I’m looking out the window of Adam’s moving car, wondering who taught him how to be so nice. It couldn’t have been his father, because a giant dickhead would never think to leave his apartment in the middle of the night to pick up a slightly inebriated woman at a bar and drive her home. And a giant dickhead certainly wouldn’t teach his son to sit with his grandmother in a nursing home for hours on end. It leads me to believe Adam must’ve learned how to be so nice from his mother. He’s never mentioned her, and I’m a little afraid to ask.

What if she had nothing to do with why he’s such a gentleman? What if she made like Louise McGee and cut out when he was just a kid? Or, even worse, what if his giant dickhead of a father snuffed her out of Adam’s life, just like he snuffed out Ms. Sinclair?

“You okay?” he asks as my muddled mind moves from one thought to another.

“Yep.”

“You’re awfully quiet. You’re not upset Jarrod didn’t come with us, are you?”

I turn away from the window to look at him. We’re pulling onto my street. “I’m so far from upset, it’s ridiculous.”

He smiles at me. It makes my stomach flip-flop and sends a shockwave of notes through my mind. He pulls over in front of my building, puts the car in park, and turns off the engine.

“Sounds like a pretty good place to be,” he says matter-of-factly, opening his door and climbing out of the car. I do the same. Adam opens the back door and pulls my gig bag out, gently hoisting the straps up over his shoulders. He walks around the front of the car, steps up onto the sidewalk, and takes my hand. We walk together up the front stairs of my building. I twist the doorknob, thinking about how he’s the first person besides Jarrod I’ve ever let carry my StingRay. It means something.

“If you’re going to carry my bass, the next logical step is for me to invite you in,” I say.

“I didn’t carry your bass with any expectations.” He raises his right palm. “Promise. I was just trying to be nice.”

Nice. There’s the word. I can’t help it. “You know, your momma did a hell of a job raising such a nice boy.”

“No, she didn’t. All the nice parts come from my grandmother.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I walk into the building and gesture for him to follow. “Don’t tell me both of your parents are giant dickheads?”

He’s behind me now, following me up the staircase. “My mother isn’t a giant dickhead. She’s just a too-busy-shopping-and-getting-her-nails-done-to-bother-with-her-own-child kind of mother.”

“Oh.” We’re headed up the second flight now.

“Like I said, my grandmother was my best friend. She essentially raised me. That is, until I turned eight and my father saw fit to shut her out and head west. From then on, I had after-school nannies and summer camps to raise me.”

“Why did he shut her out?” He never gave me an answer the last time I asked, and besides, it’s way too late for patient privacy now.

“To be honest, I’m not sure. He never talked about it, other than to tell me I wasn’t allowed to be with her anymore. He wouldn’t even let me write or call her. I was just a kid, so I figured it must have been something really, really bad for him to keep me from her. He knew how much I loved her. To this day, he won’t tell me why. Not that I ever talk to him anymore. He always just said it was for my own good. That’s part of the reason I came here. To find out why he shut her out. But now it looks like I’ll never find out.” There’s so much emotion in his voice. So much sadness and confusion.

I open the door to my apartment, and we go inside. Adam closes the door behind me and lays my bass on the floor. That isn’t where it belongs, but at least he didn’t lay it facedown, on the strings. I don’t say a word, but he keeps on talking.

“I mean, I don’t want to waste what’s left of my time with Gram continually prying her for answers. It’s bad enough that I have to stop myself from asking her who Bradley is. Whatever happened back then probably doesn’t matter now anyway. It’s too late.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, down to the back of his neck. It sits there, frozen with exasperation. He’s been thinking about this for a long time. Seventeen years, to be exact. It’s got to be hard to let go after all that time.

“This might be totally out of line, but…maybe you’re better off not knowing what happened. I mean, maybe your gram wouldn’t want you to know. Like, what if it’s something that would change your opinion of her? Maybe that’s what your dad’s been protecting you from all these years.”

His brow furrows, and his hand drops down to his side. “That’s a big maybe, K’acy. My dad’s not that kind of guy. He doesn’t protect other people. He only protects himself.”

“Sounds like a giant dickhead.”

