Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

GREG

After two hours of practice, I decide to take a snack break. I did some scales and practiced the Mozart Concerto No. 1, my jury piece, then worked on the trouble spots. Nothing that interesting. That’s the thing about music: playing with the symphonic groups, be it band or orchestra, is an immersive experience. You feel in the midst of greatness, all the instruments and musicians working literally in concert, the melodies and harmonies flowing around you, the call and response. You’re part of something big. It sets my hair on end sometimes, the electricity of it sending shivers down my back.

But practice? Well, it’s just me, sitting on the edge of my bed, music propped up on the white windowsill, playing one part of what should be a greater noise. In case it was unclear, it’s boring.

When I open my bedroom door, Cathie jumps a little. She’s still studying, but it doesn’t look like she’s made it very far in the time I’ve been gone.

“Everything okay?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I cross the living room to our tiny kitchen, and she just nods, lips pursed. The microwave popcorn is calling to me, and even though I’ll have to clean my hands thoroughly in order to not get grease on my horn, I don’t fight the urge. I unwrap and sling the bag into the microwave and hit the button. But when I turn back to Cathie, her pale face is drawn. Is she … crying?

“You sure you’re okay?”

She throws down her book as the words come out in a rush. “Okay, so I think I did a bad thing, and I don’t want you to be upset, because I was just trying to help, but now that I think about it, I was probably kind of overstepping, and?—”

“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “Back up a little. What happened?”

She’s shaking her head, her dark waves softly swaying, covering her face now with both hands, her chipped yellow nail polish on full display. Leaving my popcorn, I cross to our funky brown plaid couch and sit next to her.

“Cath? It can’t be that bad … ”

“It is,” she says, her voice muffled, and I put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side.

“What’d you do, give away my bike?” I joke.

“Worse.”

“You ate all my yogurt raisins,” I accuse playfully, and her wet laughter says I couldn’t be more wrong. I’m becoming quite concerned, but I can’t imagine what she could’ve done as I look around the apartment for anything that’s different. Our little TV is still sitting against the wall, my computer is by the window, the dishes are stacked neatly in the sink, my backpack is still by the front door, my?—

Just as the popcorn chimes its finish, it hits me, and the sound of the popping kernels slowly stopping matches the way my heart feels. Something is missing.

“Cath … ” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Where’s my letter?”

My roommate pulls her hands away from her face then, and while she’s not crying, she looks chagrined. “I delivered it.”

I pause, my mind turning over this information, frantically trying to make it mean something other than what I know it means.

“You slid it under the door of 307?”

I have never seen the blood drain out of someone’s face that fast. Not even when they told my mom I got that concussion my senior year when I got beaned with a baseball, and there wasn’t even an open wound. Cath goes so pale, she reminds me of her costume at Halloween, when she dressed up as a “sexy ghost,” even though I discouraged her as hard as I could. Surprisingly, she went home with a girl dressed as a hot vampire. Maybe it’s not that surprising, now that I think about it.

“Cath. Say those words. Say, ‘I slid it under the door of 307.’”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“301,” she whispers, and in the microwave, the last kernel gives a weak pop. “It was 301.”

I get to my feet and pace. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” I try putting my arms over my head, because that’s always what my mom said to do when you can’t breathe, and I’m much closer to hyperventilating than I’d like. “Do you think we could get it back? Do you know who lives there?”

“I’m sorry,” Cathie moans, hiding her face again. “You were just having so much trouble delivering it, and I felt bad for you, so I thought it would be a good surprise, but clearly, I did not think this through, and I especially didn’t think about what was going to happen if I put it under the wrong apartment door … ”

“What if it’s not even a guy? What if I have to pretend to like a woman? That’s why I left Kansas City, Cath!” My volume is rising, and I attempt to control it as I continue. “Why, why, why did you do this?”

“I told you,” she says, hands out beseechingly. “I was trying to help.”

I look at my best friend’s face for a long moment, my chest still heaving, my hands still on my head, and that’s when it clicks. I don’t have to do anything. It wasn’t for them; I can just explain the mistake if anyone comes to the door. We’ll have a good chuckle about it. I lower my hands to my hips, still glaring at Cathie, who gives me a grimace that looks like a smile that gave up.

“I’m so sorry.”

