Capture

“Is ten minutes enough time for me to ask you my questions about yesterday? What happened with your business partner?”

He shook his head, giving me his profile as he fiddled with the coffee machine. “No. No—I do want to talk to you about all that—but we don’t have enough time this morning. I don’t,” he paused, apparently struggling over his word choice, “I don’t want to be rushed. A lot has happened and ten minutes isn’t enough time to explain everything. What’s your schedule today? Could we have lunch?”

“Not unless your office is in Harlem. I have a gig up there all afternoon. Dinner?”

“No.” He frowned, turning to face me while he leaned against the counter, the coffee machine coming to life. “I have a dinner meeting tonight until late.”

“Well, I’ll be here all week. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to catch up at some point.”

He appeared to be a tad frustrated; it was plain irritation at the situation, not irritation with me.

“Thanks for the break last night. But I want to know what’s been going on with you. What have you been up to? What have you been doing? Any big changes?”

I gave him a half smile. “You mean any big changes I can adequately summarize in eight minutes or less?”

“Yeah. Good point.” His grin was surprising because it was somewhat self-deprecating. Self-deprecating at 5:05 a.m. looked really adorable on Martin Sandeke.

But then, that was the crux of my problem. To me, every smile looked good on Martin Sandeke. Every expression, anytime, anyplace. I simply adored his face because—despite our history and his past assholery—I still adored him.

“Well, I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes version then we can discuss in greater detail later, sound good?”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Okay, let’s see.” I sorted through the last nine months, filtering out the epic sob-fests, chronic melodramatic closet visits, and angry acoustic guitar music. “Sam and I moved off campus at the beginning of the summer. I auditioned for the band in July. I decided to change my major around the same time and take a semester—the fall semester—off school so I could audition for the music program.”

For some reason, the fact I’d switched majors felt like a really momentous proclamation, especially saying it out loud to Martin. I slid my eyes to the side to gage his reaction and I found him grinning at me.

“That’s,” he started, stopped, looking a tad overwhelmed. He leaned away from the counter and crossed to stand in front of me. “That’s fucking awesome news!”

I laughed, partly as a release of nervous energy and partly because his voice was much louder and he sounded so excited for me. Really, he sounded ecstatic.

“Thank you.” I dipped my head to the side, feeling a bit too pleased by his reaction.

“Really, this is great.” He was beaming with happiness, his smile now enormous. Obviously unable to help himself, Martin grabbed me from where I loitered at the entrance to the kitchen and pulled me into a tight hug.

I laughed at his effusive display of excitement and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Yeah, well, I know I want to play music and I know I love to compose, but I’m not sure what I want to do exactly.”

He leaned away, his hands shifting to grip my arms above the elbows, seemingly wanting to see my face as I relayed the rest of my thoughts.

“Do I want to teach? Write for record labels? Score soundtracks? I have no idea.” My stomach twisted with unease; my mother would be asking me about performing at her fundraiser and benefit again as soon as the holidays were over. Eventually I would have to make a decision.

Martin mistook my grimace of anxiety for nerves about switching my major, and said, “But you’ll make a lot of good contacts in the school of music, people who can help you figure out what to do next. Don’t hesitate to exploit them for their knowledge.”

“Yes. Exactly. I like the idea of expert unbiased input.”

His smile widened again as his gaze skated over my face, his eyes were positively glittering. “That’s a very Kaitlyn Parker thing to say.”

Of course I returned his smile, his happiness for me was heady and infectious. “So you mean it was an awesome thing to say?”

“Exactly.”

His coffee maker beeped or chimed or made some odd musical notation to announce that my coffee was ready. The sound was very official. Martin didn’t release me immediately and for a second I thought he might pull me back into another hug. Instead he sighed—a happy sounding sigh—and let go, moving to a cabinet and grabbing a coffee cup.

“You know, we should go out and celebrate.”

“Celebrate my switch in majors?”