“Like I said…” He’s smiling at me again, and it feels good. “So, are you gonna offer me a drink now or what?” It’s a clear attempt to change the subject, and his face flushes with relief when I run with it.

“Let’s see…I’ve got beer, water, and Gatorade. What can I get you?” I’m already on my way to the kitchen as I ask.

“Beer.” He takes a seat on the sofa. I can see him over the half-counter between the kitchen and the living room. Adam’s head swivels from side to side; he’s checking the place out. “Your apartment’s really great. I like the layout.”

I open two bottles of beer and walk back out. “Thanks. I’ve only lived here a year or so. Took me a while to save up. My place before this was a bit of a dump.” He takes a beer from my outstretched hand, and I sit down on the sofa next to him. Not too close, but not too far away either. “How about you? Where’s your place?”

“It’s over in Mount Airy.” That would be why he was only a ten-minute drive from The King’s Court. “It’s a decent one bedroom. I had a real estate agent find it for me so I’d have somewhere to live as soon as I got here. Someday I’ll pick out my own place, but this one will do until the lease runs out.”

Adam and I talk for a long time, snug against each other on the sofa, taking sips of beer in between words. I learn more about his time in Seattle and share my thoughts on growing up in Louisiana. It’s easy, and before I know it, it’s close to three in the morning. I’m not drunk, or even buzzed anymore, but I’ve got to go to work in a few hours.

Still…I don’t really want to ask him to leave.

When we finally stop talking, Adam slumps down in his seat and puts his arm out along the back of the sofa, as if he doesn’t want me to ask him to leave either. I move closer and put my head down on his chest, curling my legs up onto the cushions and sinking into him like he’s the most familiar thing in the world. He lowers his outstretched arm down against my side and pulls me in tight.

Then, Adam Sinclair kisses the top of my head and says, “Good night.”

* * *

I wake on Thursday morning to my cell phone alarm vibrating in my pocket. Adam and I have shifted in our sleep; we’re both lying on the sofa, crammed together with his arm around my shoulder and my head still on his chest. His left foot is up on the arm of the couch, and his right is dangling off the edge. He’s too tall for the sofa, and yet he’s sound asleep. I do my best to get up without disturbing him. He doesn’t even move.

I’m standing in my living room, looking at Adam sleeping so soundly on my sofa, and wondering, yet again, what my father would think about all this. I wonder what he would warn me about. I wonder what negatives he would see that I’m missing. My daddy was always good at tempering my bright side and giving me a dose of reality without crushing who I am. Not even a little bit. I’m not sure I would listen to him, though, even if he were here to give me advice. I think my heart’s already taken the lead on this one, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Sorry, Daddy. Destiny, and Miriam Hansen, had it right this time.

I head to the bathroom to shower and get ready for work, and even as I detonate one squeaky floorboard after another, Adam’s breathing stays steady.

* * *

The very-nice-boy-I-can’t-stop-thinking-about drove me to work this morning, dropping me off in Pine Manor’s parking lot before heading home for a shower of his own. He kissed me just before I got out of the car. A real kiss. Not a sweet kiss on the forehead. Not the kiss of a nice boy. A kiss that shimmied around inside my ribcage Anthony Kiedis-style. I will carry it around with me for the rest of the day. Hell, maybe even for the rest of my life.

Adam comes back to Pine Manor, freshly showered and shaved but still sporting a tuft of intentional bed-head, at 10:30, just as I’m about to start moving everyone to the community room for bingo.

Ms. Sinclair has been sitting at the front window, watching her birds, since Sondra moved her there just after breakfast. She’s chatty this morning, telling me about the tiny goldfinch perched on the feeder as I straighten her blanket. She says it’s a male. She can tell because the feathers are so bright. The female’s feathers are drab, she tells me. Brown and drab. It startles me when our eyes connect. I catch a glimpse of something again, something in her eyes I’d rather not see. I’m thankful when Adam interrupts us with a soft hello.

“Good morning, Adam,” Ms. Sinclair says, clear as a bell. Adam looks at me and sighs a small, happy sigh. “This young lady and I were just looking at the goldfinches. Do you see them out there? The ones with the yellow feathers?”

