“Oh, Haley…”
“Just to top it all off, a guy who looked like someone breathed life into a Greek statue and dressed it in Tom Ford tried to pick me up by pretending to be interested in signing me.”
“Jesus…”
“After all that, even the fact that my roommates were having a drunk kung-fu movie marathon until five am wasn’t enough to stop me from crashing out.”
Jenna slams down the pitcher of hot milk she was carrying with a clang that gets everyone’s attention and grabs me in an embrace, clutching me so close I can feel her heart beating.
“Oh, Haley. I’m so sorry. That sounds awful. I wish there was something I could do.”
“I know. I’ve got nobody to blame but myself, you know? It was my damned idea to come to this city. My stupidity that made me think I could make it. My decision to go to that open mic last night and stick it out, even though all the signs were wrong.” I allow myself a few self-indulgent sniffles and then rapidly blink back the tears stinging my eyes until they go away. I refuse to cry at work.
Jenna steps back out of the hug, clutches my shoulders and forces me to look into her aqua-blue eyes, full of seriousness and compassion.
“Listen to me, Haley, you’re following your dreams because you know you have to. I don’t know anybody as talented as you. The problem isn’t with you, it’s the rest of the world. They don’t see talent until it smacks them in the face. You’ve just got to keep smacking them with it until they see it.”
I let out a gentle laugh.
“That’s…a hell of an analogy.”
Jenna smirks as she takes her hands away from my shoulders.
“I’m no songwriter, that’s for sure!”
We relax and smile, and at the same time realize there are about a dozen pissed commuters sulking on the other side of the counter as they watch us have a moment.
“I guess we’d better get back to ‘following our dreams,’” I say, before turning back to the espresso machine. Jenna flashes her dimples sweetly and goes to deal with the angry mob of caffeine addicts.
About an hour of furious coffee-pressing and register-banging later the rush ends and Jenna and I enjoy the lull. I sit on a stool behind the counter lazily writing lyrics in my notepad while Jenna leans over the counter and people watches.
“Yowzer,” she whispers to herself.
“What?” I say, without looking up.
“Crap, he’s coming in!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But he’s beautiful.” Jenna stands upright and smooths her apron. “Morning sir, what can I get you?” she says, with so much charm I almost fall under her spell myself.
“Does a girl named Haley Grace Cooke work here?”
Every cell in my body goes cold. My head jerks up from the notepad and freezes. It’s him. Unmistakably him. Voice like melted chocolate, the strong, bitter kind. From where I’m sitting, down low behind the cash register, he can’t see me – and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Um…” Jenna starts. I reach over and jab my pen into her calf. “Maybe… Ow! I mean, no. No, I don’t think so.”
“You sure about that?” he says, low and sensual, as if trying to hypnotize Jenna.
“Well…yeah, sort of…I mean, if there was a girl called that working here—ouch!—I would probably tell you because…there’s, like, no way I think she would not wanna see you?”
I drop my head into my hands and groan deeply before standing upright. Jenna shrugs and nods toward the guy as if looking at him explains everything. She glances at him one last time, her tongue on her lips, before stepping away into the back room, pointing at the clock as if it’s actually time for her break right now. Traitor.
“For a singer you sure do hide yourself away a lot,” the guy offers smoothly.
I’m not to be smoothed. “How did you find me?”
“It’s kind of my job to find aspiring musicians.”
“By stalking them?” I blurt.
He laughs. It’s so charming my blood boils. “I just visited your website to get more info and noticed your work uniform in one of your Instagram photos.”
“Sounds a lot like stalking,” I say.
“It’s not stalking if you agree to have coffee with me.”
“Look, Brian.”
“Brando.”
“Whatever. Last night I was tired, depressed, and lonely – and I still didn’t fall for your record label shtick. What makes you think I’m going to fall for it now?”
“You know what? You’re right.” He leans back and folds his arms.
I shake my head in confusion.
“Forget about record labels, music, all of that,” he continues. “I’m here talking to you simply as a guy who likes your music. A guy who wants to take you out for coffee and talk about the Angela Carter references in your lyrics.”
For the first time I’m stunned by something other than his eyes.
“Nobody ever really picked up on that…”
“Really? Seemed pretty obvious to me. That and the alternate tunings. You like Nick Drake, right?”