Page 15 of Silver Linings

“You don’t get to call me that, not anymore.

” There is a distinct pause of silence that heightens the tension, and I’m glad no one is around to witness me like this.

I pinch my brows between my thumb and forefinger, anxiety flooding my whole body thinking about why she’s calling.

Does she somehow know about the store and wants to chastise me for spending the life insurance money like this?

Better to ask and get off the phone as quickly as possible, minimize the damage. “What do you need? I’m swamped.”

A deep sigh resonates through the other end of the line. “Like I said, I’ll be in New York, and I want to see you. There’s things we should discuss.” Well, that sounds ominous, and therefore, I want nothing to do with it.

“Now’s not a good time. Maybe next visit, though.” I need a get out of jail free card, so I fake greeting a customer to make it seem like I’m busy in the store. “Sorry, I’m by myself, and I just had a group come in. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up before she can protest.

I spend the rest of my shift feeling off kilter.

My mom calling never fails to leave me feeling the same way I did when I was a little girl, when I realized she was never coming back for me.

I know I’m immeasurably lucky because I had Nan, but I don’t think the pain of your mother abandoning you in the wake of your father’s death ever actually leaves you.

The number of birthday candles you blow out with a phantom wish that your mother will walk through the door never leaves you.

The nights you wish you had your mom to talk to after a boy at school broke your heart, before you learned not to let them, will never leave you, as much as I want it to.

As a result, I’ve spent years cultivating my unbothered, confident facade, and all it took was one out of the blue phone call for it to all come crumbling down.

It’s around six in the evening when I make my way home.

I can’t seem to shake the heaviness that makes it feel like there’s an oily residue coating my body, so I put on some nineties British punk music and head home to get ready for karaoke later.

Hopefully, a night out with my friends will help me brush off this afternoon.

I’m nearly to the building when I see Tony standing outside, talking to one of the other neighborhood doormen.

I wave hello to him but make my way inside to the elevator bank to avoid any chit chat, I’m not in the mood.

I just want to get inside, have a glass of wine, and slowly get ready for the fun night out I desperately need.

I’m shuffling through my bag, looking for my keys, when the elevator opens.

I step on only to hit a wall—no, a chest—and look up to find Hendrix stoically staring down at me.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I quip, trying to lighten my mood.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks sort of pained, so I step out of his way to let him off the elevator. He nods at me in thanks and starts to walk away, but I stop him with a hand to his forearm.

“Are you going to come to Spotlight for karaoke tonight?”

He looks down where I’m still holding onto his arm, and his jaw flexes.

“Probably not a good idea. Thanks, though.” He stalks off.

He’s so hot and cold. One minute, he seems to want to be friendly, and then the next, he’s aloof and distant.

I don’t get it, or him. But the picture is loud and clear: he’s not interested in me.

That’s fine. I’ve never felt the need to let my thoughts linger on a man before, and I’ve given Hendrix far too much space in my brain already.

After the day I’ve had, I’m ready to let all the bullshit go and move on.

Putting my bag down on my kitchen counter, I move over to the fridge, pull out a bottle of wine, and pour a healthy glass.

The drink flows down my throat, warming me from the inside and setting my resolve.

To really put everything out of my mind, I need to get back to the old me.

The me of a month ago wouldn’t be giving a grumpy, stoic, admittedly sexy man a second thought.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out the card John gave me earlier when he asked me out. I stare at it, take another sip of my wine, and pick up my phone.

Silver

Wanna come to karaoke tonight?

Silver

This is Silver from the bookstore by the way.

Finance Fuck

As long as I don’t get judged for my song choices.

Silver

No promises.

Kena is smiling a mile wide as he walks off the stage following his fourth Celine Dion performance.

If you’ve never seen Makena Williams receive an encore in a small karaoke bar line up, you haven’t truly lived.

He struts his way over to where we sit, accepting adoration and accolades from every table he passes with a megawatt smile and mini bows, bathing in the praise.

“He seems to be enjoying all the attention.” John leans further into me, neon lights reflecting off the tumbler of scotch he’s holding. He was already waiting outside of Spotlight when we arrived, rapidly talking to someone on the phone about investments and stocks.

