Seth
It was about nine o’clock in the morning, and I sat at the café drinking my third cup of coffee. I stared at the napkin with the address on it that sat in front of me on the table.
I felt angry every time I looked at it. I had contacted John at his company the day before, asking him to meet me. I decided I wanted to know more about the house before going to it and I felt he owed me that much. He had agreed, but there was no sign of him. It hadn’t occurred to me that he wouldn’t come. That, more than anything, surprised me: the fact that I’d had complete confidence he would show up. I felt like an idiot for thinking I was almost out of this. No, John always made things more complicated. Disappointment began to overwhelm my anger, but deep down I just felt empty. I wanted closure and I wanted answers.
I was so absorbed in thought that I didn’t notice someone sit down in the seat opposite me.
“So I woke up this morning and figured out what is wrong with your music.”
I turned my face away from the beach and found Amy sitting in front of me. I blinked at her, realizing she had just said something. I didn’t respond.
“Bad time?” she asked.
I exhaled and wiped my face with my hands. I kept them there, covering my face for a second. I had a headache.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’ll just go.”
I felt her shift, her chair squeaking as she got up.
“No, don’t,” I mumbled.
“You sure? We can meet later?” she offered.
I didn’t reply, but she sat back down.
“You were saying?” I asked her, wanting to ignore everything.
She hesitated. “Um, your music.”
“Right. What’s wrong with it?”
And just like that, the conversation went. Amy didn’t ask about my mood or if I was okay. She just went straight into her points and opinions about my music. That was another thing that was so different about her. One of the things I hated about people was their caring levels. I would rather have someone who didn’t care at all than have someone care too much. I hated when someone would constantly ask me if I was okay and what was wrong. To me it was obvious that, if I lied and said I was fine when I clearly wasn’t, that meant I didn’t want to talk about it. Yet friends and girlfriends would always persist, making things worse.
It was a relief to find someone who acknowledged that I didn’t want to talk about it. It distracted me from everything else, and I wondered if that was her purpose. If it was, it had worked. And I was glad.
“The bottom line is,” she said, “it’s sad.”
“Sad?”
“Yeah, your music,” she said, stirring her coffee. “It’s all sad. I mean, do you ever think about happy things? You remind me a lot of Yellow Road.”
“People like sad songs,” I argued. Then I said, “Yellow Road?”
“Yeah, people who enjoy crying all the time.”
“What would you have me sing about, then?” I asked. “Sunshine on a summer day? Like Yellow Road?”
“Hey, why not?” She shrugged and gave me a look. “Don’t make fun of Yellow Road. They are a pretty decent up-and-coming indie band. And they’re from North Carolina. You should be happy that I just compared you to them.”
I shook my head. “I would be if I had any idea who they are.”
She smiled. “Not hard to look them up. They actually exist as a band, unlike you.”
I returned her look.
“Okay, fine. Where’s all the love songs?” she asked.
I swallowed my coffee. “I don’t write love songs,” I said in a flat voice.
She stared at me. “Not one?”
I shook my head.
“Wow,” she said. “That is impressive.”
I furrowed my brow. “Why?”
She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “Well, everyone listens to love songs. They’re everywhere. You can’t avoid them even if you want to. You’re a guy who plays guitar and piano in a jazzy, soulful sort of way; it’s hard to think you could fill that whole CD with depressing songs and yet the closest thing to a love song is about a one-night stand that ended badly.” She paused, raising her eyebrows. “What was that about anyway?”
“Nothing,” I said, processing what she had just said.
She continued, “Every artist I’ve listened to has at least one famous love song. People fall over for that crap.” She took another sip, grabbing her cup with both hands. “It sort of makes sense why you’re struggling.”
I looked at her. I’d never told her that my open mic nights were struggling. The fact that she could tell just by listening to the songs didn’t make me feel any better.
“Before, you said you liked them,” I said reminding her of that thought.
She nodded. “I did.”
“Really?” I said in a surprised tone. “Then what do you say about songs you don’t like?” She ignored my comment.
“I love the music,” she said. “The melodies are beautiful. It’s just that the words and the thoughts are off.”
For someone who was not an expert in music, she sure acted like one. “You’re sure you’re going into architecture?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m an artist too, you know. Just a different kind. I need inspiration and creativity. It’s the same thought process. And you—” she pointed at me, “—need a new muse.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she put her hand up. I was tempted to grab it. “And please, pick a happier one.”
I sighed. “You kept your word on being honest and blunt.”
She smiled and shrugged.
I kept my eyes on her, noticing her two dimples. “Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked her.
She looked up from her cup. “Sure.”
We walked along the entire length of the boardwalk and talked. For the most part I stayed quiet, letting Amy do the talking. I thought about the other night, how she had said she understood my not letting her in. I wondered if it had to do with her not letting people in. I could tell she had a wall up, just like me, because of the subjects she talked about. She didn’t get personal. She talked mainly about swimming and drawing, and said nothing about family. I didn’t blame her; I never brought up my family if I could help it.
When we reached the end of the boardwalk, Amy checked her phone. She looked at me and said reluctantly, “My shift is about to start.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” she said, beginning to walk away. She stopped and faced me. “I’m going to the beach tonight.” She tilted her head slightly. I watched her face as she said this. I knew it was her way of offering to hang out, and she stood there for a minute longer, her face unreadable as always.
I finally nodded. “I’ll be there,” I said just as she turned around and walked away.