“Yes, Gram, I do. They’re beautiful.”

“You know, your father used to have a canary when he was a boy. He kept it in his bedroom. I wanted to get you one, too, but your mother said she didn’t want such nonsense in her house.”

It’s the longest, most cohesive string of sentences Ms. Sinclair has said in days. Adam’s expression is a combination of utter surprise and absolute pleasure. I take a step back to give them both some space as he sits down in the chair facing her.

“I would’ve loved to have a canary, Gram. Do you remember those fish I used to have?”

“I do. They were the only pet your mother would let you to have. She wasn’t too keen on animals.”

“No, she sure wasn’t.” Adam can’t take his eyes off of her. He’s clearly in a state of shock over his grandmother’s clarity. As am I.

“How is your mother, darling? You know, I haven’t seen her in quite some time.”

“My mother is fine. She and Dad still live in Seattle.”

“Yes. Yes. Seattle. That’s right. Now, what about you, dear? How is high school?”

“Gram, I’m not in high school anymore. I’m twenty-five now. I just finished graduate school not too long ago.” His face falls. He knows he’s losing her.

“Well, then. You’d better get back to work. Both of you. Principal Sykes does not like our students to be tardy. You’ll get scolded if you’re late.” Her brow furrows and she waves her hands at us, as if to send us away. It breaks my heart.

I step into the conversation in hopes of bringing her back to the present before she slips fully away. “Ms. Sinclair, why don’t you let Adam take you into the community room? They’re about to start a new game of bingo, and if I recall correctly, you mentioned earlier you’d like to play.”

“Why, yes, dear. That would be quite nice.” Nice. Like all the parts of Adam that came from her and not from his animal-hating mother.

“Come on, Gram. Let’s get rolling.” Adam stands up and walks around to the back of Ms. Sinclair’s wheelchair. As he releases her brake, he nods at me and quietly adds, “How ’bout that. I never would’ve pictured my dad as a canary type. Vulture, yes. But canary…”

I can’t stop myself from smiling.

* * *

The following two days fly by uneventfully. Ms. Sinclair enjoys a few more fleeting moments of semi-lucidity, but nothing like the canary conversation. Nothing that gives Adam a reason to hope for more. By the time the end of Saturday’s shift arrives, I’m in need of another housecleaning.

Crackerjack Townhouse is playing at a bar in South Philly tonight, and Adam has enthusiastically agreed to come swoon, even though I warned him of the pending inquisition from Jarrod. When he said, “Bring it on,” I told him he has no idea what he’s in for. The truth is, though, I don’t think he has much to worry about. I think Jarrod is well-enough freaked out about me seeing someone that he won’t want to scare the poor guy away.

Just before I leave work to head home, Adam tells me he’ll pick me up at my place at 7:15 so I don’t have to take my bass on the bus. I’ve lugged the StingRay on and off of a bus a million times before, but it doesn’t stop me from accepting his offer without a second thought. I already can’t wait to see him again, even when he’s still standing right in front of me.

On the bus ride home, I think about tonight and how Jarrod and Adam will be together, with me as their common thread. I’m both excited and, admittedly, a little nervous.

The bus drops me at my stop and passes with a belch of exhaust as I walk the last block to my building. In its wake, a black car races past me, one with dark, shaded windows. It’s the same car I’ve seen twice before; I’m sure of it now. But why is it here? Is it possible that someone’s watching me? A sinking feeling quickens my pulse when a few possible reasons why someone would be following me flicker through my mind. I climb the stairs of my apartment building and immediately head inside.

* * *

As we’re setting up the stage in South Philly a few hours later, my mind is reeling with more questions about the car. I don’t owe the man on Latham Street anything, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think I do. Nor does it mean he didn’t sell me out. Maybe one of his “associates” is in that car. Or maybe the cops are watching me, hoping to catch me with whatever it is he told them I have. I won’t know why the car is following me, of course, unless I know who’s driving it.

Just before we start the sound check, my thoughts turn to what I should do about it. Knocking on the car window and asking the driver what they want is definitely a bad idea, no matter who’s behind the wheel. If I ignore the car and make sure I don’t give the driver any new reasons to stick around, maybe they’ll eventually give up. It’s a big maybe, for sure, so the thought doesn’t offer me much comfort.

