▪️Saturday, December 19th, 2017▪️
▪️Los Angeles, CA▪️
Emptiness. That's what I feel when I open my eyes. Light seeps through the blackout curtains and over the crumpled sheet of Angie-less side of the bed. I listen for the shower, any bathroom activity, but even as I do, I know she's not here. I run my hand along the vacant pillow, pull it to me, and bury my face in its inferior texture. The soft cloth is no comparison to Angie's skin, and I should've gotten my fill of her last night, but I didn't. Touching Angie is a pleasure, and not being able to do it makes my greedy heart ache. Her pillow goes behind my back on top of mine as I sit up and keep my hand occupied by rubbing the more-than-stubble on my face.
My phone is not on the bedside table, where I'd expect it to be. Getting out of bed is inevitable. I stretch and rip the cover off and stare at one more reason being in the same city as Angie and not next to her is torture. I find my shirt, pants, and the cellphone inside the pocket.
Mom: When are you coming to LA?
Me: Christmas Eve.
Not telling Mom I'm already here is a choice. I'm not ready to join the family fun or to endure the conversation about when she gets to meet Angie. Mom's never met any of my girlfriends. Bringing someone home means that not only Mom, but my aunt and Yiayia would be interrogating me about my intentions, and if the girl was Greek, what she was studying, and, and, and.
I find Angie's texts.
"Good morning," I say to the phone as type up the message back to her.
Sleeping until ten, which is noon Chicago time, is as unusual as having a morning when I have nothing on the agenda. I take my time in the shower, do a close shave to remove any trace of facial hair, but it's only ten-thirty.
My phone offers no ideas. Angie's socials haven't been updated. Nothing new from Mom. I try Ben.
Me: Is the dojang still standing?
Ben doesn't send an intimidate reply. I get dressed, cover up the bed, even though housekeeping can probably smell what was going on in this room most of the night. Should I check my work email? No. I'm on vacation. If I can't spend this time with Angie, I'm going to spend it with food.
The Italian Cafe's decor is on par with the exclusivity vibe of the hotel's lobby. Turning around and searching for a Starbucks down the street would be what I'd normally do when faced with places looking too high-end.
"Own it." Angie's words from last night stay by my side. I order a coffee and two breakfast sandwiches. The smell is comforting, and the patrons don't look at me or my bike boots. I find a place at a table for two, making sure to not run my chair into the mother and child who're sharing a pastry. The server brings me my breakfast, and I'm one and a half sandwiches in when a woman with midnight hair and sunglasses that cover two-third of her face comes in.
"A ristretto. Doppio. A splash of milk. Thanks, luv." The accent is English, and the voice is one I recognize.
I wipe my hands on the napkin, stand up, and tap her on the shoulder. "Poppy?"
The stern face relaxes when she sees me. "Angie's friend."
Boyfriend is what I'd like her to call me, but I haven't gotten to that title yet, and I'm not going to give up until I do. "Are you done with your writing session?"
"That's been canceled." We go to my table, and the rest of the patrons at the cafe are paying as much attention to her as they did to me earlier. None. Poppy lifts her sunglasses and rubs the eyes that have no trace of last night's stage makeup. "We got pissed at the last club you skipped. No way anyone was getting up to write."
Her coffee arrives, and I check my phone. No messages from Angie. "Angie left in the morning."
"Neil must've snatched her up. He's obsessed with finishing the album while we're on tour. Since he quit drinking and, you know"—she gives me a look like whatever Neil's been battling is common knowledge—"writing's been his way of staying on the straight and narrow." She drains her small white china cup with the name of the cafe printed on it. "But without Angie at the club and under the inspiration of a primo tequila bottle, we came up with a brilliant plan for her birthday present."
"Isn't her birthday like a month away?" Smokey swirls of the possibility I forgot her birthday cloud my mind.
"January twenty third."
Relief relaxes the tightness in my throat.
"Every birthday that happens on tour is a big deal. Folks are away from their families, so we make it extra special." Poppy lifts a finger in the air. "But this one requires preparation."
I was so focused on this trip, I haven't even given a thought to her birthday. "What's the plan? Can I go in on it?"
"We need one more lead. Everything else is planned. It's Christmas-themed."
"Christmas in January?" I loved the holiday as a child. My trauma from the image of a jolly bearded guy in a red-and-white costume is more recent. I hide my hands that turn into fists under the table out of Poppy's field of view.
"You know how obsessed with Christmas she is."
I huff. "Christmas and music seem to be her two favorite things."
"Exactly. We're combining those. As you seem to be her third favorite thing, adding you to the mix might be the most brilliant idea."
Third favorite thing isn't the worst place to be, but I'd prefer to be the first.
"What d'you need me to do?"
Poppy shares the details she knows, and we come up with a plan. She gives me her phone number, so we can keep the lines of communication and planning open.
"Thanks for including me." Lunch crowd trickles in, and the noise level doubles. "I better go rescue Angie from Neil." I'm only partially joking.
Poppy chuckles and puts her glasses back on. "She'll be fine. Neil's not a threat." She rises. "Let me get a to-go-cup, and we'll pay Neil a visit."
