44. Come to My Window, Melissa Etheridge
"Come to My Window," Melissa Etheridge
Tori
Nerves fluttered in my stomach as Connor and I stepped into Donnelly’s, finding our reserved table near the stage. I pulled my buzzing phone out of my purse, hoping it was Cruz texting before their set started to make plans for tonight after the show—ideally ending in my bedroom, where he slept most nights now.
But it was just Dad calling, again. Since we’d left the Hamptons a few weeks ago, Dad called every day, probably to rant about leaving the party early, or my responsibility to the family, or some other bullshit complaint. I rolled him to voicemail, again.
I ordered potato skins and a bourbon Manhattan, but Connor told the server: "I know she's ordered it classic, make that a perfect bourbon Manhattan." When I raised a brow, he shrugged. "You always complain that it's too dry, then forget you don't like it. Just order it with sweet vermouth." I blinked a few times. Had we been celebrating enough for him to notice my drink order?
“Looking good, lady,” Kate said, dropping into the chair beside me, her oversized purse thudding on the floor. She gave an approving nod at the dress she’d helped me pick out, insisting I needed sexier dresses for track season later this summer … and earmarking the ones she intended to borrow. “Told you the sweetheart neckline would look amazing.”
“You’re right,” I said, still self-conscious about how much skin I was showing. When Kate had pulled this one off the rack, I’d blocked out my internal monologue of Beverly’s voice criticizing too much décolletage. Instead, I swung open the door and Kate’s squealed, “Holy shit, your tits look incredible. You can’t not buy that one.”
“So you’re the reason for all these cute little sundresses?” Connor asked Kate, tapping my bicep. “I couldn’t believe it when she came into work wearing a sleeveless dress and I realized she’d been hiding these guns.”
Part of me wished for a cardigan to cover up, but then I remembered the previous night, when Cruz had kissed every single freckle on my body … and my body heated so much that if I had worn long sleeves, I would sweat right through them.
“Turns out, dating a personal trainer has its perks,” I said. After two months of running and a month of daily boot camp, my weight was the same, but my muscles looked defined and toned in a way I never thought I would want.
Because Cruz had done the impossible: convinced me to do group fitness.
“I do like a million sun salutations, and I can’t get that definition,” Mallory whined from Kate’s other side.
“You could if you stopped drinking so many margaritas,” Kate said.
“Not a price I’m willing to pay,” Mallory replied, flagging down the waitress as the lights dimmed. Excitement scraped across my skin as the small curtain opened and the band took the stage, and the bar buzzed with anticipation. Cruz, calm and confident, spun his drumsticks between his long fingers as he settled on his stool, shooting a quick grin to our table. His beard had grown back but he trimmed it shorter than before so I could still see that dimple in his cheek, and I swear I caught a collective swoon from the tables behind us.
“Hey everybody, thanks for coming out tonight. We’re Your Local Phantom,” Stacy said. Without further ado, Cruz counted them in then moved smoothly around the drum kit, his smile one of focused delight.
They played through a dozen songs, the crowd growing in size and intensity with each one. Stacy sang her heart out, Rodriguez thumped along on the bass, Scott the guitarist worked through the riffs—though not looking nearly as sexy as Cruz did when he played guitar. And through it all, my boyfriend was the rhythmic backbone of the band.
“How is he so talented on drums and guitar?” Connor mused with obvious lust in his voice directed at my boyfriend … and I couldn’t blame him.
Kate answered, “When I was annoyed at cross-training, he told me that Dave Grohl played every instrument on the first Foo Fighters album and he wanted to be able to do the same.”
“That explains the piano,” I said, and Kate tilted her head. “He suggested I buy one, now he plays it more than I do. He asked me to teach him, but I’m classically trained so I started with scales and arpeggios, the way I learned. But no matter what I play—”
“He sings something else over the top, right?” she said, and I laughed at her accuracy: The Beatles over Beethoven, Pearl Jam over Chopin, and Olivia Rodrigo over Brahms. I would have been annoyed by the humming if it were intentional, but music was such a part of him that when he heard a chord progression, the complementary song appeared in his throat. I could no longer attempt Rachmaninoff without hearing Soundgarden’s ‘Black Hole Sun.’
When we both had free nights, he brought his guitar upstairs to my apartment. I’d given him the password to my computer so he could print sheet music in my office, and he pulled up a chair next to my piano bench. Most times he would sing, but sometimes he’d convince me to lead while he harmonized. When the song finished, or sometimes before, he put down his guitar and used those talented fingers to strum his favorite instrument: my body.
While this was my first time hearing him play drums, I could verify his excellent rhythm.
When another song ended, I tried not to gawk as Cruz reached for a towel to wipe his face and neck—god, that towel was drenched and his muscles still glistened with sweat. He gulped down water, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow.
Stacy announced a set break while Cruz played a solo number, and my heartbeat quickened. The last time we’d come here, he’d been called up on stage without notice and helped me save face from a date gone horribly wrong. With time to plan, what would he do?
