,” I explain. “They’re playing a tribute to Taylor Swift. I usually go with Emily, but I’m sure she won’t mind if I take you instead. She’ll be happy to have a couple of hours to herself in the apartment.” I tap his shoulder. “It can be our first date.”

“The orchestra? Oh, I’d love to go!” Excitement shines inhis eyes, but hesitation cracks the lining of his face. “But we really should…” He bites his lip.

I frown. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Aashiq quickly schools his expression. “Nothing,” he says. He tightens his grip on my waist. “I think it sounds like a lovely first date. Now…” He drops his arms and twists his torso toward the stove, and my arms fall to my sides. He plates the omelets and chicken strips. “Let’s have some breakfast, and then you can work on your outline.”

I accept the plate from him, but I can’t help but replay the concern in his face. It wasn’t there for long, but something about it felt wrong. Still, I let it go, because I have a date tonight.

* * *

Nowadays, it’s not a requirement to dress up for the orchestra. But given that I don’t have many opportunities to put on super fancy dresses, I always go all out. Earlier this year, I found a cute dress while doing a little online retail therapy after a particularly brutal agent rejection, and I knew I had to wear it to the next orchestra I attended. It’s a deep burgundy, with an A-line form and a scoop neck. Buttons line the bust, from the neckline to the spot just above my waist. It has half sleeves that puff at the shoulders, so my arms might be cold, but I fix the problem with a soft white shawl. Plus, the material is velvet, so it’ll keep me warm. The dress falls to my ankles, and I slip on a pair of gold heels. I do two small braids on either side of my head, then curl the rest of my hair gently at the bottom to create small waves—a difficult task when your hair falls to just below your jaw, but I make it work. For my makeup, I apply a shimmery gold against a soft burgundy, followed by a swipe of eyeliner and a couple coats of mascara. I pat a bit of pink onto my mouth, then go over it with a gloss. I finish the ensemble with a pair of gold hoops.

Aashiq wears a white collared shirt, black dress pants, and a suit jacket, accessorized with a tie that matches my dress. Hisloose curls, normally free to be as wild as they wish, are tamed for the evening. He’s fingered some gel into his hair, making the curls tighter and more stylish.

Once we’re ready, we head to the theater. Aashiq’s eyes widen as we walk through the entrance. “Wow,” he breathes.

I can’t help my giggle. White chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, and the way the light reflects the crystals gives them the glow of the first snowfall. Carpeted red-wine-colored stairs lead to a second level, where patterns of arching swirls line the gold rails. Marble covers the walls and makes up the pillars under the second floor. The place is decked out for the holidays, so there’s a decorated Christmas tree in every corner, alternating between traditional green and pure white. Some gold and red baubles have already been plucked by unsupervised children, who play toss with them.

One of my favorite things about the theater is the wide array of people you find here. There’s an elderly couple dressed to the nines; the man wears a proper tuxedo complete with a coattail, while the woman’s white feather boa nicely complements her long silver dress, which shimmers from the reflection of the lights. But there’s also a young couple in jeans and plain shirts. A teenage boy in a puffy parka with red ears and a runny nose barely looks up from his phone as he follows his parents, whose formal wear is almost funny in comparison to the sloppy appearance of their son. In the corner, near one of the white Christmas trees, two little girls with bows in their hair chase each other, their tiny shoes tapping along the floor like a choreographed dance.

I store all these little details in my head. Usually, I only paid enough attention to the world to pluck small pieces of information to use for books. But now it’s like my eyes are wide open, and every tiny thing around me is bright and ripe for the taking.

“I didn’t know you liked to come to the orchestra,” Aashiq comments as we enter the theater to find our seats. My parentsalways splurge for the most expensive tickets, so we’re right at the front where the musicians are set up.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to know,” I say, shuffling down the aisle to our seats in the middle. “After all, you’ve only been out in the world for a short time.”

“I know, I know,” Aashiq says.

We sit down, and I unwrap my shawl from around my shoulders.

“So,” he asks, “what do you enjoy so much about the orchestra, anyway?”

“I just love music,” I explain. “My parents love music, too, so I was always surrounded by it growing up. And then when I started writing, I found it so helpful for inspiration.” I fold my shawl and settle it in my lap. “Music and writing are both art forms that are supposed to evoke emotion, and for me, the emotion that comes from music fuels the part of my brain I need to use to convey my own feelings. I can struggle with a part of my book, but after I hear a song that perfectly captures the vibes of what I’m trying to say, suddenly the words come to me more easily.” I wave my hands in a circle. “Even though I consider myself a fiction writer, I can learn from other modes of art and figure out how to apply them to my own.” I gesture to the theater around us. “Iespeciallylove live music. Growing up here meant my parents could take me and my siblings to shows all the time, so I came to have a deep appreciation for it. Listening to music live is such a vivid, unique experience. You feel the energy from the musicians and the crowd, and we hype each other up. You feel everything in your body, and it’s like…it’s like a whole conversation.” A sigh exhales lightly from my nose. “It’s magic.”

Aashiq blinks at me a couple of times. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you felt so deeply about it,” he says, awe bleeding through his tone.

I shrug. “I told you, it’s not a big deal you didn’t know.”

“But it feels like it is,” he protests. “If you love music so deeply, and if you come to the orchestra every year, then surely it should have been something I knew.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t know this about me,” I suggest. “Knowing everything about each other would be boring, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that part of the fun of meeting new people?”

He regards me for a long moment, his stare curious. “I suppose there’s merit to that,” he finally allows. “And I do think it’s fun when you do something I don’t expect you to.” He tilts his head to the side. “Hmm.”

“What is it?”

“When I came into the real world, I knew on some level I’d be astounded by how things work, but I don’t think it occurred to me there’d be so much I wouldn’t know. In your head, it’s easy to think of ways to help you navigate your writing. But out here, I have to do more than that. All my responses to you have been related to art, so when I move away from that, I get overwhelmed.” He turns his head to me and a frown contorts his face. “I’m not used to not knowing things. It’s odd.”

I smirk. “It sounds like you’re becoming more human by the day,” I say. “Because not knowing anything is a huge part of the human experience.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not sure I like that,” he admits. “I pride myself on my ability to solve any problem…until I realized I can only solve problems within my own niche. Everything else, I have to work hard for.”

This time, I match his perplexed expression. “What do you mean? This whole time you’ve been with me, it’s like you know how to do everything. You can cook, you can clean, you can even use a photocopy machine…” I pause. “For the most part.”

A sheepish expression crosses his face. “Would you believe me if I told you that first breakfast I made for you took some trial and error? I knew how to use a stove, but I had to search onlinefor the recipes. I actually failed the first time, but you were still unconscious, so you never noticed.” He lifts a shoulder. “As for the cleaning, that was more or less learning on the go.”

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