Fall (VIP 3)

Her blue eyes cloud. “What do you mean?”

“I’m faking it these days, Stells. I go on that stage and it feels like an echo of me. I experience it as if from far away. Sometimes, I think about those early days, when we’d have to cajole a club owner to let us play and be damn thankful when one finally agreed.” My mouth quirks at old memories. “When we were really new, and really terrible, there were times we’d go and play on the sidewalk, just so someone other than our friends could hear us. I was hopeful back then. Music was my air, not the water rising over me.”

I don’t know why I’m unloading on her, only that it feels good to talk to someone outside the band, someone I’m not paying to listen to me. It occurs to me that Stella is the only true connection I’ve made with someone in my adult life who is solely for me. I don’t know whether that’s fucked up or we’re all living in these isolated social bubbles, but I like it. I look at her now, not finding any pity, just acknowledgment.

“I want to breathe freely again, Button. Does that make any sense?”

Her nose wrinkles as she stares off, contemplating. “I think at some point, we all start feeling that water closing in. We all want that air.”

“You choking too?” I ask softly.

Absently, she nods. “Some days.” A gust of wind blows down the avenue, tossing her air about her face, and I realize we’re standing still while people on the sidewalk rush past, flowing around us as though we are rocks in a river.

Stella tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “When’s the last time you performed just for the music?”

“When I played for you at Sam’s shop.” That didn’t exactly end well, and we both know it.

She hums thoughtfully. “I think you need to do it again. Let’s go.”

“Wait, where?” There’s a light in her eyes; she’s plotting things. Stella kind of things.

She squeezes my hand. “You’ll see.”

“Last time I heard those words with that tone, Rye got us all drunk and convinced us that it was a great idea to shave our pubes.”

Stella misses a step, almost stumbling off the curb. I haul her against me, wrapping my arm around her waist. She laughs up at me, the sound short and shocked. “All off?”

“Yep. Itched like fuck growing back,” I grumble, fighting a smile. I’d blame that one on the ignorance of youth but it was only three years ago.

“Welcome to the world of women’s problems,” Stella deadpans. “Talk to me after you’ve tried a Brazilian wax.”

It’s my turn to nearly stumble.

“Stop gaping like a fish,” she says with another laugh. “Come on, we’ve got to get going.”

“Wait. Can we talk about your adventures in waxing? Or maybe give me the rundown on what you’re doing these days?”

Sadly, she keeps walking, leaving me to follow.

We end up in Battery Park, and when Stella stops near a group of young and ragtag musicians busking, I start to get the idea. And take a huge step back. “Nope. No way, Button.”

Her eyes are wide and innocent. An excellent farce. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know your evil little mind better than you think. You want me to busk with them, don’t you?”

She blinks, her lips parting in surprise. “Okay, you’re good.”

I snort. “Like I said, I know you.”

Hot color washes over her cheeks. “Damn, already predictable.”

“Like hell. You surprise me all the time. It gets me hot.”

She blushes a deeper shade of pink but then shakes off my sad attempt at distraction and tugs at my sleeve with renewed determination. “These kids are here every weekend and never get any money.”

“Because they stink.” When she glares, I hold up a hand. “Come on, you have ears. They’re horrible. No use sugarcoating it.”

“I know they’re horrible. But you aren’t.”

“And, what? I’m supposed to go over there and say, hey, can I borrow your gear and upstage you with my professional licks?” I make a face. “I’ll come off as a complete wanker.”

Stella’s grip on my wrist is firm, as if she thinks I’m going to turn and run. I might. I just might. But it’s kind of cute that she thinks she can hold me back; I’ll just put her over my shoulder and take her with me.

“Okay,” she says, “maybe it’s a stupid idea—don’t agree yet. Hear me out.”

“Wasn’t going to say a thing,” I lie.

“If you go over there and offer to play with them, maybe sing a few songs, you have no idea how it will go.”

“I have ideas,” I mutter. “None of them are good.”

“But you don’t know,” she says emphatically. “It isn’t planned like your gigs. It isn’t safe. You go over there and you’re on your own without a net.”