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Chapter 5

David

“All right, that’s it. I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer.”

Denice, my favorite waitress, sits her ass down on the piano bench next to me. The boss glares at her from behind the bar, but she waves him off. It’s a slow night. The handful of current patrons are contentedly sipping their cocktails. And if anyone else comes in, she’ll see them from here.

“Since when have you ever kept your mouth shut?” I mutter.

“I heard that.” She sticks her tongue out at me. Very ladylike. Very mature. Totally Denice. “And you’ll pay for it later. But right now, I want to know what’s going on with you. Spill.”

“Spill what?” I ask as I launch into a new song. Carole King. Not my usual jam, but I’m feeling a little maudlin.

“The reason you’re depressed.”

What the actual fuck? Is Denice a mind reader? Or have I been that obvious? “Who says I’m depressed?”

“You do, that’s who.” She elbows me in the ribs. Hard. That’s the kind of relationship we’ve got. She’s like the annoying but lovable little sister I never had.

Me being the professional I am, I don’t miss a beat, my hands continuing to fly across the keys, a blur of black and white under my fingers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She gives me a sympathetic side-eyed look. “‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’ ‘Home.’ ‘You’re So Far Away.’ It’s obvious from your song selection that you’re missing someone.”

That’s the understatement of the year. Maybe even the decade. It’s been two weeks since Chris blew back into my life like a Category 5 hurricane. Two of the longest weeks of my young life.

True, it’s not like he blew in and then blew back out again without a trace. It doesn’t look like he’s planning on ghosting me this time around. We’ve kept in touch, even after he jetted back to the Left Coast the day after we hooked up. There have been hundreds of texts, almost daily phone calls, even a couple of very memorable—and very dirty—Skype chats. And we’ve talked about getting together again soon, either on his side of the continent or mine.

But none of that is enough when you’ve finally found—or refound, I guess would be more accurate—the right guy. The one you’ve known you wanted to spend the rest of your life with pretty much since the day you laid eyes on him. I defy anyone who doesn’t believe in love at first sight to convince me otherwise.

“Hello.” Denice raps on my head with her fist. “Earth to David.”

“Don’t you have customers to take care of?” I ask, knowing full well she’s got everything under control.

“Not at the moment.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and scoots closer to me, practically forcing me off the bench. “Is this about that hottie who came to hear you play? You’ve been brooding ever since you disappeared into the alley with him.”

She noticed? I should have counted on that. I thought we were pretty discreet, but sometimes Denice is way too observant for her own good. It’s a great quality for a waitress. Not so great when you’re trying to fly under her radar.

“Of course I noticed,” she says with another hair flip.Damn.I didn’t realize I said that aloud. So much for keeping my inner monologue on the inside. “You hate having visitors while you’re working. But you made an exception for him. I figured he must be someone special.”

I can’t stop my fingers from slipping on the keyboard this time, producing a discordant mess for a hot second. I hate keeping secrets from my friends. But how am I supposed to tell Denice about Chris when I’m not even sure where I stand with him? And how are he and I supposed to maintain a relationship—if that’s even what this is—when we’re 3,000 miles apart?

I’ve got lots of questions, but no answers. So I say nothing, regain my composure, and muddle my way through the last bars of Carole’s haunting melody. I’m not singing, but that doesn’t stop the lyrics from echoing in my head.

And it doesn’t help to know you’re so far away.

Yeah, you’re so far away.

Denice is right. It’s damn depressing. The end of the song is greeted with scattered applause from the sparse crowd, and I purposely choose a more upbeat song—“Copacabana”—for my next number. That ought to throw her off track. Plus, I need the practice. Rumor has it the Barry Manilow jukebox musical’s looking for a new pianist. I’m going to drop off my resume at the stage door in the morning.

“Nice try,” she says, not falling for my diversionary tactic for one second. “But you’re not getting out of this that easily. It’s going to take more than a change of tempo to distract me.”

But thankfully that’s all she gets the chance to say because a group of six walks in and sits down at a table in the corner. Probably the start of the after-theater crowd if their cocktail dresses and sports coats—and the Playbills in their hands—are anything to go by.

Denice stands with a resigned sigh. “I mean it. My shift will be over when your last set’s done. We can grab a few drinks and an order of nachos supreme at Macho Taco. And you can tell me all about your mystery man.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge, focusing on my playing to avoid meeting her eyes. Otherwise, she’ll know the excuses I’m about to hand her are complete bullshit And she’s already seen through me enough for one night. “I’m kind of tired. And I’ve got a lot of stuff to catch up on at home.”

“Like what?” she calls over her shoulder as she heads off to wait on the new arrivals. “Organize your sock drawer?”