Page 19 of Finding Mr. July

Lamenting notes wash over me when I open the door.

The space is deep and rectangular with a small stage at the far end.

One wall is brick, the others dark gray with brass sconces.

The ductwork above is exposed. Most of the small round tables are occupied, but I find one in the back and pull off my black leather jacket.

After much debating, I’d settled on a white, V-neck wrap blouse and distressed black jeans for tonight.

The jacket gives the look an edge. Of course, I’m also wearing the silver lightning bolt earrings.

A waitress comes by, and I order a glass of house white, too preoccupied with the stage to browse a drink menu.

Jonathan is at the piano, back in black.

He’s joined onstage by a drummer, a bass player, and a guy at the mic with a trumpet in hand and a guitar at his side.

I don’t recognize the tune, but the music envelopes me until it feels like part of my bones.

I look only at Jonathan. I’m too far away to see the expression on his face or the way his hands move across the keys, but I can tell from how he rocks into the instrument that whatever notes he’s playing originate someplace deep within him.

Melancholy low notes beneath hopeful high ones.

More facets of him showing in the reflections of the spinning disco globe above the stage.

On instinct, I pick up my phone, zoom in, and snap a picture.

It’s over too soon. I get forty-five minutes that feel like ten before the musicians leave the stage. I should have gotten here sooner. Next time.

Jonathan spots me halfway through the room. I stand and wait for him, indulging the butterflies in my stomach that flutter in circles at his approach.

“Sneaky,” he says with a smile.

I shrug. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. You’re very good.”

He glances back at the piano. “Thanks. It was my first love before photography.” He gestures toward the door. “Shall we?”

I have a final sip of my wine. “Yeah, let’s.”

My nerve endings jump at his light touch against my back when he guides me outside.

Up until this point, I’ve allowed myself to be excited about this date with the caveat that it will be a platonic one.

Just a fun night out with a colleague to offset the bad taste in my mouth left by the other dates this week.

Now I’m wondering if my body has ulterior motives.

“You look amazing,” he says when we reach the sidewalk. The appreciation in his eyes as he takes in my getup makes heat pool low in my stomach. His gaze snags on my earrings, and I swear his pupils go darker. “Good choice,” he murmurs. “Are you hungry?”

My inhale is shakier than I’d like for it to be. “I could eat.”

He’s scored a table for two at Stoneburner on Ballard Avenue—a place I’ve been to and enjoyed many times before. We get a booth near the bar with a good view of the restaurant, and before long we have drinks in front of us (tequila-free) and food on the way.

“Did you take piano lessons as a kid or are you self-taught?” I ask after a hearty sip on my elderflower cocktail.

“Lessons. Classical at first, but I got bored with that as I got older. It was too neat.”

“So that was improvised?” I indicate the general direction of the blues club.

“Some of it, yeah. I have a pattern and a chord progression to guide me. Playing with a band is symbiotic, a give and take. Sometimes you follow and sometimes you lead. No two gigs are exactly the same. That’s what I love about it.”

I have another sip of my drink, letting it relax me.

“So, is this your MO for dates?” I ask, emboldened by the ambient sound of conversation around us that lets me pretend us being here is normal. “Some music, a compliment or two, a bite to eat? How does Jonathan Summers date?”

He chuckles. “I don’t have an MO I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint. And I’ve already told you I don’t really date anymore. This is an exception.”

“Because of your divorce?”

“Because I’ve been a miserable grouch since I blew up my career.”

I nudge him with my foot under the table. “You admit it, then.”

“Yes.” He puts both palms on the table and leans forward. “I’m a grouch. Sue me.”

And whew do I want to kiss him again when he looks at me like that. With a challenge, with a twinkle in his eye, with his hidden layers visible only to me.

I resist the urge to fan cool air onto my burning skin. “I think you’re coming around,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Slowly, but you’re making progress.”

He smirks. “Thanks.” Considering me over the rim of his glass, he says, “But you—you didn’t let it get to you. Your career transition, I mean. It’s like nothing fazes you.”

He fazes me. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“No.” He states the objection as if he knows something I don’t and then adjusts his position to rest an elbow on the table.

“You left a lucrative career, decided to take this internship to win a job in Glasgow, and once that’s in the bag, I’m sure you’ll”—he points forward with his whole hand—“move on toward the next goal. I’ve never met anyone like that.