The pub was full of enthusiastic listeners enjoying the full band’s set, but when Cruz reached for Scott’s acoustic guitar, the conversations quieted and the energetic simmer rose to an electric buzz. Did he notice how the audience seemed to sit up straighter in anticipation, or was he too amped up on the musical adrenaline—and maybe suffering short-term drum-related hearing loss—to notice that the crowd had been waiting for him?
And did he know what a turn-on that was for me—knowing how many of the people watching wanted to take him home, but he’d be in my bed tonight?
“I’d like to dedicate this next song,” he announced into the microphone, his toasted brown eyes never leaving my face, “to my beautiful, brilliant, ambitious girlfriend.”
My eyebrows shot up. His smug smile said, Yeah, you can’t stop me drawing attention to you. I pursed my lips in a look that made grown men’s balls shrivel during legal negotiations. He flashed back a cocky smile, seeing right through my bluster.
"But I thought he didn't date …" came a woman's disappointed groan from a few tables behind ours.
“She’s a piano virtuoso, yet somehow doesn’t play any Billy Joel, which is a tragedy … so I learned my favorite Billy song on guitar for her.” When I recognized the song, my breath caught.
Vienna. The song he kissed against my neck on our first night together to help me relax.
But now, instead of seducing me privately, he sang it in public, knowing it would set me aflame with desire. The lyrics echoed my life: hiding my fear behind my ambition and planning so far ahead that I missed all the beauty right in front of me.
But you know what? Fuck that. A gorgeous man was serenading me about living in the moment, so I let the song settle into my bones. He was the most talented musician I'd ever met, and I embraced his soothing voice … until the bridge.
He spoke over the strummed chords, wearing a playful smirk. “So that girlfriend I mentioned? I wanted to drag her up here to play with me … but you’re in luck, baby, because there’s no piano here.”
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I’d grown comfortable with him in the comfort of my home. But even behind the safety of a piano, playing on a stage would make me feel like a lonely girl again, wondering why my mom missed my recital.
When the song ended, I applauded loudly, sporting a proud smile. His eyes drifted over my face in a soft caress.
“Holy shit,” Connor whispered. “If you don’t take him home tonight, I will.”
My chest exploded with a laugh, and Cruz’s lips parted in surprise as I pointed an accusing finger. “Hands off my man, McNamara.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll let you have him.” Connor held up his hands in mock surrender. I pulled his head closer to plant an affectionate kiss on his temple, leaving him momentarily stunned.
Cruz’s eyes lit up at our interaction … then seemed to make a decision. “Hey everyone, change of plans. You know that girlfriend I told you about? She’s right there, the gorgeous redhead. Give the people a wave, baby. I shot him a glare that said, ‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ which only made his mischievous smile brighten.
“Listen, that woman has serious pipes. If you encourage her, we might convince her to join me for a song. Could you help me?”
No. He wasn’t doing this to me. Just the idea of performing made my stomach threaten rebellion.
My pulse pounded in my neck, and I closed my eyes to think it through. If I resisted, he’d feign a big frown and let me off the hook. He wouldn’t force me or drag me.
But he also wouldn’t ask me if he didn’t know I could handle it. Just like all our runs, when I didn’t think I could take another step, and he’d somehow know I had another mile in me. He wouldn’t do this to embarrass me.
And maybe, deep down, there was a tiny part of me, just a cell, that wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. A single molecule that wanted to know how he felt to stand on that stage without fear, to feed off the joy of the crowd and live in the moment.
“Come on, Cobrecita. Please? ” Cruz said. I opened my eyes to his encouraging smile. “Get that sexy ass up here and sing with me.”
I let that molecule lead.
I thrust my shoulders back to fake confidence, concealing my fear with annoyance. I stomped to the mic and threatened, “You’re going to pay for this.”
With his cockiest grin, he replied into his mic in a suggestive rumble. “I’m looking forward to it.”
A cat-call screeched, and at my table, Kate’s fingers were in her mouth. I raised my middle finger to my table, where Mallory lifted her phone to capture the moment. Great, video evidence to memorialize when I crash and burn.
Suddenly, everything felt more intense: the heat of the lights, the amplifier feedback at my feet, the stale alcohol scent. My vision tunneled and my chest tightened. I blinked, trying to clear the spots in front of my eyes. I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t—
Cruz touched his forehead to my temple. “You and me, baby. Just you and me.”
I nodded, then he started playing a song he knew I’d know. I couldn’t look at the crowd or I’d panic, so I aimed my voice at the microphone and sang to him and him alone. My voice surprised me with its unwavering confidence, my gaze locked on Cruz, buoying my spirits and creating a safe harbor.
As we flowed into the second verse, he tilted his head in a silent reminder about our audience. I looked out over the crowd, channeling the strength I’d honed at the negotiation table. I found my courage: belting powerful lines that until now had only echoed around my shower tiles. I didn’t care what people thought, because they didn’t know me, or him, or how much stronger we were together.
In the final stanza, I threw my arms out, half-screaming the last lines; I was finally home.
My eyes opened, landing on his.
He swung his guitar over his shoulder as I threw my arms around his shoulders. I barely heard the crowd’s cheers as he whispered, “Told you the bar wanted to hear you.”
