Page 6 of Heart Beats

I hop up on a counter stool and raise my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Shout if you were at the show last night.” I throw my head back and laugh as their roaring damn-near rattles the plate-glass window. “See? I wasn’t lying when I said Toronto is the best.”

More whooping fills the air.

“Now that we’re all here in awesome Hope Harbor, we’re going to show our hostess some love. Buy something and I’ll autograph anything you want. Your clothes, your phone, your hand… whatever you’ve got.”

“What about my dick?” someone calls from the back of the crowd. “Will you autograph that?”

“Only if it’s big enough to fit my full name. I don’t do initials.” The room erupts with laughter, and I can’t resist joining in. “All right, all right,” I say, motioning the volume lower. “I really want us to leave Mya with empty walls and a full cash register today, so anybody who buys at least two things is going to get an autographandan access code for the online party when our next single drops.” I hop off the stool, grab a Sharpie marker from the countertop, and wave the first fan forward.

“Hey, Jagger,” Mya says as I’m signing my first forearm of the afternoon. “You’re all right.”

“Thanks.” I haven’t given a shit about having anyone’s approval in a very long time. Hearing it freely and legitimately given feels good. It’s not the good feeling I had in mind for this trip, but the day’s not over.

* * *

maria

My late-afternoon student is heading for the door when my phone vibrates in my back pocket—again. The phone is always silenced when I’m teaching a lesson, and good thing. It literally hasn’t stopped going off. I’ve basically had a one-cheek butt massage for the last hour.

Messages have been coming at me steadily since the concert last night. I don’t understand howmyappearance onstage at a Jagger Marsh show is a big deal for anyone else, but apparently it is. My five minutes of fame is Hope Harbor’s five minutes, I guess. As soon as one person saw the clip online, every person I’ve known since birth seemed to know about it. They all want the scoop on what happenedafterthe concert. I haven’t answered most of the messages. Anything people imagine will be infinitely more exciting than the truth—I ran away.

I wasn’t being coy when I told Jagger I’m just a boring, small-town girl. Nor was I cutting myself up with the description. I’m happy here, just the way I am.

Now that I’ve had time to process everything that happened last night, I’m relieved nothing happened after the show. Even if I’d managednotto be a socially awkward dork a second time, even if I’d had the chance to bang a rock star—as my sister so eloquently put it—I’d still be a quiet, single woman happily teaching piano lessons on Saturday. I’d just have a sexy memory to call up when I need some solo, nighttime inspiration.

Jagger definitely provides that, regardless of the lack of rock-star banging. Some people don’t like all his tattoos and piercings, but I love them. He’s lean, handsome, and just all-around insanely hot.

He’s also incredibly charming. And when he took my hand… That simple touch felt like a detonator to a string of fireworks inside me. It wasn’t a simple fangirl reaction, there was definitely a connection. I was sure he felt it, too. I saw it in his eyes.

Then I showed him my “I don’t interact with people much” side backstage. It was as if there was a beautiful balloon between us, and I poked a hole in it. I could almost see our fleeting moment of magical, impossible familiarity lose its buoyancy as the balloon deflated to become a scrap of garbage.

Mya thinks I imagined the fizzling-out part. That I believed I’d turned him off, so I had a reason to run away from excitement, back into my comfort zone.

I’m not saying Mya’s right, but she might not be wrong.

Regardless, it’s over. History. An interesting moment in time, nothing more.

I stand in the doorway, watching the thirteen-year-old girl who can’t escape her parent-mandated piano lesson fast enough. I wave at her mother in the parked car, then close the front door and pull out my phone to tend to today’s onslaught of nosiness. This much attention is definitely not in my comfort zone.

My notifications screen is an endless scroll I’m not prepared to tackle. Even the texting app has a dozen unread entries. Aside from Mya and a couple of casual friends whose names are in my contacts, I don’t recognize the numbers, meaning I haven’t heard from those people before. My phone number is publicly available on my music-lesson website, but I doubt any of today’s texts are from people looking for music instruction.

I tap Mya’s message, my bottom lip dropping as I scroll through her multiple messages.

MYA:

MYA:

MYA:

MYA:

MYA:

MYA:

MYA: Girl! Get your butt down here!

MYA: Seriously! He keeps asking about you. A freaking rock star is asking for YOU. Get. Your. Butt. Down. Here.

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