I grab her arms, pull them down. “I’ve felt like such a jerk. I want to be in solidarity with you, but I can’t. It’s so, so good with him. Like I never imagined…”
“Mia,” she says.
“I want you to…at least keep an open mind?”
“Oh my god, Mia. Come on.”
She’s silent all the way to the next corner, thinking. But at least she’s holding onto my arm.
“He was twenty when he wrote it. He didn’t set out to ruin anybody’s life.”
She turns to me at the Don’t Walk. “Look, the book didn’t ruin my life. I’m the one who decided to move in with that asshole. And the jungle kiss, guys have been using lines forever. Though, that’s a diabolically good one. But the thing is, who writes that kind of book? I can get past it on behalf of me. I can’t get past the book on behalf of you. Because you don’t have a complete personality transplant between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight.”
“I know what I’m doing. I know him.”
She rests her hands on my shoulders. “I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you. Some friggin’ player.”
“It won’t,” I say.
“He wrote the book. ‘The last thing you want is a woman you can’t walk away from.’ Remember? He literally wrote the book on being a jerky player.”
“But he’s not like that. Think of how you were at the age of twenty. Personally? I was a basketcase.”
“Excuses won’t unwrite the book for him.” The light turns green and we’re on the move again. “I’m officially registering my objection.”
“This isn’t a jury trial.”
“I’m just saying. I’m not going to harp on this going forward. I want you to be happy, and as your friend, I’ll support you. But if he pulls a Nathan.”
“He makes me happy.”
We go on in silence.
“Okay,” I say, “And what if I told you he invited me to his secret Yogic sex lair for the acrobatic arts of love tomorrow night?”
She whips her gaze around to me. “He did?”
“Will that make a difference? That we get the answer to that burning mystery? You’re at least glad for that, right?”
“What did he say about it?”
“To meet him at that address. And that it’s a surprise.”
“What the hell.”
“Right? Though he did say eight-thirty. Whereas he got there around seven the night I followed him.”
“Did you tell him—”
“That I followed him like a freak? No.” I poke her arm. “So? Are you happy for that at least? To get the answer to our burning mystery?”
She puts on a grumpy face. “You’ll miss drinks for Jada’s wrap. For that Fox in the Henhouse show.”
“Jada has a wrap party every month.”
“Still.” She sighs. “Okay, it makes one percent difference in how happy I am. Because I’m mostly worried on your behalf. That he’s a player.”
“I’ll tell you for two. If you say it makes two percent difference.”
She shakes her head.
“Troll doll full-costume sex fetish film,” I whisper. “You never know.” Though, I do. I know that’s not it.
“You are such a dork. Okay.”
“Thank you.”
“He’d better be a good lay at least. Like amazing.” She looks over and I’m just grinning.
“Jesus.” She sniffs and takes my arm again.
21
Open your eyes. Start seeing what’s in front of your face.
This is an uncorrected proof - you may find typos, but those won’t be in the final version.
* * *
Mia
I’m outside the Namaste Way Yoga building at a quarter after eight. Only the windows on the top floor are lit. A woman comes out the door with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m here to meet someone.”
“Max?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Go on up. They should be almost done.”
What. The. Hell.
I swallow.
“I can just go in?”
“Well, you’ll want to wait in the hall until they’re done.” She puts the cigarette into her mouth and cups her hand, shielding the lighter flame from the wind. I add my hand, and the thing finally lights. “Thanks,” she says, blowing a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth.
“How will I know…when they’re done?”
“When all the banging and pounding stops, I imagine.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I go in and study the directory, reluctant to go up. Was Kelsey right? Is he just a master player? Because, banging and pounding?
I find Namaste Way on the directory. Studio 503. It takes up half the entire floor, and it doubles as a ballet studio. It’s pretty common for yoga studios to share spaces with ballet studios. All that expanse of wood flooring. Not cheap.
I take the elevator and get out on the fifth floor, dreading what I’ll find.
As I head down, I hear music—Bach—played badly. Noisily.
What. The. Hell. Camouflage for the banging?
I draw nearer. No way is it Max. No way could Max have lost his abilities so completely. Is this some sort of perverse live accompaniment to whatever is happening?
The same prelude is played again, but this time, it’s played beautifully. And then it’s played poorly again.
I draw nearer to the door. Is he having dueling pianos with his alternate shitty-at-piano self?
And then Max’s voice. “Listen.” A string of notes. “Let’s play the left hand. Do you hear the voice here? This voice is telling a story underneath the top voice. I’ll play the top voice, you play the voice that tells the story below it. The quiet story.” I hear murmuring. Not Max. It’s a kid.
Notes. Faltering stops and starts. A few more stabs.
I blink, unsure what I’m hearing. There’s more talk about voices. Notes.
It seems that Max…is teaching a piano lesson?
Yes. A piano lesson.
Laughing, drink-swirling, Ferrari-driving Max secretly teaches piano?
Suddenly there’s the sound of shuffling. Mumbled questions. Footsteps. I step aside as the door opens. A kid comes out. He’s maybe thirteen. He nods and heads to the elevator.
The door closes behind him.
I knock.
“Did you forget—” The door flings open and I’m face-to-face with Max. His shirtsleeves are rolled up; his tie hangs loose. My heart skips a beat.
“What are you doing up here? I thought you were going to call first,” he says.
“Somebody let me in.”