The whole thing ties my insides into a thick, contorted knot. Too much is at stake. Too much could be lost.

As the bar doors open and Jarrod, Marquis, Bryson, and the rest of us head backstage to wait for showtime to arrive, I shut down my worry as much as I can. I close it out and prepare to let the notes scrub my mind and my soul clean once again.

Despite all of my uncertainty about the car, the gig is downright amazing. The music flows out of my fingers like a rousing symphony, clean and warm and luscious. There are women, so many women, crowded against the front of the stage. All of them watching Jarrod’s every move, but feeling my every note. Feeling the echo of the song in their chest. It makes me happy to see them happy. Just like always. But better. Way better. Because I know my lone swooner is out there somewhere, feeling the very same thing.

A few minutes after we finish the first set and head to the back for a break, Adam comes in to see us. He says hello and briefly shakes hands with Stevie and the rest of the guys as he passes them on his way to where Jarrod and I are standing. By the time he gets to us, a lump of excitement has clogged my throat. Adam extends a hand, and Jarrod takes it firmly into his own. It’s a solid handshake, from one man to another. Full of respect and acceptance. Even though I’m not the one touching Adam’s skin, “Soul to Squeeze” is there, low and resonating and wonderful. The handshake makes me giddy.

“Good to see you again, man.” Jarrod is the first to break the silence, just as their hands release. “Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Adam steps over to me, puts a hand on the small of my back, and bends down to kiss me on the temple. It’s simple and electric. A nice-boy kiss, full of promise. “You guys sure know how to put on one hell of a show.”

I look up to find Adam’s gray eyes connected directly to mine.

“That’s because Kace is one hell of a bassist,” Jarrod says, breaking Adam’s stare with his words. Jarrod’s wearing a half-cocked smile, one that tells me he took note of Adam’s kiss and he’s trying to talk me up in front of my swooner.

“And Jarrod is one hell of an ass shaker,” I add, talking him up in return. Mostly to show him how ridiculous it sounds. But also because the whole idea of someone talking me up makes me a little uncomfortable.

“Exceptional bass playing and ass shaking aside, you guys really do sound great. K’acy tells me you’ve been playing together for like six years. How’d you two meet?” The question is aimed at Jarrod, not me, and it’s clear from Jarrod’s expression he did not expect to be on the receiving end of the inquisition. He thought he’d be the one asking all the questions.

I wonder how much of the story he’ll tell.

“We met at a bus stop. I was high out of my fucking mind, nearly ready to claw my own eyes out, and some stranger named K’acy sat down next to me and fixed everything.” His face is relaxed, full of peace and gratitude. We’ve talked about that night before, lots of times, but he’s never put it quite like that. He’s never made me feel like I was his savior. Until now.

I’m not quite sure what to say. The emotion wells up inside of me. I swallow hard.

Adam is silent at my side, knowing he’s just gotten way more than he bargained for. It takes me a second to come up with the right words.

“All I did was remind you that you’re in charge of your own future.” I shrug and shake my head. “The rest was Crackerjack Townhouse’s doing, not mine.” I hear Adam’s exhalation.

“Whatevs, Kace. Fine. Don’t take credit for my current state of epic ass shaking then. But it’s the truth.” He switches his attention to Adam, turning the tables as he goes. “And how about you? I hear your grandmother’s a patient at Pine Manor. How’d you manage to hook up with one of her nurses?”

“For the millionth time, I’m not a nurse, Jar. I’m an aide.”

“Oh yeah. Right. An aide. So, how’d you hook up with her aide then?”

“I guess I got lucky,” Adam answers. “She was coming to give Gram her medicine, and we literally ran into each other in the hallway.”

I don’t think Jarrod knows I’m not licensed to medicate patients, so thankfully, my eavesdropping will remain a secret.

“Well, not to give too much away about the girl, but…” I have the sudden feeling my best friend is about to throw me to the wolves, “…unless she’s lying to me, I know K’acy better than anyone else ever has, and I gotta say, she seems to be a little more relaxed since you started hanging out with her. She’s taking it a little easier on the rest of us.” Jarrod moves his hand to indicate the other guys in the room.

