#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (22 page)

Chapter 62

We stay up late talking in whispers and laughter.

When JQ's alarm goes off, we're both dreamy and disoriented. We stumble through the room, each of us collecting clothing, him: books, me: my memory of yesterday and the day before and the day before that.

"No time for a run this morning. Maybe later. Definitely tomorrow." He rustles in the mini fridge in the common room of the suite, but only comes up with Dr. Pepper and cheese sticks.

"I'm sorry for keeping you up talking," I say.

"And kissing," he says, going in for one.

We reluctantly pull apart when another door in the suite creaks open.

"You could audit some classes, see what you think," he offers.

"I'd like to wander today. Let the city take me somewhere."

"But you'll come back."

"Promise," I say.

The streets are as lively as last night when we part ways on the corner by his art history class building. I want to stop and watch him walk away, but the flow of students and commuters sweeps me across the street.

I grab a cinnamon raisin bagel and coffee. I sit on a vacant bench in Washington Square Park, letting my thoughts settle. When a homeless guy sits down next to me, I give him half of my bagel. We sit in companionable silence until I'm overwhelmed by how intimidating it is to own the exclusive rights to the next four and a half hours. Sure, when I was with Niko I could more or less do whatever I wanted, including rent bounce houses, smash things, and cause general disorder, but the band was often on a schedule or on the bus or at a show. The few times we were on a break, he had interviews and photo shoots.

Before that I was scheduled twenty-four seven with no thanks to my mother.

Maybe part of my problem is the responsibility that comes with time and how reckless I've been with mine. I said I was going to let the city take me somewhere so I do.

I wander through the village, stopping in art galleries and boutiques.

I follow my nose to a honey roasted nuts cart. The guy scooping them into little wax baggies gives me a heaping scoop. I pass him a few dollars, but before I turn back to my mission of going nowhere, I ask, "If you could do anything right now, what would you do?"

His chin tucks toward his chest as though my question is preposterous. "What do you mean?"

"I mean if I offered to take over your job or gave you a million dollars and the responsibility of manning this cart was no longer yours, and you had nowhere to be, but had to be there on your own, where would you go? What would you do?"

His eyes widen. "Now?"

"Right now?"

"Just me?" he asks suspiciously.

"Just you. Hypothetically of course. I'm sorry; I have no nut roasting experience."

He gazes at the side of a building painted the color of a clementine by the sun. "I'd get on a plane to Morocco."

"How about something closer, in the nearest two or three square miles."

He scratches the beard on his chin. "I would go to the stationary shop over on Bleeker and buy nine beautiful pieces of paper. Then find a quiet café, or maybe the library, and I'd write my mother a letter for every year I told her I would and didn't." His eyes brighten as he speaks.

"That's so sweet. Where does she live?" I ask.

"Heaven."

"Oh." I sigh. "You should write the letters anyway. Where is that stationary shop you mentioned?"

In ten minutes, a kaleidoscope of fresh paper surrounds me, all holding the potential of ink-revealing stories and secrets. I walk among the aisles, running my fingers down the sheaves of blue and white striped paper, pink polka dots, and one with footprints running along the edge.

I select a simple piece that resembles papyrus, another made of organic bamboo, a third that's tinged orange, foil stamped, hibiscus, lilac, and one with apples, another with peanuts, four, five, six, seven, and eight. A ninth that smells faintly of cinnamon. I tuck a matching envelope around each. I pick a tenth piece of quality stationary smattered with stars that are only obvious when I hold the paper up to the light.

A girl with stringy hair, a slouch, and a crescent shaped smile rings me up, sliding the stationary in a paper bag.

"If you could do anything right now, what would you do?" I ask.

"Right now?" She hardly hesitates. "I'd play chess over in the park. My grandfather used to take me there when I was a little girl."

"When are you done working?"

"Three, but I have class all evening."

"Is there a chess app?"

"Yeah, All the Queen's Men, but it's not the same."

"What's your user name?"

"Minka234."

"We can play. You'll probably kick my ass, but it'll come back to me."

She laughs and says, "Sure. Message me when you sign up."

After I pay, I amble back toward the nut cart. I wait behind a family visiting for the holidays. The wife exclaims the honeyed scent of the nuts reminds her of her childhood.

When it's my turn, I hold out the thin paper bag. "Nine sheets. Nine envelopes."

He won't take my money when I try to pay for another order of nuts, but instead thanks me with a faraway look in his eyes.

I tuck the pouch in my pocket and go to the southwest corner of Washington Square Park where the chessboards are.

