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“You like to argue,” he says while keeping his eyes on the street ahead of us.
“Do you have a problem with that?” I stop us.
“No,” Adrian chuckles. “I like it.”
Smiling, we continue to walk in the late evening’s still warm air. We’re already into September and the heat is persistent with no relief in sight. There will be no change in colors of the leaves to look forward to, or chilly nights anytime soon. Phoenix has an endless summer, and normally I look forward to a little reprieve, but as I look over at Adrian, the curve of his lips, the strong jaw covered in stubble, and hair that touches his shoulders, I don’t want summer to end.
When we pass by the record store on Southern, my eyes linger a little longer, thinking how it was only a few weeks ago that Adrian pulled me into that alcove away from the rain. It’s funny how so much can change in such a short amount of time. I find myself in a situation I never thought I would be in, letting a man walk me to my car while holding my hand. Such an intimate gesture, and yet I still hardly know him.
TheTap Roomis still going strong, and music filters onto the street as we pass.
“I like watching you play,” I say, turning back to him, my voice slicing through the silence between us. “Your band is really good.”
He sniffs in response as if he’s embarrassed by my compliment.
“I mean it,” I say, stopping at the corner. Taking a moment to articulate my words properly, I admit, “You have so much fun on stage and the crowd loves it.” Thinking about it causes goosebumps to cover my skin. I can’t help but think about the confession he made at my house – that he wasn’t holding out hope of playing professionally.
We cross the intersection when the light turns green. “It’s amazing whatnotcaring does for you,” he says, confusing me. Tilting my head, I urge him to continue.
“When you stop caring what people think or stop waiting to be discovered, it’s freeing,” he explains.
“So you wanted to be a rock star?” I ask, stopping just before we get to my car.
Adrian’s laugh doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If I didn’t know how much music means to him by watching him on stage, I know it now. “I wrote my first song when I was fifteen years old, spent years playing in every bar that would have me, uploaded my music everywhere you could think of.” He turns to me, not with melancholy eyes, but the eyes of a man who is satisfied with his outcome. “It wasn’t for lack of trying, but when it didn’t happen, I had to accept that it wasn’t meant to be.”
“You’re annoyingly well adjusted,” I joke, shaking my head and eliciting a genuine laugh from him.
“And you’re not?”
“When my mom died, she took the well-adjusted parts of me with her,” I pass it off as a joke even though it feels like the truth.
Adrian’s expression darkens, his brown irises soaking up the night and extracting truths from me I don’t mean to divulge. People who are having fun don’t talk about things that hurt, so I distract myself by pulling my keys from my purse and hitting the button to unlock my car. My Porsche beeps a few feet away, echoing against the low concrete wall that divides the parking lot from the street.
Adrian turns his attention in the direction of my car. “Fuck, Lake,” he whistles low, admiring my car as we walk closer to it.
Leaning against the shiny silver quarter panel, he nestles himself between my legs, wrapping his arms around my waist. He makes me not want the night to end.
“Are you intimidated by a successful woman, Adrian?” I ask coyly, raising an eyebrow while I drape my arms over his shoulders lazily.
“Not intimidated,Aerosmith,” he calls me. “Definitely turned on, but not intimidated,” he says, capturing my lips before I can protest. My body softens like candle wax after being warmed by a flame. All the gooey parts of me melt into him so easily.
Pulling away I gain my senses and look up at him as he pushes the hair from my eyes. “I’m too old for nicknames,” I say lazily against his lips.
The corner of his mouth lifts into a half smile; as if he finds me amusing but lets me continue.
“Nicknames are for young girls who need validation from their boyfriends,” I continue. “You’re not my boyfriend,” I pause, “and I’m not a young girl; and I definitely don’t need validation.”
He stares down at me, lifting a mocking eyebrow while his hands circle my waist, his thumbs brushing across my ribcage threatening to tickle me.
“How about I just call you…” a wicked grin lights up his face, “Mine?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before effectively silencing me with another kiss.
To him, it seems, we are not in a parking lot in the middle of the night, as he lazily kisses me on the hood of my Porsche. His words swirl around in my head landing right between my thighs and making me dizzy, so I pull back to search his eyes, wondering where the fuck he came from.
* * *
To minimize the noise,I wait until the overhead garage door completely closes before opening the inside door to the house. The minute I walk in the house,Vitalefilters down the hall from Noelle’s bedroom, permeating the walls and sinking into my skin. Kicking off my shoes by the entrance, I pad into the kitchen and lay my purse on the island.
I’d texted earlier to let her know I’d be home late. It’s well past midnight, and I’m not upset that she’s awake at this hour, but that she’s awake waiting forme. Not knowing how to navigate this strange new world with my almost grown daughter, I grab a bottle of water and take it with me down the hall. Passing by her room on my way to the master, I stop to peer in, seeing her in her pajamas, long brown hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, with her violin bow raised defiantly high. When she notices me, she lowers the bow, her lips pressed together as she peers back at me, the violin still resting against her chin. The silence between us could fill the Grand Canyon and neither of us knows what to say.
