Page 112 of A Much Younger Man
Chapter Twenty-Six
At midnight,I rang the doorbell at Cooper’s place.
I’d walked to Cooper and Shawn’s, loose from a couple glasses of wine at home but not at all drunk. What I did feel was giddy, breathless excitement, like the snap of energy you feel when you meet someone’s eyes and that spark of chemistry bursts into flame.
I’d brought a wagon loaded with Rico—in his bird cage—and a wooden step stool so I could sit down while pleading my case. I’d also brought my guitar and a hastily printed Beatles song I could probably play at least serviceably. Halfway there, I realized I could sit on the wagon itself, but I was already committed.
I rang again, and then I knocked. After a few tense minutes, Cooper came to the door in an undershirt and a pair of jeans, followed by Shawn, who wore some kind of flowy wrapper, which he belted in a bit of a huff while standing behind Cooper and glaring at me.
“I won’t ask if you know what time it is.”
“You kinda just did, though.”
“Are you out of your mind?” asked Shawn, who does not own a stage whisper.
“I hope not.” Obviously the question had been rhetorical because Cooper rolled his eyes. “I’m here to see Beck.”
“You can wait until morning.” Cooper started to close the door, but I stopped it with my foot.
“I’m not going home until I see Beck.”
From somewhere behind Shawn, I heard Beck say, “It’s okay. Let him talk.”
“Okay, so…” I had practiced a hundred times soof courseI couldn’t remember what I’d planned to say. “Wait.”
“Why?” Beck stepped forward wearing skinny jeans and a band t-shirt. He looked edible. Callie hugged his side as usual.
“We prepared, er…a statement.” I pointed behind me, and his eyes widened when he saw the wagon. “Well, Rico’s just here to watch. The statement is mine.”
“You brought Rico?”
“Of course I did. He’s family.” I could see he was intrigued. Nobody looked like they were going to slam the door in my face anymore. “Wait. Just wait here.”
“Cooper pulled a phone from his pocket. “You have five minutes, but I swear to God, if someone calls the cops, I’ve never met you before.”
“Pft, good luck with that.” I waved a hand. “Everybody in St. Nacho’s knows me. I’m kind of a big deal here.”
Beck turned a snort into a cough.
I backed away down the path toward the sidewalk where I’d left the wagon. It was pretty smooth except I tripped gracelessly over an ornamental rock and nearly took a header.
“It’s okay.” I smoothed my shirt. “I’m all right.”
When I got to the wagon, I pulled the stool out and set it on the uneven pavement. As I was adjusting it, the absurdity of the entire moment shook me. I turned back to the house and the trio of disapproving men.
“Look, Beck. I brought a—stool sample.”
Beck covered his face with both hands. “I guess that means we’ve come full circle.”
“Guess so, huh?” I moved my guitar into position and sat down. I tried to cross my legs several times, but my knee was really slippery for some reason. Only when I moved to the edge of the stool and braced both feet against the concrete was I able to stay upright.
I gave a sigh of relief.
“Okay. Thank you for listening to what I have to say.” To my right, I noticed a couple other neighbors had their porch lights on now. Two or three people were standing on their lawns, arms folded. “Oh, hey. Hi.”
I waved.
“It’s me. Doc Lindy.” I glanced down at the guitar, and it was honestly as if I didn’t know how it had gotten there. I was very comfortable singing. Adding an instrument had always been like walking on a high-tension wire. “You know, I’m a passable pianist—”
