Hammers & Heartstrings Read online

  “No, we haven’t yet. My friends were running late, so I’m not sure when we’re going on now,” he replied.

  “Oh, good.”

  I felt a little bad for the band playing, since we were totally talking over their set. But I was talking to Andrew, and I wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. I’d always dreamed of speaking to him about more than just how much his merchandise cost. The few words we’d exchanged were already making me smile, and when he smiled back, my stomach stopped doing backflips. I felt calm and comfortable in his presence, like we’d known each other for years. Technically, I had known him through his music for years. But that wasn’t the same as actually speaking to him.

  He stepped a little closer to me, and I caught a whiff of his scent. Cigarette smoke, guitars, and a slight musk of something that was just… Him.

  “Peristerophobia is my favorite band,” I said. “I saw your post online and rushed here as quickly as I could. If you guys have a show, I’m usually there.”

  A bashful smile came across his face.

  “That’s sweet of you. I didn’t know anyone considered us their favorite band.”

  I nodded and bit my lip. I felt my face growing warm, a side effect of the red hair I’d inherited from both of my parents. I allowed myself to make eye contact with him again. God, no man should be allowed to have such long eyelashes. It’s just not fair. I desperately needed to remind myself of my “no musicians in my pants” rule, because his smile made me want to throw the rule out the window.

  “Well, you guys are great. I discovered you a couple of years back and your music spoke to me like nothing else could. You’re extremely talented.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” he said, winking. “Though I might be a little off today. This cold is trying to make me its bitch.”

  Once he mentioned it, I could hear the slight stuffed up sound in his voice. It was kind of adorable, honestly.

  “I’m sure you’ll be great. You’re always great. I’ve never been to a bad Peristerophobia show before.”

  “I thought you said you’d been to a bunch of our shows. I’m sure you’ve been to at least one bad one. I mean, that one we did in San Diego last year… Ouch.”

  “No, I didn’t get to that one. But you shouldn’t sell yourself short. I’m sure it was great.”

  He shook his head.

  “I have my off days. My bandmates have their off days too. We’re just like every other performer out there. There are good shows and there are bad shows. It happens.”

  Chad came up to us as the band finished and whispered something in Andrew’s ear. He nodded at him and turned back to me.

  “I’m up in just a minute. Anything you want to hear?”

  How about every song ever?

  “Um. ‘Retrieving Myself?’” I suggested.

  He gave me one last smile before walking to the section of the store where the other band had performed. The guy who’d been playing guitar before handed Andrew the instrument. It really did have to be last minute if he didn’t even have his own guitar with him.

  Andrew sat down on the chair and I noticed that I was the only one there out of all his usual fans. I didn’t recognize anyone else around me. I smiled, satisfied with myself for being able to make it.

  “She left me on a Sunday morning, still lying in bed, still snoring. Her hand on the doorknob, all sound ceased. I woke as she whispered, saying she hated me,” he sang.

  He didn’t sound stuffed up at all. He sounded amazing as always. Just as I had suspected.

  I tapped my foot to the beat and gripped my necklace between my fingers, twirling the flower charm back and forth. His eyes were closed, as he tended to do when he sang with his whole heart. Every time he opened his eyes, they found mine with ease.

  I didn’t feel like just another person in the crowd, but someone to sing to. I smiled, and I couldn’t seem to wipe the damn thing off my face as he sang, even though the words he sang were rather depressing.

  When the song finished, Andrew cleared his throat.

  “Any other songs anyone wants to hear? I don’t exactly have a set list today,” he said.

  I looked around to see if any of his other bandmates were around, but only Chad and Andrew were there. I wondered why Doug and Ken weren’t around. Maybe they had day jobs that clashed with the show’s random schedule.

  “Dude, you should play ‘On a Dare.’ I dare you to,” Chad said with a chuckle. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over. I couldn’t help but wonder how wasted he was.

  Honestly, I’d never seen Chad at a show and thought, “Gee, he looks sober today.”

  Andrew smiled and held out his borrowed guitar to Chad, who took it from him and played as Andrew stole the drink sitting by Chad’s feet and took a sip. He cringed.

  “Fuck, man. I thought that was just soda.”

  Chad replied with a lazy smile.

  Andrew tapped his foot lightly to the beat, in sync with my own tapping. He looked at me once more as he began to sing.

  He finished out the set with “This Isn’t a Coincidence,” which I knew as the first ever Peristerophobia song. The set was barely even fifteen minutes long, but it was completely worth coming to the mall and being potentially late to work. Just Andrew, Chad, and an acoustic guitar between them. Perfect.

  I wasn’t lying to Andrew when I said that his concerts were always amazing. They were. No matter what he sang, I loved it. I even loved it when he sang covers of songs that I normally hated. Once, he played a Like, I Like That song and I enjoyed it.

  Andrew thanked the crowd, then handed the guitar back to its owner. He walked back over to me.

  Me.

  “So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asked.

  “Well, I have about fifteen minutes left until I definitely have to go home and let out my dog one more time before I have to go to work.”

