girlfriend blabbed about our sex life.”
“So you were lonely?” He nods, and I swallow hard and ask with a shaky voice, “You weren’t trying to die or anything, right?”
“Of course not.” Jesse bends over and drops his forehead onto his crossed arms. “I drank, like, half a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and slipped and fell off the boat.”
“Half a fifth?” I exclaim.
“I’d never actually drank before—or after—that night.”
“Wait—why did you ask if I wanted to get drunk earlier today?”
He tousles his wet hair, peeking up at me. “Maybe I was testing you a bit.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “You sure know how to do things up the first time. You practically get a record deal during your first singing lesson, and then you totally wipe out during your first alcoholic experience.”
“I always say go big or go home.”
I stretch out my legs and wiggle my toes, drying them in the sun. “Do you still love singing and playing guitar?”
“More than anything.”
“So what are you gonna do when you retire?”
He looks to the opposite shore. “No idea.”
“Then why would you quit?”
“I don’t have a choice, Maya. I can quit or never have a real life. Right now, I don’t have anything but my music. Not friends, not family.”
“Haven’t you ever tried to make friends with other people in the industry?”
He nods. “It’s hard though. You never know if someone likes you for you. I used to spend time with Candy Roxanne, you know, the country singer? Then I realized she never wanted to hang out at home, watching a movie or listening to music. We always had to be seen somewhere together, like at a party or a restaurant, and people were always taking pictures that ended up in People and Us Weekly . It was never about friendship. She just wanted to be seen with me. And you know what happened with my ex, Stacey.”
“But not everybody will use you. Some people are good, Jess…”
We sit, listening to birds singing, to wind blowing through the trees. To the beautiful song of Tennessee.
“Marco,” I say.
“Polo.”
I tentatively scoot his way. “Marco.”
“Polo.”
I crawl over next to him, touch his forearm. His brown eyes look so pretty and warm in the late afternoon sun. He touches my dress, twisting the black tulle in his hand. “I ruined your outfit.”
“I know.”
“I’ve liked getting to talk to you today. You’re different.”
“So are you.”
His lip upturned, he leans back onto his hands, squinting at me, and I pull my eyes away from the line of water trickling down his flat stomach into places I still shouldn’t be thinking about.
He catches me looking. “Sure you don’t wanna have sex?”
I slap his arm. “Would you behave?”
He grins. “So what’s up next?”
“As soon as our clothes are dry, I’m driving your Harley.”
• • •
Jesse tells me that his favorite part of being a musician is writing. It makes him feel calm and excited all at once. Calm, because it’s quiet, and he gets the opportunity to think. Excited, because he never knows what might come out of his pen onto the paper. I’ve never been much of a writer, but I love that feeling of success, like when I figure out how to play a particularly hard transition.
“So you do all your writing at your Pa’s fishing hole?” I ask.
“I’ve got a few other places too. My studio is one. The other is a secret.”
“Tell me!”
He grins. “Are you serious about driving my bike?”
“You better believe it.”
“I trust you after seeing you drive that red car earlier. You know the way back to Second Avenue in Nashville?”
As I climb on his Harley, I feel like I’m hitting a high C, the note that, as an alto, I always have problems singing. With Jesse securely behind me, I kick-start the bike and carefully steer it back onto the road. It’s a lot bigger than my Suzuki, but I manage it okay. I head toward downtown Nashville at seventy miles per hour. Jesse
“So you were lonely?” He nods, and I swallow hard and ask with a shaky voice, “You weren’t trying to die or anything, right?”
“Of course not.” Jesse bends over and drops his forehead onto his crossed arms. “I drank, like, half a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and slipped and fell off the boat.”
“Half a fifth?” I exclaim.
“I’d never actually drank before—or after—that night.”
“Wait—why did you ask if I wanted to get drunk earlier today?”
He tousles his wet hair, peeking up at me. “Maybe I was testing you a bit.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “You sure know how to do things up the first time. You practically get a record deal during your first singing lesson, and then you totally wipe out during your first alcoholic experience.”
“I always say go big or go home.”
I stretch out my legs and wiggle my toes, drying them in the sun. “Do you still love singing and playing guitar?”
“More than anything.”
“So what are you gonna do when you retire?”
He looks to the opposite shore. “No idea.”
“Then why would you quit?”
“I don’t have a choice, Maya. I can quit or never have a real life. Right now, I don’t have anything but my music. Not friends, not family.”
“Haven’t you ever tried to make friends with other people in the industry?”
He nods. “It’s hard though. You never know if someone likes you for you. I used to spend time with Candy Roxanne, you know, the country singer? Then I realized she never wanted to hang out at home, watching a movie or listening to music. We always had to be seen somewhere together, like at a party or a restaurant, and people were always taking pictures that ended up in People and Us Weekly . It was never about friendship. She just wanted to be seen with me. And you know what happened with my ex, Stacey.”
“But not everybody will use you. Some people are good, Jess…”
We sit, listening to birds singing, to wind blowing through the trees. To the beautiful song of Tennessee.
“Marco,” I say.
“Polo.”
I tentatively scoot his way. “Marco.”
“Polo.”
I crawl over next to him, touch his forearm. His brown eyes look so pretty and warm in the late afternoon sun. He touches my dress, twisting the black tulle in his hand. “I ruined your outfit.”
“I know.”
“I’ve liked getting to talk to you today. You’re different.”
“So are you.”
His lip upturned, he leans back onto his hands, squinting at me, and I pull my eyes away from the line of water trickling down his flat stomach into places I still shouldn’t be thinking about.
He catches me looking. “Sure you don’t wanna have sex?”
I slap his arm. “Would you behave?”
He grins. “So what’s up next?”
“As soon as our clothes are dry, I’m driving your Harley.”
• • •
Jesse tells me that his favorite part of being a musician is writing. It makes him feel calm and excited all at once. Calm, because it’s quiet, and he gets the opportunity to think. Excited, because he never knows what might come out of his pen onto the paper. I’ve never been much of a writer, but I love that feeling of success, like when I figure out how to play a particularly hard transition.
“So you do all your writing at your Pa’s fishing hole?” I ask.
“I’ve got a few other places too. My studio is one. The other is a secret.”
“Tell me!”
He grins. “Are you serious about driving my bike?”
“You better believe it.”
“I trust you after seeing you drive that red car earlier. You know the way back to Second Avenue in Nashville?”
As I climb on his Harley, I feel like I’m hitting a high C, the note that, as an alto, I always have problems singing. With Jesse securely behind me, I kick-start the bike and carefully steer it back onto the road. It’s a lot bigger than my Suzuki, but I manage it okay. I head toward downtown Nashville at seventy miles per hour. Jesse
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