by Sarina Bowen
“Competition?” she guesses.
“Something like that.” Yeah, it was exactly like that. But I don’t want to tell her my sob story. “His family runs this town,” I say instead. “And his mother created the music festival.”
“So I heard,” she says. “I’ve been following him around like a baby duck because he can introduce me to all the people that matter.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” I say, my mood plummeting even further.
She takes her final swig of beer. “Gotta hop.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out exactly eight dollars and slaps it on the bar.
She’s on her feet by the time I can even pick it up. “Wait! Here’s some change.” Even with the tip the beer isn’t eight bucks. That’s why people come to Roadie Joe’s.
“Keep it!” She grins at me. “You’re a good man, Ralph.”
I push two dollars in her direction. “Tell you what. Give me your number instead.”
Her eyes widen. “I…” She hesitates. “I’d better not.”
Crash and burn. Wow. “Have a good gig, tonight,” I say, wondering how my life got to this point. One more little disappointment in a pretty brutal streak.
And I must not be very good at hiding it, either. “Thank you.” She bites her lip, turns around, and then leaves. The singles are still on the bar.
I didn’t even get her name.
Silas
Not three days later I see her again.
I’m coming out of the gym after a brutal workout. My legs are shaking from the squats I just did. It’s hard to say why I’m still pushing myself like this. My athletic career is probably over. But I’m not ready to accept it.
Anyway, I step out onto Main Street, wondering which protein shake to order, when I see those dark, expressive eyes looking out at me from a poster on a kiosk. And—this is embarrassing—I’m so startled that I actually trip over my own feet. One sneaker catches on the other one, and I briefly lose my balance and nearly go down.
Thank God only her photograph is there to see it.
Once I regain my balance, I move in for a closer look. Friday, nine p.m. at the Coconut Club. Singer-songwriter Delilah Spark.
Delilah. Now I know her name. And it looks like she finally scored a decent time slot at one of the bigger music clubs. Standing there on the street, looking at a poster, my smile is as bright as the sun.
“She sure is a looker,” rasps a voice beside me.
I jerk my chin to the left to see a red-faced older man chuckling to himself. Immediately, my blood flashes hot with irritation. I can’t stand the sound of his laugh or the leer in his eye.
Easy, I coach myself. I’m not used to having such a strong reaction to anyone. I turn away and amble down the sidewalk, knowing I’m the worst kind of hypocrite. Whatever Delilah does to that guy, she does to me, too. Times ten.
The difference between us, though, is that on Friday night I actually show up to hear her at the Coconut Club. I pay the bouncer a twenty-dollar cover that I really can’t afford, and I take up a position on the wall. The place is packed. Every table is filled, and every barstool.
There’s a band onstage already. A decal on their bass drum gives the band’s name: Pebble Yell. It’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard, but the band is better than its name. Much better. They have a warm, nineties grunge sound that has the whole club in their thrall. The lead singer looks like a young Eddie Vedder, but sings with a silkier voice. And their lead guitar is a wizard.
And Delilah has to follow this act?
That’s when I feel my first frisson of nerves for her. And where is she? I scan the eager faces in the audience and find Delilah. She’s leaning against the opposite wall, down near the stage, a bottle of water in one hand and a guitar case in the other. She looks completely calm—like she doesn’t know she’s going to have to sound like that to keep these people in the room.
An all too familiar emotion rolls through me—a cocktail of excitement and dread. It doesn’t matter how talented you are or how much you deserve a chance. Sometimes the odds are stacked against you. I have the weirdest urge to cross the room and stand beside Delilah. To shore her up.
But I stay put, because that would just be weird.
Meanwhile, the audience is loving Pebble Yell. The people seated at tables are all leaning forward in their chairs. And the back of the club is so packed full of fans that the cocktail waitresses can hardly get through to hustle drinks. When the last, rich chord finally reverberates through the amp, nobody is ready for it to end.
The applause is like thunder, and half the room stands up.
Now I’m sweating. I don’t even know Delilah, but what if she bombs? What if the audience wants more of the grunge band and not the quieter tones of a female vocalist? Or—worse—what if Delilah sucks? What if she can’t carry a tune in a bucket?
That’s when I notice that about a quarter of the audience has decided that the party’s over. People are gathering their things and streaming for the exits. A fresh wave of unease rolls through me, as if I’m the one who has to get up on that stage and sing.
How do people do that, anyway? And why did showing up here tonight seem like a good idea? I could have spent that twenty bucks on fish tacos and beer. I could be lighting up a joint on the beach right now, walking in the moonlight. There’s enough failure in my life already. Who wants to watch a pretty girl go down in flames?
Not me, that’s for sure.
Speaking of failure—at this very moment there’s a voicemail on my phone from my agent. I’m avoiding listening to it, because I know it’s bad news. If she had good news, there’d be four calls and several text messages, not just the one call.
Listening to her message is unnecessary, because I already know what it will say. “Listen, Silas, if you just wait a few months, we might find a minor league team that’s struggling with its goalie lineup. And if that doesn’t work out, I could find a spot for you overseas. Germany or Russia, maybe.”