Pairs of older men bow over the cement boards, fixed to the tables. I observe, evaluating skill, and assessing who's close to finishing. The sweet nuts tease me from my pocket.

When a man wearing a fur hat gets up, rubbing his hands together and blowing to warm them, I march over to the vacated place.

Another man remains in the seat, clearing away his pieces. "Up for another game?" I ask.

He says, "Five dollars," in a thick Russian accent.

"Would you make your granddaughter pay five dollars to play?"

He glances up at me, confusion streaking across his bulbous features. "You're not Ana."

"Nope, but I'm someone's granddaughter, and I'd like to play chess with a grandfather." I toss the nuts on the table. "I'll share these with you."

A smile doesn't quite appear on his lips, but he sets out the pieces anyway. I learn Anton Chasov misses his granddaughter dearly—she, her parents, two brothers, and a turtle named Bob moved to New Jersey and don't see each other nearly enough. I also learn he prefers the mixed bag of candied nuts because the walnuts are like little turtles, not that he'd ever eat a turtle, he assures me, but because they remind him of Ana, Fjodor, and Sergie and of course, Bob.

When he calls, "Check mate." I've lost the game, but ask, "What would you do right now if you could do anything?"

He glances at me curiously and then says, "Win."

"I think you did."

I tell him thank you, leave him with the rest of the nuts, and wander back toward NYU.

The homeless guy I gave half my bagel to sits on the bench where I left him a couple of hours ago. I have a seat.

Without preamble I say, "If you could do anything right now and money was no object and there were no limits, what would you do?"

His smile is slow and easy. "I'd play piano."

"You wouldn't buy a house or rent an apartment?"

"You asked me what I'd do, not what I would like to have. See, I'd do street performance, but you can't bring a piano out on the street. I tried once. The wheel broke off. Keyboard? Nope, nothing like the silky feeling of a solid set of real piano keys under your fingers."

"I agree. Where do you suppose there's a piano around here?"

"Dominic's, a little place over on Green Street. They serve the best Bolognese. I stand outside some nights and listen and smell, imagining my rumbling stomach is the accompaniment."

"What's your favorite song?"

"I have to pick one?"

I nod.

"I'm especially fond of the one about a girl who gives some old bum part of her bagel and doesn't treat him like trash."

"Sounds decent. I'll give it a shot," I say.

"Thanks."

After several false turns, the unmistakable smell of roasted garlic lures me onto a small side street with cobbled pavers. The front door is closed, but a man in a blue uniform delivers bottles of sparkling water through the back door. I wander inside, wondering about the piano, what time they open, and if I can get them to give me a container of Bolognese to go.

"Can I help you," asks a woman, with an air of boredom, as she rolls napkins around silverware.

I clear my throat. "I'm wondering if I can play your piano." I gesture to it by the front window, a patch of sunlight illuminating a faint layer of dust on the lid.

"Sorry," she says without explanation.

"Please?"

She shakes her head with one eyebrow arched like the letter
N
for no.

Maybe I'll try again later when someone with less am
bitch
ion is on the clock. Takes one to know one.

"Then I'd like a double order of Bolognese, to go, please."

This request she obliges.

After I find the homeless guy in the park, and deliver him the hot meal, my phone buzzes with a message from JQ.
Class ran late. I have to meet with prof after. Argh. I'm in Wolman Hall if you want to meet me. I can give you my ID and you can go hang out in my dorm. I'm sorry!

If
I
could do anything right now, it would be to go somewhere quiet with JQ, but he's not available, and I'm itchy to play the piano. I reply.
No worries. I've been keeping busy. Promise me dinner tonight, preferably Italian
.

He sends back a kiss emoji and my phone vibrates again, with what I imagine is either another apology or perhaps an elaborate description of exactly what kind of dinner he'd prefer. The space between my legs flares with anticipation, but instead the message is from Niko.

I miss you naked.

I wish he'd leave me alone. What I need right now doesn't have dark hair and pale skin, an English accent, and calloused fingers, not to mention a jealous need to get in my pants.

What I want has eighty-eight keys, is strung tight, and tuned to an AA40 Pitch Standard.

I recall passing a music shop on Thompson Street so I walk back that way.

When I finally find it, like so many stores in the Village, this one doesn't lack in cluttered character. Glass shelves line the lower half of the window displaying music memorabilia and unusual instruments while guitars and a banjo fill the top. A small sign advertising
Piano Tuning
gives me hope.

