Page 59 of Naked Coffee Guy
Thank goddess Nina stepped up, because I can never go back to the streets again. There were things I did back then in an effort to survive that I will not do now. That I can’t do now.
I am not that person anymore.
If I were forced to live on the streets again, with no place left to turn, I would not have survived. For all of that and more, I cannot forgive Mac.
In the meantime, I’ve been left with a lot of time on my hands. I’ve taken a break from performing at Hillside, which means I’ve been wandering Nina’s house in the hours I’m not working at Insomniacs. Every room is now organized. No clothes are hanging in the kitchen, the living room has clear spaces to sit, and I even cleared out another bedroom which Nina immediately took over as her closet.
However, as grateful as Nina was for the organization help, she also told me I needed to find a new hobby to keep myself busy.
She was right. If I didn’t distract myself with something soon, I was going to end up painting every wall and re-staining the hardwood floors. Or worse—calling Mac and telling him I missed him.
So a week ago, I posted an index card on the bulletin board at Insomniacs, offering to teach music to beginners. The day hadn’t even ended before I got a call. Now, at any moment, my first student is going to walk through the door.
There is no word to describe the mixture of nerves and excitement I’m feeling.
On cue, the doorbell rings and the butterflies I’m feeling do swan dives in my belly. I’ve stared death in the literal face, but this feels scarier.
“You got this,” Nina says, shaking me loose from my anxiety. It’s a rare moment when Nina is supportive, and I flash her a grateful smile in response. Then I gather my wits, put on my best mask of confidence, and head to the door.
The lesson proves to be nothing to be afraid of. Dylan is a fast study, which I fully attribute to the fact that he’s eleven. He soaks up everything I teach him, and by the time his mom comes to pick him up, he can play Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” a personal favorite of mine that only uses three of the chords he’s memorized.
“Mom, you should hear Maren play,” Dylan says once he’s shown off what he can do. I feel my face heat up as his mom, Lacey, looks toward me. After a little coaxing, I finally play an acoustic version of Paramore’s song, “You First,” off their latest album. I only play a few lines, but it’s enough to remember why I love performing, and that I actually miss it. When I look up, Dylan is beaming while Lacey looks a bit starstruck.
I am not one to ever feel embarrassed about performing in front of other people, and yet, I feel a little shy as I put my guitar away.
“You’re really good,” she says.
“I’m just having fun.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and stand. She fishes a check out of her purse, and I discreetly glance at it, then do my best to keep my eyes from bugging out of my face. It’s five times the amount I quoted her.
“I’m pre-paying for the next month, if that’s okay,” Lacey says, and I nod as nonchalantly as I can. Inside, I’m squealing. “Also, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to pass your name to someone I know in the business. I can’t promise anything, but she’s looking for new talent to work with, and I have a feeling you might be the perfect fit. Do you have any samples?”
Do I? Only a few hundred of them. In my room, I have a whole box of thumb drives that hold music, photos, videos of my performances, and my contact information, plus links to my social media. I retrieve one, but as I’m placing it in Lacey’s hand, I realize how meager it is.
“I don’t have a website or anything,” I say, “and I’m not on Spotify.” I start to go on, but she waves me off.
“That just means you’re truly undiscovered,” she says. “Talent is talent. Let’s just wait to see what my friend says, okay?”
An hour later I’m racing out the door to make it to Claire’s house to hang with my favorite kid while my best friend enjoys a much-needed date with her fiancé. I can’t seem to lose the permanent grin on my face, which hasn’t quit since Dylan and his mom left. Lacey’s words are swimming through my head. Even though she stressed that this was a long shot, it was still a shot. It was closer than anything I’d experienced in my life. I mean, what if it turned into an audition? A contract?
A fucking album and concert tour?
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I mutter, but the grin remains as I slide into my car and turn the key in the ignition. I plug in my phone, and of course Paramore comes on since that was the last thing I was listening to.
But my smile falters.
The song is “Ain’t It Fun,” a song I’ve heard at least a million times. Except, all I can think of is the orchestra version, surrounded by thousands of flickering lights, and my hand safely encased in Mac’s.
I miss him, and now that I have this news, I want to share it with him. Even if it amounts to nothing, especially if it doesn’t, I need him to anchor me, to be thrilled with me, to dream up the possibilities—and if it all falls apart, I want him there to pick up the pieces.
Because I have spent my whole life being my own savior, and I’m tired.
“I’ll just drive there,” I tell myself. The car is already heading in the direction of the house where Mac’s been staying, as if I’m not the one in control. “If he’s not there, I’ll take it as a sign.”
Please be there. Please be there.
I turn down one street, and then the next until I’m slowing in my approach to the house. Before I’ve even pulled up, I can already see I’m too late.
A “For Sale” sign hangs from a white post on the front lawn. There’s been some landscaping since the last time I was here, and the house appears to have much more curb appeal. As if it’s waiting for new owners.