I nod my head while taking a sip of my drink. “He’s a blackhole vortex for praise. This is just round one of his nightly performances.”

“You always ease them in with Celine before you dazzle them with Mariah.” Kena plops down between me and his boyfriend, Julien, who was sitting on my other side talking to Holly and her wife, Sera.

In the background, the venue MC calls up the next person to the stage, and they start singing Careless Whisper incredibly off key.

I’m about halfway out of my funk. The second French 75 of the evening definitely has something to do with that. But the fog of the afternoon still feels like it’s looming over my head, waiting to descend again.

John sets his drink down on the table in front of us and turns his body more towards me. Crossing my left thigh over my right, I lean more fully into him and try to forget the first half of my day.

“You look beautiful.” His eyes dart quickly down my body and back up.

Nan always made sure I grew up with a healthy dose of self-love, and while it’s not always been easy—especially during my more formative years—it’s given me a soft sort of confidence that comes naturally to me now.

But with the men I’ve hooked up with in the past, the words have always felt hollow.

Do I believe they find me attractive? Yes, but in the fleeting, surface level way.

It’s never bothered me before—until now.

I can’t parse out what’s changed, so I just take another sip of my cocktail. “Thank you.” I hope he doesn’t notice my uneasiness. “So, what’s your go to karaoke song, Wall Street?”

“Mr. Brightside.” He places his arm on the booth and around my back in a covert but confident gesture.

I grimace into my cocktail. “I’m afraid that’s the most frat boy answer you could have supplied.”

“Hey, don’t judge me. It’s a good song.”

“I remember saying judgment was a very real possibility.”

He holds his hands in a supplicate gesture. “Okay, I concede. What song should I choose?”

“Oh, sweet summer child…you’re going to wish you hadn’t asked me that.” I pat his cheek in mock comfort. “They should be calling us up to the stage any minute.”

“I’m feeling a bit scared now.”

I grin fiendishly, and all my friends behind me, who had apparently been listening to our conversation, speak in unison, “You should be.”

Not a moment later, the MC calls us to the stage, and I lean in to whisper the song selection in their ear.

“You’re not even going to tell me what it is before we start?”

“It’s all a part of the experience, Wall Street. Consider it a hazing ritual of sorts.”

I grab our microphones, hand him his, and drag him out to center stage. The opening notes start to filter through the speakers, but the tv displaying the lyrics for us to follow hasn’t caught up yet, so he still doesn’t know what song I’ve chosen.

“Keep your wits about you. Your part is coming first.” I nod to the screen, where the title page reads “Lay All Your Love on Me” from the life changing 2008 classic, Mamma Mia!

He stumbles at first but catches his footing, and the crowd starts to sing along and cheer.

I stand to his right, dancing coyly and getting into character, while I wait for my part to start.

I’m wearing a cropped fuchsia lamé top with a plunging cowl neckline that leaves my back exposed, and every time the light catches the metallic fabric, it shoots a pink glimmer across the room.

It is the ultimate karaoke top and sinfully sexy.

I turn and give the audience my back right before my part comes in so I can do a dramatic turn into the song.

Kena isn’t the only one with stage presence, thank you very much.

I take a deep breath and whip around right as my opening line starts, locking eyes with the last audience member I expected to see.

Hendrix Wells.

He looks disgustingly good in dark jeans and a fitted white t-shirt topped with a vintage leather bomber jacket. That’s just not fair.

I miss my opening line, and John places a hand on my back to get my attention. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting of the bar, but it looks like Hendrix’s gaze narrows on that minute touch.

“Are you okay?”

Shit.

I don’t answer him with words, but I give him a nod, pasting on a smile and performing like I’m on stage at the Winter Garden Theatre.

I prowl toward John, circling him as I sing into my microphone and trail my hand across his chest. I commit to the role no matter who’s watching, even going as far as to crawl across the stage like Sophie did on the beach in Greece.

By the end of the song, the audience is hollering, and I’m laughing as I climb off the stage with John in tow.