It never dawned on me until now, but he’s right. I haven’t been overly involved in band stuff since Adam showed up. I haven’t been texting Jarrod twenty times a day, asking for extra rehearsals and writing sessions. It makes me wonder how Jarrod really feels about it. He hasn’t said a word, until tonight. I hope he doesn’t think I stopped caring.

“You do know I’m standing right here?” I say with a lift of my brow, trying to keep things from getting too serious.

“I’m just trying to let Adam know that your relationship—or whatever it is—has been beneficial to all of us. I wouldn’t want him to think we disapprove of it or something.”

“All very good to know,” Adam chimes in with enough lilt in his voice to sink a ship. “I’ll do my best to keep her off your back.”

I turn to Adam just as the stage manager comes in to tell us it’s time to head out for the final set. “How noble of you,” I declare.

“No problem.” Adam is smiling from ear to ear.

“In the meantime, we’ve got some funk to play,” Jarrod says. “Come on, Kace. Kiss The Mister adieu, and I’ll see you out there.” He reaches over to shake Adam’s hand again, and I can see the mischief on both of their faces. They’ve just had a male bonding moment. Cute.

Jarrod walks away, and I issue an unnecessary apology to Adam, telling him I’m sorry for all the foolishness. He tells me he loved every second. I kiss him on the mouth and walk out onto the stage.

* * *

When the show ends and we start the teardown, Adam watches us from across the room. I guess he doesn’t want another rebuke from a sound guy, so this time he keeps his distance.

Despite the emaciated woman with a pixie cut who can’t take her eyes off of him, Jarrod is talking to me as we pack up. He glances at her from time to time, silently telling her to hang tight. “So, you going home with The Mister tonight?” he asks. “I see he’s still here.”

“Yeah, I guess. He’ll probably offer me a ride.”

“A ride on his love stick?”

What? “Oh my God, Jar. You’re so weird.”

“What?” He lifts his palms and shoulders to the sky. I shake my head at him and roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you guys haven’t done it yet…”

“That would be none of your business.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You haven’t, have you?”

“Like I said, none of your business.”

Jarrod tosses his arm around my shoulders and puts his mouth against my ear. “Good for you,” he says in a near whisper. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. Two seconds later, his arm drops off my shoulder and he offers me another double fist-bump. He turns to wink at me just before he jumps off the stage, heading toward the Pixie Princess and her promise of easy, temporary “love.”

For some reason, as I turn away from Jarrod and the Princess to put the StingRay into its bag, my momma pops into my head. She never taught me a lick about sex. In fact, she bailed on us just a few months before my big sister was christened into womanhood in sixth-grade gym class. Charlie thought she was dying. Mrs. Krick had to take her into the locker room and explain the situation.

The gym teacher had to tell my sister how to be a woman because her own momma decided she’d rather be somewhere else. The controlled descent of Charlie’s self-esteem spooled out about a mile of rope that day. And I don’t think it’s stopped unraveling since.

Lucky for me, I had a big sister to teach me how to be a woman. The day Mrs. Krick told Charlie about “her friend” was the very same day Charlie shared the information with me. Probably a bit much for a nine-year-old, but useful nonetheless. Eventually, I heard about everything from Charlie. She showed me how to kiss a boy three years before one even took interest in me. I learned about sex by listening to my own sister recall, in great detail, her encounter with Treyvon Rail under the football bleachers. She showed me how to buy a bra and how to deal with my period when the time came for both. Charlie said she didn’t want me to be as lost as her. She said she was watching out for me.

But then I grew up, and I started thinking maybe I should’ve been watching out for her instead.

Thinking about all of this makes me wonder who taught Adam about sex. He didn’t have a big brother, and I can’t imagine his animal-hating mother sitting him down with a book or something. He was too young for it to have been his grandmother. Maybe it was his gym teacher or a camp counselor or, God forbid, one of his nannies. It certainly couldn’t have been his giant dickhead of a father. Giant dickheads don’t care enough to teach their sons about stuff like love and sex.

Whoever it was, I hope they did it justice.