“No, ma’am,” I murmured.
“Good. Tell your husband I said he’s no Otis, but I liked his show just fine.”
“Tell Rhys you like him better than Otis. Got it.” I ducked as she swatted at me with another file.
“Psh, get outta here.”
I shot her a grin as I grabbed my wallet and phone and headed for the door. “Happy Friday. Tell the professor I said hey.”
“All right. Enjoy the time with your man.”
My man. My man, my man, my man. It echoed in time with my steps uptown toward the 125th Street station. I caught the train with a few minutes to spare, and grabbed a window seat, earbuds and sunglasses firmly in place in case anyone near me felt chatty with TGIF cheer.
Despite Imari’s teasing, Rhys really wasn’t a rock star. Or a blues-folk-rock star. He’d worked as a studio and touring musician since finishing high school. He’d written and co-written songs for dozens of artists, knew people in every walk of the business, and had supported himself with his music since he was nineteen. It was rarified air, even before his first solo album debuted last month and did really well—well enough that he was about to go on the road for two months.
Rhys said it still didn’t feel real to him. He couldn’t believe that after a lifetime of being in the background, now it was his name on the album people were buying, the tickets, the T-shirts.
I couldn’t believe it either. Even though Rhys had started working on his first album soon after we met, the music business was normal enough to him that the strangeness of it had rarely touched me. He spoke about it like most people spoke about their jobs—irritated by the minutiae, excited by the successes.
It wasn’t until he’d played me two of his songs that what was going on truly sank in for me.
“What the fuck?” I’d asked, gaping at him after he finished the second song.
He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is that a thumbs down, then?”
“No, I— What the fuck, Rhys? You’re so fucking talented. How have you never played me your songs before?”
His slow smile had been warm and satisfied. “They weren’t ready before.”
“Your other songs. The ones people have recorded.”
“You really haven’t looked? You never googled me?”
It was so obvious the second it was out of his mouth, and I cringed.
“Wow, babe, it burns.” He’d pressed his palm to his heart and pouted at me. But that grin had been back in seconds, like his delight at his music was too big to even allow for my lack of musical wherewithal, and he’d tugged me next to him and proceeded to give me an education in the music of Rhys Nyland.
So, no, he wasn’t quite a rock star, but he was my man. My husband. And somehow that was even harder to believe.
The train crossed the Harlem River, then followed it west to the Hudson where it turned north. Urban congestion turned to sprawl, sprawl morphed into bucolic woods and sedate towns north of Yonkers.
Sleepy Hollow was the kind of town I’d never known real people lived in. With charming shops along Broadway, elaborate seasonal decorations, historical tour groups led by retirees or college students in period garb, and very little open after 8 p.m., it seemed like something from a 1950s Christmas movie. Nothing at all like the Washington Heights neighborhood I’d grown up in, or Chinatown, where I’d been living before I moved in with Rhys.
From the Philipse Manor stop it was only a ten minute walk to Rhys’s Colonial cottage. Rhys said it was likely an outbuilding at one time—a version of the main house in miniature. It was by far the smallest house in the neighborhood, and by far the most spacious place I’d ever lived.
Rhys bought it three or four years ago, when the rent money he’d saved by touring the whole year with five different bands coincided with a dip in the housing market. Though it had a large backyard, the cottage had been neglected, and wasn’t big enough for the families looking to live in the area. But for Rhys, the two bedrooms and small living room were plenty, and he had friends come and stay, asking only that they help him strip moldy wallpaper, replace rusted fixtures, and repaint.
Now the cottage was a cheery robin’s-egg blue—at least, that’s what Rhys called it—and was set back from the street by a dirt drive shaded with leafy maple trees.
Away from the city, the heat felt less oppressive, and the cottage glowed in the evening sun. The flutter in my chest as I opened the front door was all for Rhys. It was two-thirds relief and one-third nervous anticipation. Even though we’d been married for a year and a half, neither had waned.
I slid my keys on the hook by the door, dumped my wallet and phone on the table, and went to change. The shower was running in the bedroom, and my heart gave a powerful thud. Rhys. Shower. Naked.