But that’s where the washed up hockey players go. I’m not ready to be a has-been at twenty-two.
Grumpy now, I eye Delilah’s audience with suspicion. People who were stuck in back before are filling in the empty tables. So at least that’s something. But they aren’t even looking at Delilah. They’re texting and drinking. One guy is feeling up his date, who looks annoyed. And another couple is fighting. They’re right in front of me, hissing at each other with angry eyes. Then the dude actually stands up so fast his chair tips over with a bang. He stomps away, while the woman sits there looking uncomfortable as we all stare.
She leans down and picks up the chair, shell-shocked.
Delilah doesn’t notice. She’s already seated herself on a stool in the middle of the stage. She’s adjusting her microphone. A single circle of light picks her out of the inky blackness. It glows brightly, giving her dark hair an ethereal purple sheen.
A man jumps up on the stage. He grabs the mic that Delilah has just taken pains to adjust and says—in a voice that sounds super-bored—“Let’s give it up for new talent, Delilah Spark.”
Then? He hops down even as he slips a cigarette out of the package in his fingers, as if to say Delilah’s set is the perfect time to step out for a smoke.
I want to kick him in the teeth, I really do.
Delilah looks entirely placid up there, though. She readjusts the mic and then tunes her guitar. From the expression on her face, she might be sitting in the middle of her own living room, calmly adjusting each pin and then plucking quietly.
Don’t singers warm up beforehand? Christ. This is going to go badly. A drop of sweat rolls down my back.
Some of the conversation stops but not all of it. I stare pointedly at a woman who’s yapping into her cell phone right now. “You’re where? At that place on the beach?” She doesn’t even notice my irritation.
And then some drunk near the front yells, “Bring the band back! They were fucking great.”
My hands ball into fists.
Delilah silences her guitar strings with her palm, and looks right at him. “You mean bring back the dudes, right? You think only a penis can rock?”
The crowd laughs uneasily.
“You know what I mean,” the drunk grumbles. “A girl and a guitar. It’s not the same.”
She adjusts the mic one more time, not even bothering to glance back at him again. “You, sir, are why I write music. You go ahead and say whatever you want, because I enjoy it when people underestimate me.”
The room is silent now as Delilah begins to strum her guitar strings in a pronounced rhythm. It takes me a second to realize that she’s already got everyone’s attention, and she didn’t even need a decent introduction to get it.
Her fingers pick up speed on the fretboard. The chord progression isn’t complicated, but goosebumps climb up my spine. What’s she playing? It’s familiar, but I can’t place it until she opens her mouth and starts to sing.
That’s when I experience a full-body shiver. Because that voice. It’s husky and full of texture. It vibrates through all the empty parts of my chest. Delilah is covering “Black” by Pearl Jam. Maybe she picked it as a great segue from the last band’s nineties sound. Or maybe she always opens with this song, because in her voice the lyrics are even more interesting than in Eddie Vedder’s.
I mean—goddamn. You can’t hear that and keep up your conversation at the bar. You can’t text your mom or grope your girlfriend or scratch your nuts anymore, because that smoky, wild voice is crawling through your soul and you have no choice but to listen.
The music washes over me in waves. Every line is ecstasy. If I wasn’t already fascinated with Delilah after a short conversation at the bar, I would be right now. Note by note she takes the room apart with a song about anguish and a lost love.
Man down. Seriously. She’s magic.
And it doesn’t let up. After she wrings the whole room out with Pearl Jam, she goes on to cover Bonnie Raitt. “I guess it’s a nineties kind of night,” she whispers into the microphone after her second song.
The audience laughs warmly, as if they’re old friends of hers. And by now I guess they are. That’s her gift, apparently. I’m surely not the only one in the room who feels a strange connection to the amazing woman on the stage.
Crowds are part of my world, too. When the fans are on your side at a game, there’s nothing like that roar of support. It’s like the best hug you ever got, coupled with a high-five from God himself. It feeds your soul. I feel the most alive when I’m having a good game in front of a good crowd.
Or I used to. I feel pretty fucking alive right now, too.
“Now this is a little song I wrote for some of the women in my life. You know who you are,” Delilah says. She’s strumming her guitar gently, and the expression on her face is almost private—as though she’s playing this for herself. As if the audience is just an afterthought. She lifts her face and closes her eyes. Then she begins to sing.
You shouldn’t wait around for him
Men don’t have a lock on praise
Show me how you lift your chin
Show me how you own this place
Sparkle on, honey, sparkle on…
She takes a breath, and I realize I’m holding mine.
Don’t let him tell you lies
He doesn’t get to write your story
You’re not his to minimize
Own your flaws and mine your glory
Sparkle on, honey, sparkle on…
The song weaves the tale of a woman who’s lost herself. But at the end of every heartbreaking stanza, Delilah looks up and tells the audience to sparkle on.
She’s the one who shines, though. The room is still so quiet that I can hear the scrape of Delilah’s guitar pick against the strings. I scan the crowd, and all their faces are rapt. Drinks are forgotten on the table. My gaze lands on the woman in front of me—the one whose boyfriend left in a huff. She’s wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
Delilah has been playing that guitar for less than fifteen minutes. And she’s already made someone cry.