A bell jingles when I close the door against the chilly day, sealing me inside a store filled to brimming with musician's treasures: vintage guitars and mandolins, one inlaid with mother of pearl and a collection of accordions, along with brass and reed instruments.

A small man with wiry hair sits behind a counter, flipping through sheet music. He doesn't greet me. I move deeper into the store, careful not to knock into a harp taller than me.

At the very back, a trombone mounted on the wall and fitted with a light bulb illuminates a piano. The rosewood is dusty on the old upright, but it's a Steinway, and I can almost feel the way it longs to be played—much like the one in Bubbie's living room.

I glance over my shoulder, but the man behind the counter doesn't seem concerned with me, so I run through a single warm up before playing a lively blues song my piano teacher loved because it was happy and sad at the same time, one of the hardest emotions to capture, but also the most moving. Eventually, I lose my place and improvise. This version of the song I call
Bolognese for a Bum
.

When the last note quiets, I smile and exit back through the jumbled shop. When the door jingles as I push it open, I hear the
tap, tap, tap
of two hands clapping together.

Glancing over my shoulder, the shopkeeper gives me a little smile.

Chapter 63

After a delicious Italian dinner—pasta with sauce from a jar: JQ is on a student's budget, his roommates occupy us with their Shakespeare game well into the evening.

Once we're back in his room we make out, but all too soon, I doze off.

When I wake, the clock on the dresser says it's after midnight.

JQ reads a thick textbook by a dim light. I roll over, curling myself around him. Being together like this, sober, and quiet in his company without the manic rock and roll life makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside as if to tell me I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

"Hey, sleepy head," he says, breathing me in with a kiss.

"So about this arrangement," I say, motioning to the bed.

"Mmm" he says, meeting my eyes.

I can't find the right words, but it's as though now that I'm stationary and warm in this bed, the last years have caught up with me, and I need time to recover and get my bearings.

His eyes and lips soften as he plays with a strand of my hair. "You want to take it slow?"

I nod.

He snuggles me, anchoring me in his strong arms. "We can go as slow as you like. I'd rather have things unfold naturally, and if that means just sleeping next to each other for now, having you close, and all to myself—"

I interrupt. "By slow I mean I still want you to kiss me…and other things."

Our lips meet and we press together. I'm wearing one of his gray NYU T-shirts and it rides up. He rubs my soft curves, grips my backside, drawing me close as though to say he's patient and solid; a rock to hold onto while I figure things out. But so is his dick. I press against it, and my panties are instantly wet.

We rub together, kissing, tongues exploring, and our hearts pounding, but hold off on sex, for now.

I expect him to be exhausted the next morning. Instead, he's tying his running shoes. "Good morning," he says, leaning over and pecking me on the lips. "I didn't want to wake you."

I nestle deeper under the covers. "I can't think of anyone else I'd rather see when I first open my eyes, but I'll close them again, just for a little while," I say sleepily.

I hear the door click shut and then I'm asleep again.

I dream in music.

The bedsprings shift when JQ lowers down, shirtless, and with damp hair. He kisses me awake.

"How was your run?" I ask.

"Brisk. How was your second sleep?"

"Sweet. Just what I needed. I'm making up for all the nights I spent awake, not sleeping until after the sun rose."

He chuckles. "I brought you a smoothie. Strawberry, banana—if I remember that was your order at the place we'd go to afterschool on Tuesdays."

I take a sip, my mouth lighting up with the fruity taste. "Still my fave. Thank you."

JQ goes on to tells me about the rest of his week, his schedule, various classes, study groups, and a photo project he needs to research. "But you should come with me. I'm doing a study of light in darkness—this week's set involves Rockefeller Center, if you can stomach the crowds. Then we'll have dinner. 'I owe you a proper Italian meal."

We follow this pattern for the rest of the week where JQ wakes me up with a treat for breakfast: a fresh muffin, a dirty chai, and an orange almost as big as his fist. In the mornings, I read in his room—I'm halfway through his bookshelf and have powered down titles by Vonnegut, DeLillo, and the two Brontë's.

In the afternoon, I wander through the city, ultimately ending up at the music shop where I play a song or two. Yesterday, my audience was a little girl who could just barely reach the keys. I made it through
Claire de Lune
while her dad talked with the shopkeeper. Then I hoisted her onto the bench next to me and let her play me a song before we made some noise together.

Our evenings consist of me interrupting his studying with kisses. He says he'd rather be making out with me than doing his assignments. We both want more, but by the time his head hits the pillow, he's exhausted and our making out sends us both to sleep, locked in an embrace.