“You’re selling yourself short,” I said. “This is a wonderful idea, and I know where you could start. That little old lady you met today, Nana Dombruso, is the co-founder of a transitional shelter for formerly homeless LGBTQ teens and young adults. I bet she’d love it if you offered guitar lessons to the residents.”
“Even with my criminal record?”
“The Dombrusos made their money in organized crime, Micah. They’re really not the type to judge.”
He stopped strumming the guitar and grinned at me. “You mean that cute little old lady is a mafia granny?”
“I guess she used to be. From what I hear, the family’s retired now,” I said. “Anyway, if you’re serious about wanting to do this, we can make it happen. I know you can’t go to the shelter, but we could set up a live video conference with any of the residents who want to participate.”
He set aside the guitar and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. “I’m going to send guitars to all the residents. Even if they don’t want me to teach, maybe the kids will enjoy them. Do you know the address of the shelter?”
“I can look it up. Are you doing this right now?”
“Sure. Why wait?” He scrolled through some photos on his screen for a few moments, then said, “Here we go, this is a great guitar. How many residents are there?”
“Eighteen, I think.” I pulled my phone from the pocket of my pajama pants and did a quick search for the shelter’s address.
“I’ll send twenty, just to be safe. It’s late now, but let’s call Nana tomorrow. If she doesn’t want me to volunteer, that’s fine. I’ll hire someone else to teach them, assuming any of these kids are actually interested. I’m sending the guitars either way, though. If they don’t want them, maybe they can pass them on to their friends.”
A few minutes later, twenty high-end acoustic guitars had been ordered for the shelter. I leaned in and kissed Micah’s cheek, and then I told him, “You’re such a good man.”
“I could do better. I donate a lot of money, but I want to learn to give more of myself. Hopefully someone at the shelter will give me a chance to do that.” He mulled that over for a few moments before saying, “Maybe that’s been one of my problems in relationships, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s so much easier to, let’s say, buy a boyfriend a car than to let my guard down and give them a piece of me.” I really didn’t know what to think about that. He definitely did that with me, but then we weren’t a couple.
Micah got out of bed long enough to carefully place his guitar on top of the dresser, and then we both climbed under the covers. After I put my glasses on the nightstand, we gravitated into each other’s arms. I rested my head on his chest and murmured, “What an extraordinary day.”
“It really was. It felt like a day of new beginnings.”
He was right, it had been that for both of us. We’d started thinking about the future, and while both art school and Micah’s return to music were really positive, it was also tinged with a note of sadness—for me, anyway.
We were making plans as two individuals, not as a couple. What would it mean for us if I tied myself down with a four-year art program here in San Francisco, while he was planning to leave the city the moment his sentence was up?
Chapter 9
The next few weeks passed in a blur. Micah and I continued to play house, as I’d taken to calling it, and we were happy. But nothing really changed between us.
Every Monday, without discussion, he left my payment in a bright blue envelope on the kitchen counter. Each had my name written above the numbered week. The most recent one said “week eleven.”
I’d peeked inside the first one to confirm what it was. But instead of opening the rest, I always just took the envelopes and hid them in my dresser. They were a humiliating reminder that he was still a client, and I was a prostitute he’d hired to do a job. I’d deal with them eventually, but for now I wanted to think about them as little as possible.
Then again, maybe I should be grateful for that weekly reminder of what exactly we were doing here. It was incredibly easy to forget what we were supposed to be to each other when we were on one of our “dates,” or cuddling in bed, or even just hanging out together and enjoying each other’s company. But then, week after week, there was that blue envelope to remind me this man wasn’t my boyfriend and we weren’t in a relationship—no matter what it felt like sometimes.