“Yes. And hopefully other things, too.”

“Like what other things?”

He placed the cup on the counter in front of me, looking a bit distracted, pensive.

He hesitated before answering, but when he did his eyes were sharp and sober, and his tone told me he was a smidge frustrated. “It might speed things up if you read some of the interviews I’ve given over the past few months. Then when we have time this week to talk you’ll know…everything.”

“Sure. Fine. That makes sense.” I nodded, sipped my coffee.

This seemed to both relax him and stress him out. I watched him gather a deep, bracing breath. “Good,” he said, sounding like maybe me reading the interviews was both good and bad. Abruptly he pulled out his phone and frowned. “I’m late. I have to go.”

“Okay.” I gave him a reassuring smile because he seemed to need it. “I’ll see you later.”

Martin loitered, just looking at me, his expression unreadable. Again I experienced an involuntary reaction to his looking. And again I just accepted my body’s flutterings and warmings as one of life’s truths.

Then Martin nodded once, turned, and left.

He just…left, the sound of the apartment door shutting punctuating his abrupt departure.

I stood in the kitchen for a full minute staring at the doorway where he’d disappeared so unceremoniously. He hadn’t said goodbye.

The longer I stared the more the early morning silence felt harsh and loud, so I gave myself a mental shake—deciding he must’ve been in a hurry—and crossed to the counter where I spied the aforementioned box of muffins.

Grabbing one—and my coffee—I decided that now was a good time to start reading the interviews he’d mentioned. Now that I had food and caffeine, I didn’t need the extra time I’d allotted to secure both before my gig nearby. I left my breakfast on the kitchen table and returned with my laptop, figuring I had a good twenty minutes of reading before I absolutely had to take my shower.

I bit into my delicious banana nut muffin, pulled up my Internet browser, and typed Martin Sandeke interview into the search field.

What popped up made the delicious muffin in my mouth taste like sand.

Picture after picture of Martin and a redheaded woman wallpapered the results page—a very pretty, petite, smiling redheaded girl about my age or a little older. She was always smiling, either at him or the camera. The photos dated as far back as August and as recently as three weeks ago.

They looked so pretty, the two of them, so young and vibrant and suited.

My heart thundered between my ears and I forcefully shut my laptop, blinking rapidly at nothing in particular. This wasn’t like seeing him briefly with the brunette at my show last week. This was very different. All those feelings I’d been trying to avoid for the past nine months, the fear of irrefutable evidence that he’d moved on, seeing Martin with someone else, were finally realized and made my chest feel vice-grip-tight.

And yet, as I sat there, having my freak out, calming my breathing, and staring at nothing, a little voice reminded me that he’d texted me the day before and stated he didn’t have a girlfriend. He wouldn’t have lied to me, not when it would be so easy for me to discover the truth. And besides, Martin hadn’t ever knowingly lied to me before, he wasn’t a liar.

Perhaps she was a friend. A really good friend. A friend who he’d been photographed with a lot, since August. A friend he saw all the time.

Then another little voice asked me why it mattered, because he and I were over. And that little voice made me immeasurably sad.

I briefly contemplated opening the laptop and continuing my search. But instead, I decided I didn’t have time to contemplate Martin, the pretty redhead, and my jumbled feelings on the matter and still make it to work on time. I could always go back to the search later if I was feeling brave enough.

I gulped my coffee and threw the muffin away, then grabbed my laptop and clothes from where I’d discarded them earlier. I had all morning to consider my next course of action. There was no need to make myself late.

***

The tree-trimming party was fine.

I spent the entirety of the three sets obsessing about the pictures of Martin and the redheaded girl. But the time obsessing was ultimately productive as I came to the conclusion that I was definitely not ready to read his interviews or see the pictures. I knew my limitations, and seeing Martin happy with someone else—even if he didn’t have a girlfriend now and they weren’t together anymore—was not in my wheelhouse. Not yet.