Page 22 of Reverb

That was actually amusing, and I almost laughed. Instead, I took a sip of my wine, which was expensive and delicious. “On our second tour,” I said, “I got so drunk, and so hungover, that I puked every few hours. We played White Plains, New York, and I kept a bucket just offstage. I puked before we went on, puked after every other song, puked again when we finished. The only toilet backstage didn’t work, so we couldn’t empty the bucket. The stage manager was furious and made us take the bucket with us. He charged us ten dollars because we were taking the venue’s property.” I looked at her shocked face, her parted lips. “So, you see, I don’t judge people. You married a guy who could give you security. You ever puke in a bucket, then pay ten dollars to drive off with it?”

“No,” Angie said faintly.

“Okay, then. Can we move on?”

She took a deep sip of wine. “Are all musicians like you?”

“No one is like me,” I said. “But musicians are all dirtbags. You should have nothing to do with us.”

“I don’t believe you. Part of this—” she waved a hand up and down in my direction— “has to be an act.”

“You think I read Dostoevsky in my spare time? I don’t. I work out, I jerk off, and I play guitar. That’s my life. It isn’t very interesting. Frankly, I’d rather hear you talk.”

Angie looked thoughtful again. I wasn’t sure why I’d told her that story. Maybe I was trying to scare her off. It hadn’t worked. Sienna was the only other woman who had seen through my type of crazy. At least for a while.

“My life isn’t all that interesting, either,” Angie said. “I married Charlie when I was twenty, got pregnant, and quit modeling. I raised our daughter, Jess. I was a wife and mom for a long time. I started agenting part-time when Jess was twelve. She’s twenty-two now, and she’s in Lyon, France, in cooking school there. She’s going to be a chef.”

I sipped my wine. Lyon was nice; I’d been there a few times. Good food. But I wasn’t going to interrupt. I always liked it best when other people talked.

“Charlie got cancer,” Angie continued, dropping her gaze and running a fingertip along the edge of her folded cloth napkin. “It was quick, seven months. He was only fifty-five. There wasn’t much they could do. He died a year ago.”

I was supposed to say the polite thing here, make the sad noises. But I could see real grief in the angle of her face, the line of her shoulders. She was carrying this. She was doing a good job of it, but she was carrying it all the same.

“I get it,” I said. “I’ve lost people.”

Angie raised her eyes, and our gazes locked. Even though she was beautiful, there was nothing sexy about that look between us. Nothing at all.

“I think that’s the truth,” she said softly.

And it was right there. The words, the sentences. I could just tell her.

I wasn’t going to tell her.

But I understood Angie in that moment. And, finally, I understood what this evening was all about, even if she didn’t realize it herself.

“We shouldn’t date,” I said to her.

She blinked in confusion. “We shouldn’t?”

“No. Want to know why?”

She was slowly regaining her cool composure. “I’m not sure I need it spelled out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. You need reassurance that you’re a smokeshow? Angie, you’re a smokeshow. Okay?”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” There was a little fire in that sentence, which was good. Angie needed some fire.

“Okay, fine. You’re not only bangin’, you’re smart and successful and probably a great mother. Whatever. And it isn’t that I don’t want to fuck you, because it would probably be hot. That part’s basic science.” Her cheeks flushed, but before she could speak, I continued. “First, I’m your client. I’m fine with breaking rules, but my band would be furious, and I don’t disrespect my band. Second, we wouldn’t last, so the breakup would be awkward. Or were you looking for guy like me as husband number two?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Are you done?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. But mostly, we shouldn’t date because that isn’t what you’re looking for. Your husband died and your kid moved out. Then your dad died. It happened all at once. You got no one to talk to right now, is all. You wanna talk? Then talk.”

Shit, my grammar was slipping. She didn’t seem to notice, though. She looked at me for a long moment, like she was stunned. Then she blinked a few times. I had a brief flash of panic that she’d start crying in this restaurant, which I was not okay with. But she got it under control. Angie had some guts.

“I suppose I do want someone to talk to,” she said. “I didn’t think of it that way. It’s been a lot. My old friends dropped away after Charlie died, and they weren’t very good friends, anyway. I went to a grief counselor, but no one understands how I feel. Not until I met you and your band. Not until I listened to your music. Some of those songs—my god, the honesty. The pain. You just get it.”

I nodded. Of course we fucking got it. You learned a few things early when life threw you in the trash. Writing and playing music was what got us through.

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