  He smiled and leaned against a display of shirts that were essentially advertisements for a TV show that I’d never actually seen, but it’d been on the air for half of my life.

  “Sweet. Want to get some fresh air with me until you have to leave?” he asked.

  I nodded, not sure if I could even squeak out an “Ohmygodyes.”

  We walked out of Konfusion together and to the designated smoking area outside of the mall. He leaned against the wall and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Want one?” he asked.

  He had an interesting definition of fresh air.

  “No, I’m good.”

  I smoked every now and then a few years ago, but it wasn’t something I’d ever really picked up. Even though I hadn’t sung seriously in years, the trained singer inside me couldn’t justify smoking and what it could do to my voice. I honestly didn’t mind the smell or the taste, though.

  “Is it okay if I do?” he asked.

  “Yeah, no big deal,” I said.

  Andrew took a long drag of his cigarette and I played with the charm on my necklace, staring down at the ground. What was I supposed to say to him? What was a person supposed to talk about with a grand rock star in the making?

  “So, are you a musician too?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I dabbled a little in it once, but that’s in the past. I’m more of a crowd person than a stage person, that’s for sure.”

  He nodded, and much to my relief, he changed the subject. My hand dropped from my necklace and brushed against his skin on the way down. I swallowed hard. I wanted to touch more of him, I wanted more than just a brush of skin. I wondered if he’d be into it.

  I had to pull myself together. Remind myself of the “no musicians” rule. No musicians, April. You promised yourself.

  “So, what’s your favorite Peristerophobia song?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. I stared at the people leaving the mall. I let my hand brush against his again.

  “It changes, depending on the day and my mood. Right now I really love ‘L
ife Begins and Ends Here.’ It kind of sums up everything for me. I mean, ‘When I hear the right chords, it’s like I’m breathing for the first time.’ Just. Yeah.”

  He took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke away from me. He brushed a piece of his wavy brown hair away from his eyes, and I desperately wanted to run my fingers through it. It was the perfect length, not too long. I could imagine how nice it would be to hold onto it while his head was between my thighs.

  No musicians, April.

  “Good choice. I love that one too. I love them all, though. I might be biased.”

  I smiled and said, “Maybe. Its a great song. Thanks for writing it.”

  “Thanks for liking it,” he said.

  He threw the butt of his cigarette down and smashed it with the toe of his shoe. He stood closer to me and brushed a piece of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

  “You’re really beautiful,” he said.

  My face was on fire.

  “Thank you.”

  I had a feeling that if I looked directly at him, he would kiss me, so I busied myself by pulling my phone out of my pocket. I glanced down to check the time and my eyes widened. I was going to be late if I didn’t leave right that moment.

  “Shit, I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”

  He nodded. I ran off, rushing towards my car. I caught a glimpse of him still standing against the wall, staring out at the parking lot I’d just vacated. I drove away and I began to laugh. Holy shit. I had just talked to Andrew Washington. I talked to Andrew Washington, lead singer of Peristerophobia. I talked to Andrew Washington, lead singer of Peristerophobia, and he told me I was beautiful.

  Then it hit me. He didn’t get my name. He didn’t get my number. He had no idea who I was, let alone where to find me.

  Son of a bitch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We expected smooth sailing

  No bumps in the road

  We tumbled

  We crashed

  We’re the wreck people slow down to watch

  “Anyone Can Be a Straight Pretzel (But Baby, You’ve Got Curves),” Peristerophobia

  I gave Erica a call the next day, since I knew she’d flip if I called her after I got off of work. She never went to bed later than ten, and she was hell bent on getting a good eight hours every night. Dread ran through me as I pressed down on the call button next to her name. I knew she was going to berate me for what happened with Andrew. She had been my best friend since junior high school, but she tended to act more like a mom to me than a friend lately. I didn’t need a mom. I’d been just fine without one since mine walked out on me when I was five years old.

  “Hey April, what’s up?” Erica said when she answered the phone. I imagined she was in her dorm room, sitting at her desk, studying. It was pretty much all she ever did.

  “So, I talked to Andrew Washington,” I said.

  “So? You’ve done that before.”

  “No, this wasn’t like, passing a couple of words at a merchandise table while he was clearly drunk and not going to remember me. We talked. He told me I was beautiful.”

  She was silent.

  “Erica?” I said, glancing at my phone’s screen to see if I lost the call. My apartment had the worst reception sometimes.

  “I thought you didn’t want to date any musicians,” she said.

  She wasn’t wrong. I did have that rule. But… It was Andrew. I could make an exception for Andrew, I was sure.

  “I don’t want to be a musician. That doesn’t mean I can’t date one,” I said.

  “That’s not what you’ve said before.”

  “Whatever, it’s not like I can even date Andrew. He didn’t exactly get my name. Or my number.”

  Erica let out a sigh, and I could practically hear her pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

  “How the hell did you manage that? It’s general etiquette for social interactions to introduce yourself. For fuck’s sake, April.”

  I sat down on my couch and Pigeon immediately put his head in my lap. I scratched him on the ears and he let out a little doggy sigh.