We make our way to the back booth where my friends are.

“I’ll be right back. A friend came in while we were performing.”

“Sure. Do you want another drink?” God, he really is nice.

“That would be great, thanks.”

I walk towards Hendrix, my heart rate picking up speed the closer I get to him.

Someone to his right claps him on the shoulder and I realize he brought a friend with him.

He sees me approaching and tracks my movement the whole way, his intense stare scorching my body as his gaze scores over me from head to toe.

“So you came after all.” I stop in front of him and stare up into his hazel gaze.

“He wanted to come.” He gestures to his friend.

“And who might you be, handsome?” I ask with a coquettish tone.

“Since this asshole isn’t going to introduce me like a civilized gentleman,” Hendrix rolls his eyes, “I’ll do it myself. Jae Song. I’m this surly bastard’s best friend and live in boy toy.”

Oh, I like him. Jae is tall with dark eyes, perfectly coiffed but somehow tousled hair, a humor-filled stare, and tattoos all over his arms that extend up his neck. He has that effortlessly cool style, wearing a baggy t-shirt, with loose black pants and a silver ring on every finger.

“Hi, Jae.” I extend my hand, which he grabs with both of his, pulling them to his mouth to place a kiss on the back of mine. Let’s add charming to his list of attributes . “I’m Silver James. I’m this surly bastard’s building tenant and all around thorn in his side.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” I cock my head at him in confusion.

“That’s enough of that,” Hendrix interrupts, looking at Jae in irritation while Jae looks back with challenge.

“Hey, here’s your drink.” John is suddenly by my side, handing me another cocktail while settling his palm against my bare back.

Hendrix takes notice, and, yep, his gaze is narrowing.

I didn’t imagine it earlier, and I’m suddenly feeling very self-conscious about the hand on my back, but I don’t step out of his hold.

“John, this is my…friend, Hendrix, and his best friend, Jae. Guys, this is my date, John.”

Jae looks at Hendrix, and I follow his stare to see his jaw flexing minutely. There and gone in a flash.

The guys exchange hellos and handshakes, and an air of awkwardness settles around us.

We need more buffers…other people to flip the energy into something less tense.

I usher the guys back to the booth where the rest of our party is drinking and laughing.

Everyone else except Kena, who has made it up to the stage again to start part two of his extensive set list. I introduce Hendrix and Jae to the rest of our group, and they settle into the chairs opposite us.

Holly leans over to whisper to me. “I get it now.”

“That is so not helpful right now.”

She chuckles and leans back into Sera, who wraps her arms around her and rests her chin on her shoulder.

The gesture is so familiar, so affectionate, it makes something deep within me ache.

I sneak a glance over at Hendrix, who is already staring at me with a look bordering on intense before he looks away.

It makes me flush with warmth. It makes me uncomfortable.

Since when am I uncomfortable with the male gaze?

Clearing my throat, I look to my right and smile at my date. John has been nothing but nice, and I’m being rude by staring too long at my maintenance man who wants nothing to do with me. Right?

An hour goes by, and in that time, I’ve done a solo to ‘Lose Yourself’ by Eminem, Jae has surprised everyone, except Hendrix, by performing ‘All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version)’ with so much gusto that even Kena was impressed, and Hendrix has surprised no one by singing nothing.

Whenever I’ve dared to glance at him in between conversations, he’s been white-knuckling his beer, no doubt regretting the decision to come out tonight.

I refocus on my date, who is telling me about his vacation to Mykonos last summer and a story about a particularly sordid night involving a lot of Ouzo, a priest, and a traveling circus.

It’s so outlandish, it can’t be real, but it has me in tears laughing.

He leans toward me, the strobe lights of the bar reflecting across his face, and places a hand on my thigh.

The warmth of his hand seeps through my black jeans, and I swear I can feel eyes glaring from my left at the contact.

Hendrix stands abruptly and heads toward the bar. I track his movement the whole way there, and he flags down the bartender before sitting on a stool.

“That guy seems intense. He’s your friend?”

I have no clue.