Now that’s power. Jesus. What a total babe.
The song ends way too soon. But at least there’s more. The tempo picks up as Delilah swings into another original song. She does this thing with her hand—slapping the body of her guitar to beat out a rhythm. It gives her a bigger sound, and gets the whole room moving subtly with the beat.
I can’t help wonder what she’d sound like with a band behind her. Amazing, probably.
The club is packed again. Every chair is taken, and it’s standing-room only at the bar, hundreds of people leaning forward to get a little closer to the little girl with the big sound.
Then it’s over. Before I’m ready, she’s rising from the stool and saying goodnight while the audience hollers their approval. I’m still standing there clapping, mouth open, cycling through every possible human emotion as she’s stepping off the stage.
That’s when Brett Ferris comes out of the shadows to claim her. He throws a victorious arm around her while the audience still applauds.
Then he pulls her into a hard kiss. It’s a caveman move.
And I am… Crushed isn’t even a big enough word. Horrified. Defeated. Pick one. The idea of him touching her makes me want to barf.
And that was such a Brett thing to do—homing in on her moment. Claiming it as his own.
It’s barely any consolation that she looks annoyed, too.
That’s when I have to tap out. I push off the wall and slip toward the back door, dodging bodies to get to the exit.
Outside, the breeze smells like the ocean. The door closes behind me, muting the sound of applause and laughter. I take a deep breath and head toward the beach. I need the sand and the fresh air. I need the sound of crashing waves to drown out the drum beat of my own rage.
Jogging toward the sound of the water, I have the strangest urge to howl at the sky. I don’t even know that girl. Not really. But I want to. And I can’t shake the feeling that the Bretts of the world get more and more of what’s good. While the Ralphs of the world serve them ice-cold champagne and light their cigars.
Delilah, though. She could go places. I hope like hell that someone other than Brett takes her there. I know nothing about the music industry. But I know in my gut that she could be a star.
I walk a long way on the beach. There are very few people out here with me, and none at all with their feet in the wet sand, trudging along alone.
The voicemail in my pocket mocks me. When I finally listen to it hours later, it says exactly what I expected it to.
June
Delilah
“Omigod, Delilah!” My publicist, Becky—and best friend—has to shout over the roar of the stadium crowd.
“What?” I’m not listening, though, because the players are whipping past us on the ice at breathtaking speed. And then they do that thing where they swap players really fast—two of them piling back through the little doorway while two others vault over the wall and skate toward the action. “How do they know when it’s their turn, anyway?”
“The coach gives them a signal. Like I’m trying to do right now.” Becky snaps her fingers. “Listen. A cute boy wants to go on a date with you. And Twitter is amused.”
“A cute boy? What is he, twelve? And you’re the one who tells me never to respond to the pervs on Twitter.”
“This time it’s different.”
“Uh-huh.” I tune her out again, because they’re fighting for the puck right in front of me. And it’s thrilling. “Hockey players have muscular asses. I guess that makes sense to me. But why do they all have beards? Is it, like, in their contract?”
“They don’t shave during the playoffs,” Becky says, still squinting at my phone. “You like beards?”
“So what if I do?” My ex was as clean shaven as a baby’s behind, to the point of being prissy about it. And he was the biggest mistake of my adult life, so obviously I need to branch out a litt
le.
Although. I was once attracted to a bearded guy. A really nice one. And that went nowhere.
“You think hockey players are pretty cute, huh?” Becky says. There’s coyness in her voice.
“Cute isn’t the right word. They’re so…” I let out a sigh. “Rugged, I guess.” It’s not like I can easily see their faces, what with the helmets and the eye-shields. But I get glimpses of cut, masculine jaws and strong chins. Flashing eyes, bent on victory.
It’s very sexy. Although maybe I do need to get out more.
“You need to get out more,” Becky says, echoing my thoughts. “And what if I told you the guy who wants a date is a hockey player. Look.” Becky elbows me.
“This better be good,” I grumble as I lean over her phone. “I’m missing some serious hockey action right now.”
“First game, and you’re already a fan?” She laughs. “This is the guy asking you out on Twitter. He’s the one who had the jersey delivered to you.”
I look down at the black jersey I’m currently wearing. “Is he here?”
“No! That’s why he’s tweeted it. See?”
I finally read the tweet. If L.A. clinches before the buzzer, will you go on a date with me?
Okay, that’s kind of cute. “He’s asking me out, but it’s also a bet?”
“Basically. Yeah.” Becky is practically bouncing in her seat.
“Who is this guy?”
“He’s a goalie on the Brooklyn team that already got knocked out of the playoffs. Apparently he hates Dallas. I think Dallas beat them in the finals last season.”
That’s as good a reason to hold a grudge as any. But I’m not in the market for a date. Or anything else to do with men. Possibly forever. “Show me a photo,” I say anyway. Because I never was very smart.
Becky taps my phone for a couple seconds. “Oh, he’s cute!”
She turns the phone to show me, and I laugh. “Becky! How would you know? He’s wearing a full face mask!” When I look out across the ice at the L.A. goalie, I see the same thing—a cage over the guy’s face.