The ride up on the elevator with Poppy is wordless. I should be freaking out about the elaborate plan she just dragged me into, but for the first time I'm in a way part of Angie's tour life. My chest vibrates with excitement and surplus emotions. The lack of exercise over the last two days left my body full of unspent energy. Tingles behind my breastbone grow into a fury. Keeping this a secret from Angie won't be easy, but I can't wait to see the surprise and delight on her face.
Neil opens the door wearing a T-Shirt that has no holes and a beanie that's a fashion statement, because why else would you need to wear a hat in an air-conditioned hotel room?
"Lover-boy." He keeps his hand on the handle and doesn't move.
"Angie?" I shout into the open door, my resolve to remain calm and restrained around Neil forgotten.
"Is it lunch time already?" I hear her voice before I see her. The sight of Angie dressed in a loose white T and bright pink leggings paired with no makeup punches me in the heart. How can she be this. . .whatever it is. Neil opens the door wider, and I follow Poppy in.
The living room of his suite is set up as a studio with instruments, contraptions I cannot name littering most of the surfaces, and a laptop with an external monitor on the desk.
"I'm zeroing down on a new song." Angie skips to the keyboard. "Come." She waves me over. "Sit," she says to Poppy, who complies. "It's about you"—she kisses me: a sweet, chaste kiss—"and me."
She runs her fingers across the board with ease. I search for a sign of pain or stiffness in her injured hand, but she pushes the keys and sings. It's low, slow, husky, and turns me on. Fuck. My frustration with Neil forgotten, I stare at her when the words sink in. It is about us. Higher is what she said yesterday in the shower.
My morning condition that's dissolved after texting Mom and Ben returns. I shove my hands into my pockets and shift my focus to the Brits on the couch, watching her. Admiration, recognition of talent, appreciation are what I note on their faces. She's more than good. In this hotel room, without the spectacle of stage and magnification of the microphone, she's shining even brighter.
'I trace your stubble while
Into my longer strands your fingers plunge,
Ready to repeat the impossible.'
I catch her eyes on me, twinkling with mischief because only she and I know exactly what this song is about, and what she's asking for. . . was asking me for.
The music stops, and her hands fly around my neck. This kiss is longer and less innocent. If listening to her croon about our last night's fireworks turns me on, I hope singing about them does the same for her.
"This is not your room." Neil gets up and crosses the suite our way. "I'm not into watching others—"
"Timeout." Poppy takes her sunglasses off her forehead and throws them on the coffee table on top of the pile of papers. "Neil, stop being a dick. Angie, you are a wonder. And we're four lucky tossers. Once you have this one polished, will you add it to your set?"
"Can I?" Angie releases me and jumps up and down.
"We can add one more one when we restart in Seattle, if you have it ready by then. Plus, now that your hand's healing, you don't need to use Neil much, unless you want to."
Angie's smile slides, and she winces. I thought her singing with Neil was a secret only Neil, Angie, and I knew about. That she didn't get the group's approval.
"You know?" Angie's forehead wrinkles, and I put my arms around her waist.
Poppy takes a sip of her coffee, her face tired, but not at all pissed. "That you were overusing your hand, or that Neil was bailing you out?"
I cover Angie's fingers with mine, and she sinks into me. I want to whisper, "I'm here for you," but I'm sure she already knows.
"I didn't want you to break the contract. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for me," Angie says in a passionate but firm voice.
"You don't have to worry." Poppy puts the cup on the table. "We're behind you 100%".
Angie's back relaxes, and I hug her to me a little harder.
"Thank you." Angie reclines her head, and I put my chin on top of it.
Neil watches Poppy and Angie's exchange but adds no commentary.
"Thank you," says Poppy. "Our new album will be the best one yet, and we have you to thank for that. Your songwriting skills are top-notch, but Neil should've let you enjoy your morning." Poppy winks at me.
"Ready to go?" I ask Angie loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Yep." She collects some papers off the coffee table, picks up her cross-body bag, and puts it on over her head. "See you before the show." She waves at Neil and Poppy. Today's the last performance until their break.
We walk down the hallway hand in hand. Her song, our fucking song, plays on repeat in my ears.
'Higher, slower,
Lower, faster,
Follow me
As I
Follow you
Into the storm our hearts made.'
Our intertwined fingers are a visual of what's happening inside me. Fuckety fuck. I need to slow down. I need to feel less, to be more cautious, more guarded. Instead, I swing our arms, like I'm on the playground, and kick away any and all shields I've used in the past. This is different. This is real.
"Wanna go on another bike ride?"
She smiles at me and nods. "Let me grab a jacket and put shoes on." She points to her flip-flops with her chin.
Instead of putting clothes, we take it off as soon as we hang the do not disturb sign on the handle and close the door. If my love language is following her anywhere to show I'd do anything to keep our relationship going, her love language is music, and what she created for me from us speaks louder than any verbal declaration of feelings. Angie fills the empty space in my bed and in my soul like only she can when we replay the song with our bodies, repeating the impossible. My heart beats triple speed. I have her, and she has me. Together we can make our future whatever we want it to be.