Maybe Read Free

breaks and Tyler leaves me there to die.
     
    It doesn’t make much sense when I think about it. Most musicians I’ve come across look the part—multiple piercings, tattoos, the hair, the clothes, the swagger. That’s not to say that Tyler doesn’t have the attitude. He definitely does, but my radar hadn’t gone off. Maybe I haven’t been paying as much attention as I should have, but it dumbfounds me that I have been dense enough to miss that he is my downstairs drummer.
    Why wouldn’t he be?
    It isn’t something I want to dwell on. We have minimal contact, and in a few weeks I’ll be on my way to a new place.
    Back in my apartment, an old familiar pull starts in my stomach and worms its way around my spine, beckoning me to change clothes and stand en pointe in front of the thin mirror affixed behind the barre. My wireless speaker pours soft notes, and the melody guides my arms above my head, urging me to flex and point, muscles pulling tight in the most beautiful way. I barely glance at myself in the mirror. Instead, I close my eyes and envision myself onstage. Rather than my gray shorts and white tank, I am wearing a gorgeous costume and brand new pointe shoes that shine with unblemished satin ribbons.
    When the memories of another time come flooding back too fast, I stop and drop gently to the floor, removing my shoes and lying on my back to stare at the ceiling. It wasn’t a blown-out knee that had changed everything. The man I loved couldn’t bear to see our promised future torn apart. I couldn’t be who I’d set out to be, and he couldn’t take the person I wanted to become instead.
    Not my fault. My therapist said so.
    I sit up and stretch my back, reaching up to pull my hair free of the elastic and watching it fall in waves around my face. At one time, I would have kept the dark locks long so they could be styled for performances. Now my hair just barely grazes my bra closure, and I don’t miss the extra length one bit.
    Lost in thought, I zone out for a minute and stare beyond the couch toward the window, watching the streetlights change colors below.
    That’s when the drumming starts. It’s fast and heavy, double bass pedal, cymbals crashing, angry beats. He’s started early. Usually it doesn’t begin until well after midnight, but it’s not even ten. This means only one thing to me.
    I can’t feel bad about what I said when he’s clearly being an asshole on purpose.

Chapter Four

    From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy

    I met a girl.
    Her body is nice, but I noticed her face before anything else. Her lips are pink and bare, like she wants to be kissed, so she doesn’t wear anything just in case. Her eyes, though? Lightest blue-gray, with this ring of navy around the iris. I’ve never seen eyes like those before.
    And her hair smells good.
    But her mouth is faulty.
    This woman is in my building, doing ballet above my head and pissing me off with one simple sentence.
    An honest mistake? Maybe.
    It’s too bad. I bet she tastes good, too.
    —M

Chapter Five

    “What are your plans for tonight?” I’m gauging Laura’s reaction to the question from across the conference room table while I pack up my messenger bag.
    Laura is suspicious. She’s always suspicious of my intent. “Why?”
    “I’m going to see my band and was offering to let you tag along. God.”
    Her smile is electric when she finally says yes. “I have to see these guys for myself. I hope I’m not disappointed.”
    A quick change at the apartment, and we are all back on 6th, weaving in and out of the people who are milling around without purpose. I have purpose, though. I have somewhere to be. We’re escorted into the venue, and the girl at the door points upstairs to a smaller, less crowded area. From there, I can survey the entire place and watch the gig from above. It beats being on the floor trying to catch a glimpse of the members from behind that one random seven-foot-tall guy who likes to stand in the front at