  “Trust me, I’m feeling pretty fucking dumb. I can’t believe I didn’t mention my name. Or even where I worked. He has no idea who I am, or where to find me.”

  “It’s probably for the best. You don’t want to be a Cassidy, after all,” she said. I heard a group of people talking in the background. “I’ve got to go, my study group is here.”

  “You study too much,” I said.

  “Kind of the point of being in college, April. Bye.”

  She hung up on me and I rested my head on the back of my worn, secondhand purple couch. Pigeon pushed his nose against my hand. I began to pet him again.

  “Trying to hook up with Andrew isn’t going to turn me into Cassidy, right, Pigeon?”

  He said nothing. Damn dog.

  “Walk?” I suggested.

  His ears perked up before he jumped down and barked at the closed front door. Sure, he paid attention to what I said when it mattered to him. I grabbed his leash and walked out the door, a piece of paper smacking me in the face as it flew through the cracks. Another note from my neighbors, I was sure. Ever since I got Pigeon, they bitched about the noise he made. He was a small mutt, not a large dog. He wasn’t aggressive or loud in any kind of way. In fact, he barely barked. But apparently they had something against me rescuing a five year old mutt from death row at the pound.

  Originally, his name wasn’t Pigeon. But I wasn’t about to keep the name Fluffy. It was simply awful, especially since he was not a fluffy dog.

  I crumpled up the paper without reading it and threw it in the trash before letting Pigeon lead me towards the grass.

  I stared up at the sky and gripped my necklace in my hand. I prayed to whatever the hell was out there that Andrew would somehow find me, that I would somehow speak to him again, that he would remember me. I remembered the look on his face as he ran off, shock and disappointment. He probably thought I was brushing him off, turning him down after he’d told me I was beautiful. But I wasn’t. He made me want to take chances. He made me want to leap into his arms and do whatever he asked. His music meant the world to me. I could only imagine what he himself could mean to me.

  Pigeon let out a bark at a bird pecking at the grass. It flew away, and I tugged him back towards the apartment. I had to get ready for work, and he had to get a treat for being a good boy. (He was always a good boy).

  Over the next few weeks, I tried not to pout too much over the fact that Peristerophobia didn’t have any concerts for a while, so I hadn’t had a chance to run into Andrew again. I’d just about given up on the idea of him even remembering me when it got to be mid-July and my days were spent serving iced coffees and root beer floats, no Andrew to be seen.

  The only saving grace of my job was the open mike night that we hosted every Friday. I always volunteered to work those shifts, because while not everyone was talented, the good performers always made it worth it. I essentially got a free concert while I worked. Always a good thing.

  That particular open mike night, it was just me, Calvin, and the kitchen staff taking care of a full house. Fridays were usually our busiest nights next to Saturdays, thanks to the crowd from the movie theater across the street and the free music.

  There was a terrible singer at the microphone who had taken it upon herself to cover every song that had hit the top ten list within the last decade. She wasn’t quite tone deaf, but she also wasn’t quite talented.

  At least she had the guts to be up there, though. That was more than I could say for myself.

  As she hit another wrong note, I cringed. I almost expected the crowd to start booing. If they did, I’d have to ask them to leave. That was the one and only rule for open mike nights - everyone must respect the artist on stage.

  “No booing, strangling, or throwing rotten fruit (or anything else) at someone, no matter how much or little talent they have. E
veryone must remain civil. It’s open mike night, not ‘people who can sing take the mike’ night,” Karen Garcia, my boss, told everyone when she trained them.

  There was even a sign up on the counter that stated that booing/throwing things was strictly forbidden. Karen was pretty strict about it. She even had the sign printed in bold, capital letters (she loved putting things in all caps to show her seriousness).

  We had to put up with them all - the good, the bad, and the tone deaf.

  I was stuck at our biggest table towards the back of the cafe, tending to a family of ten. I was pretty sure that driving me insane was high on their priority list for the night.

  A toddler poured a drink on my shirt as I took their food orders.

  “It’s not nice to throw soda at people,” I said through clenched teeth.

  His parents then proceeded to bitch at me for telling their child what to do. I held back from telling them that it wasn’t my fault they couldn’t keep it in their pants and couldn’t control their demon spawn. I knew when to keep quiet if I wanted to have any semblance of a tip. Without tips, Pigeon and I would be on the street. So I smiled and walked away as the singer on stage began to turn the song of the summer (a peppy pop song) into a folk ballad. Good in theory, not so much in execution.

  In the kitchen, I grabbed a rag and tried to clean off the root beer from my now-stained blue tank top. Calvin caught sight of me and laughed, so I threw some flour at him. That seemed to shut him up.

  “My name is Joan, have a good night,” the girl said at the microphone. I was grateful she was finished.

  I stood in the kitchen, taking a moment for myself before I went back out to the Ten Tenant Torture Table, scrubbing at my shirt in the hopes of salvaging one of my favorite tank tops. I heard someone new clear their throat at the microphone.

  “Hey. So. I’m Andrew Washington. You guys might know me from a band called Peristerophobia -” a couple of people cheered “-thanks. But tonight, I wanted to go back to my roots and sing for you here.”