I stalk to the microwave and throw it open, claiming my bag of popcorn by one piping-hot corner before heading back to the couch. I open it carefully, waiting for the steam to escape as I wait for my anger to dissipate, then tip the bag toward Cathie. Hesitant, she watches me as she takes a handful.

“There’s no way you could poison this between here and the microwave, is there?”

I shake my head slowly, then grab my own handful with a sigh. “I guess it could be worse,” I mutter as I cram it into my mouth.

“How so?”

“I mean, you could’ve delivered it to the right apartment, and then I’d be mortified in front of the person I actually wanted to talk to.”

“You were never going to deliver it?”

“I was,” I protest, but even I know it’s not true. “But it doesn’t matter now.”

“You won’t write another one?”

“After this?” I snort. “I don’t think so. I’ll just go back to trying to pick up guys in clubs.”

“Sweetie, that only works for guys who have game,” Cath says, tipping her head to rest it on my shoulder as she grabs another handful of popcorn.

And that’s when I hear it. A smooth, sliding sound. I look over at the door, but it doesn’t look like an ad for my favorite pizza place down the block. It looks like a sheet of yellow legal paper, folded neatly in half. Cathie and I look at each other.

“Um … ” she says. “Looks like it might matter after all.”

We both lunge for it, tumbling off the couch, falling over each other to get to the letter, and I’m halfway to it, pulling her back by the hood of her hoodie, when I realize that I don’t know who this letter is from, but it’s not from my crush. Whatever. It’s for me, and she’s the one who got me into this mess. She doesn’t get to read it first. From the floor, I use my superior height to reach and grab it, popping back up to my feet immediately.

“I want credit when you move in together and adopt a thousand cute babies,” Cathie says with a grin, and I just shoot her a quelling look. But when I open the letter, it’s not at all what I expected.

Hello, dear Greg!

I am Nico, your neighbor down the stairs.

It’s not just the intimacy of the words that surprises me: the handwriting is sharp, angular, like someone with a lot of confidence, but “neighbor” looks like it was erased and rewritten. Also, why say “down the stairs” instead of just “downstairs”?

“What does it say?” Cathie clamors, tugging on my arm so I’ll let her see. I shush her and move away.

I also have seen you. You are looking good.

Heat gathers in my chest and rises up my neck into my face. Cath chuckles.

“It must be good if it’s giving you the whole body blush.”

“Shut up.”

I feel a momentary pang of guilt that I don’t have any idea what he looks like, when we’ve apparently passed each other at some point.

Let us arrange a time to meet and get to know one another. I also like coffee and music.

A date. I’ve got a date. The knowledge pulses through my veins, and the heavy failure I’ve been living with since I moved here suddenly lifts off my shoulders. My brain is still skeptical: Nico’s letter seems unusual, and there may be something else happening here that I haven’t anticipated. I’m pretty sure my Midwestern parents are still praying I’ll change my mind and come home. But I want to give this a try. What do I have to lose?

I must warn you, my English is not so good sometimes, but I will try very hard. I look to the front for it.

Regards,

Nico

This last line has more erasures and smudges under the letters, and I wonder what he wrote originally. I wonder if he’s from another country or just speaks another language at home. And is it “NICK-oh” or “NEE-co”? And what does he mean by “look to the front”—does he mean “looking forward to it”? I’m still standing there wondering when Cathie finally explodes.

“Dude, what. does. it. say ?”

“He wants to go out for coffee,” I say, smiling despite myself, “and his name’s Nico.”

“And you’re going to go?” Her initial excitement seems to have tempered.

I shrug with one shoulder. “I’d like to. But is that unethical, since I didn’t intend the letter for him?”

She pushes up her glasses and crosses her arms, looking serious now. “What did you say in it?”

“Just that I’d been wanting to get to know him and wondered if he wanted to go out sometime.” I pause, frowning, then skim the letter again. “Which is technically not true.”

Cathie groans. “Don’t you dare overthink this. A potentially hot guy wants to go have coffee with you. You’re going.” She gives me a squeeze. “Besides, it sounds like he wants to practice his English. You’ll be doing him a favor.”

“That’s true,” I concede as she wanders back toward the couch.

“And who knows what else he wants to practice?” Cathie adds, batting her eyelashes, which earns her a handful of popcorn to the face.