I shook my head against his neck. “The world needs to hear you. You’re the best, Cruz.”
“Seriously?” He pulled back to search my gaze. “You’re not pissed at me for calling you up here?”
“Oh, I’m pissed as hell,” I laughed as the band returned to the stage. “But you can make it up to me tonight.”
The crowd hollered as he wrapped his arm around my waist, tugged me flush to his body and dipped his mouth to mine. I kissed him without restraint until he let out a groan in the back of his throat. “Don’t be surprised if all these songs are double tempo to get us the fuck out of here.”
When I laughed, he smacked my ass hard enough to make me shriek and said loudly enough that it would be picked up by the mic. “Stop throwing yourself at me, woman.”
As I retreated off the stage, he leaned into the mic and said, “Can you believe a woman that hot and talented is dating me? Because I sure can’t.”
“Holy shit,” Kate said, clapping me on the back. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“Me neither,” I said, tipping my Pinot Grigio back in celebration and signaling for another.
“Um, Victoria?” Mallory said, lifting his finger to a side door of the pub … where Alexander Clarke stood staring, mouth agape.
***
“Holy shit,” Alexander said as I weaved through the crowd, wiping off my goofy grin. “Mal texted me that you were singing, but I thought she was fucking around. But there you were … performing on a stage. Kissing him in public.” And when he smacked your butt, you … you smiled .” I led him by the bicep, depositing him into a booth at the back of the pub—quiet enough that we could talk, but I could still keep an eye on the stage. “They told me you were different around him. But God, Victoria …”
His head shook in disbelief, slumping into the booth. “Do you know how long it’s been since I saw you smile? A real smile, not one that concealed your thoughts about how easily you could outsmart them?”
I chuckled to hide the desperation in my voice. “How long?”
He ran his hand down his face. “Law school, maybe?”
I sighed. Eight years ago. Yeah, that was about right.
He glanced at the stage, where Cruz was wildly drumming his heart out.
“I’m sorry I told you he wasn’t good enough,” Alexander said.
I scoffed, remembering his disrespect about how I’d never be satisfied with Cruz’s lack of career potential. Even if everything he said was true at the time, it still hurt.
But he wasn’t done. “And I treated you like you couldn’t make your own decisions.”
“Yeah, you did,” I said, my voice rough.
“You’d think I would know better,” Alexander chuckled softly. “When I met Grace, Dad and Mallory both told me to keep my distance because I wasn’t good enough for her.”
“That’s because you’re not. Grace is a goddamn saint for putting up with your bullshit.”
His lips tightened to hold back a laugh. “Oh, and you’re such a catch?”
“I am, actually,” I said, which broke his stern facade. I turned again to watch Cruz, appreciative of him surprising me tonight. Just like when he brought me home to meet his family, he seemed to understand what I needed but would never request.
“His birthday is next month. I want to throw him a surprise party,” I said, feeling my face soften as my mind churned with ideas. My mom used to plan five surprises for my birthday every year, and I hadn’t celebrated that way since I lost her … but I knew deep down that she would love it.
I looked around, inspecting the lounge on the second level. I could host it here at Donnelly’s. Rent out the whole upstairs, plus the roof deck. This is where we met, after all. Where he’s most comfortable, where he performs. I turned back to the stage, wondering if I could conspire with Rodriguez to book Your Local Phantom to play that night too, and felt a smile tug at my lips.
“Oh my god, I totally predicted this,” Alex said, with an arrogant smirk. “I said that I thought you would love it here, if you gave it a chance. And here you are, planning a party, smiling at your boyfriend. I don’t want to say I told you so, but—”
“Oh my god, you’re insufferable,” I muttered, dropping my head in my hands.
“I told you so, Vic,” he said, testing the waters.
I glared. “Don’t push it.”
“Cruz calls you nicknames, why can’t I?” His mouth lifted into a crooked grin.
“He earned the right using a negotiation strategy that is no longer available to you,” I said with a raised eyebrow.
His eyes bulged. “Fine, Victoria.”
“Tori,” I said, holding out a hand. “No more than half the time, never in front of clients.”
“Alright, Tori,” he shook my hand. When our server arrived with my potato skins, Alex shoved one in his mouth, reaching for a second before I smacked his hand away.
“We’re business partners, we share,” he said, dodging my hand to scoop a big chunk of sour cream. “And now that I know that you perform live—”
“No.”
“I know what I want for my wedding present.”
“No, Alex.”
He grinned at my use of his nickname. “Tori—”
“I rescind the nickname offer.”
“Too late, we shook hands.”
“I’ll pay for your honeymoon.”
“No.”
“I’ll buy you a goddamn private island.”
“Sing one song with your boyfriend at your best friend’s wedding.”
I released an exasperated groan. “Fine.”
He pumped his fist.
“You should have anchored at three, I would have done two.”
His lips tilted into a crooked grin. “I’ll ask Cruz, he’ll talk you into five.”
I looked at the stage, watching Cruz vibrate with energy. Alex was right: somehow, no matter what it was that he wanted, Cruz could convince me.
And I was looking forward to it.