I’ll be honest—it’s put my own moping in perspective.

I wish I had your drive. Kind of makes me want to do better. ”

“Really?”

“It’s true.”

I ignore the fact that he seems to think my career change was completely by choice because learning that I inspire him in any way makes it positively sweltering in here.

The waitress brings our food. We’ve decided to share a few things, and I’m about to stuff a slice of honeyed pepperoni pizza into my mouth when the door to the restaurant opens and who walks in but Chris, a gorgeous brunette on his arm.

I haven’t seen him in almost a year, but of course he’s here tonight of all nights. This city is too damn small.

My eyes narrow, and had I been in less sophisticated company, a growl might have spilled out of me. That’s what seeing Chris still does to me—I’m right back at the firm with security holding me back by the sleeves to keep me from throttling him.

“What’s that look?” Jonathan asks, glancing over his shoulder. “You know those people?”

I realize the pizza is still halfway into my mouth, so I bite it off and chew while sinking deeper into my seat.

The seconds it takes for the food to go down helps me regain composure.

I could make up an excuse, but Jonathan is being so genuine tonight that I simply can’t.

“My ex,” I say, moving the small floral table decoration as if that can hide me.

“The disloyal one?”

“Yup.”

Chris and his date sit down next to each other at a table by the windows. They’re huddled together. Handsy. He only has to shift his head right and he’ll see me.

“Hey, look here instead,” Jonathan says, pointing to his eyes. “Take it from me—grudges are bad.”

“I know.”

“So will you tell me why you left, then? You said it wasn’t the partner stuff.”

Chris is whispering something in the brunette’s ear. She’s giggling.

“Holly.” Jonathan’s fingers brush across mine on the table.

“Sorry. Um, yes, I… Oh shit, he’s coming over.”

If this wooden seat would only swallow me whole. I grasp the napkin in my lap and press my back to the backrest while plastering on a smile as Chris approaches. This is where I need to rise above.

“Holly? Hey, I thought it was you.” His teeth are so white that it makes him look like a Ken doll. Did he get veneers?

“Chris.” My cheeks protest the upward motion I’m forcing them to do. “Hi.”

My ex puts his hands on his hips in his signature power pose that I, at one point, somehow, must have found attractive.

“How have you been?” His gaze dips to my cleavage.

“Broken any more priceless works of art lately? Hahaha. No, but seriously, you look great. But is it true you’re an intern? ” He says it like it tastes bad.

Jonathan’s foot touches mine under the table. I breathe in. “This is my colleague, Jonathan Summers,” I say. “Jonathan, this is Chris Dirk.”

“Chris Dork?” Jonathan deadpans.

“Dirk. It’s Dirk, man. Nice to meet you.” He looks back at me. “Colleague, huh? Working dinner on a Saturday? All business and no pleasure. Sounds like my Holly. Hahaha.”

“So funny.” I’m about to go off about how I most certainly am not his and that I’d be more than happy to give his date a heads-up about his ability to bring pleasure into the equation, but beneath the table, Jonathan is tapping gently against the side of my foot, and that stops me.

I don’t want to cause a scene. “Everything is great,” I say instead, smiling sweetly.

“How about yourself? Found any new coworkers to blame your professional inadequacies on now that I’ve moved on?

Or maybe that’s a question for your date. ”

My words must hit their intended mark because Chris’s cocky facade wobbles at the edges.

He runs a hand over his slicked-back hair and licks his lips.

“We’re still on that, then?” He huffs. Shifts his stance.

“Just wanted to be the bigger man and say hello. I’m gonna…

” He hooks a thumb in the direction of his date, backing away with a croaked, “You take care.”

My head is buzzing and not in a good way.

“I know,” I say before Jonathan can comment on younger Holly’s lack of judgment.

Then I finish my drink. Better get this over with.

“So about why I left… I already told you about the partner stuff and the breakup, and I should have known it was a bad move to stay, but landing a job at Heckles and Romer was a dream come true. Or so I thought anyway.”

“Even I know who they are. That’s like—you’ve made it.”

“Right. Except for the Big Bad Wolf–type cases they started to take on toward the end—like the Snake River Pesticide thing where they represented the agrofarm responsible for the leak. I was having qualms about that.”

“Almost poetic that you work for GCL now, then.”