Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Annika bounced back from her breakup quicker than I could have hoped. By the time we rang in the new year, he was all but forgotten.
Which was a relief. Out of sight, out of mind, and time to move on.
As the weeks and months passed, I’d managed to convince myself that none of it mattered anyway. I’d obviously romanticized the whole thing. It was all just a silly dream.
Besides, I didn’t date musicians.
So, I let go of one dream and chased a new one.
With a loan from my mom and a promise to pay her back, I started designing my first capsule collection. Fueled by caffeine and creativity, I worked around the clock, barely stopping to eat or sleep.
I’d found a new passion and couldn’t believe I’d resisted fashion design for so long. Which was what I told my mom when we met for an early dinner. She’d come into the city to meet with her agent who was going to shop her book around.
“Why did I fight this for so long?” I asked her over tofu hijiki burgers at Dojo.
She laughed. “Because you’re stubborn.”
My mom told me that when I was a baby, I would only crawl even though I was fully capable of walking. She said that she used to hold me up then let me go, but instead of walking, I’d glare at her and sit right back down, refusing to budge. Finally, after months of this, she gave up.
“One day I took you to the market and turned my back for one minute,” she said. “When I turned around, your stroller was empty, and you were running up the aisle. Running . I couldn’t believe it. You really wanted those Froot Loops.”
“I must have been a real pain in the ass.” I couldn’t even imagine being a mother at eighteen and then to have to deal with my attitude? My mom deserved a medal.
“No. You just always knew exactly what you wanted, and you refused to settle for less. You weren’t going to start walking until you could run.”
After dinner, we walked up St. Mark’s Place. It was a blustery, cold February day and it had started to snow.
A man selling bootleg cassettes on a dirty blanket whistled as we passed. “Have a good evening, beautiful ladies.”
“You too!” my mom called over her shoulder, linking her arm in mine. “Let’s stop by and visit Sean.”
My body tensed. “Don’t you have a train to catch?”
She laughed and bumped her shoulder against mine. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No. Of course not. But it’s snowing,” I pointed out.
“It’s just a few flurries. One coffee and you can get back to your designs,” she assured me, as if that was the reason I’d balked.
It will be fine , I told myself. It was five o’clock on a Wednesday. No earthly reason for him to be at Monks.
Just the same, I cast a wary eye around the café and released a breath of relief after confirming that he wasn’t there.
Sean greeted my mom with a big hug and pulled up a chair at our table. “When are you moving back to the city?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” my mom said, surprising me. She’d never mentioned it to me. “I do miss it.”
“Gets in your blood, doesn’t it? Every time I leave, I’m desperate to get back. But when I’m here, I’m dreaming about getting out. Anyone who chooses to live in this rat-infested, overpriced, crime-ridden city has to have a few screws loose. But where am I gonna go?”
“There’s nothing for you out there,” I said, stirring brown sugar into my cappuccino and adding a sprinkle of cinnamon. “Stay with the crazies in New York. It’s the best city in the world.”
“You’d have to drag Cleo away kicking and screaming,” my mom said.
“Yeah, well, she’s young. She’s still a kid. What does she know?” he teased then jerked his chin at me. “So how come you stopped coming on Monday nights?”
“Gabriel was my best friend’s boyfriend, and they broke up.” I shrugged like that was the only explanation necessary.
“So? You love his music. No reason you can’t stop by occasionally.”
“Who are we talking about?” my mom asked.
“Gabriel Francis,” Sean said. “The kid walked in here one day with his head down, carrying a guitar and asked me to give him a shot. He was just another scruffy kid wandering in off the street handing out homemade demos. Well, let me tell ya something, Alice. This guy has the magic. He started out playing to an empty room and now he’s got a cult-like following of devoted fans. ”
“Magic, huh?” My mom shot me a look that I studiously ignored. No doubt she wanted to know why I’d never mentioned this magician.
“He treats this place like it’s his living room,” Sean said. “Just shows up at all hours of the day and night ‘to clear his head and chill with good people.’” Sean used air quotes. “When he’s not gigging at every random café on the Lower East, he's here making cappuccinos and washing dishes.”
My panicked gaze darted to the front door. He could show up at any moment. “We should get go?—”
“What kind of music?” my mom asked Sean.
Sean leaned back in his seat like he was settling in for the night. “Hell, if I know. It’s different on any given night. Sometimes it feels like a cabaret in here. He does everything from original music to Nina Simone, Led Zep, Dylan… I think he’d be right up your alley.”
“Sean!” the barista yelled over the hiss of the cappuccino machine. “Clive’s on the phone.”
He stood and put his hand on my mom’s shoulder. “I need to take this. But stick around for a while. I’d love to catch up.”
After Sean left, I wagged my brows at my mom. “He likes you.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Yeah, but he’s divorced and you’re single so…”
She laughed again and swatted my arm. “Stop playing matchmaker.” But I was pretty sure she was blushing. “Tell me about this musician. Is he really that good?”
I sighed. All roads led to Gabriel Francis. “Yes. He’s that good.”
“Why haven’t you ever mentioned him?”
I took a sip of my cappuccino to buy some time. “Because I…he’s…I mean…” I flapped my hand in the air, suddenly incapable of forming a coherent sentence.
She raised her brows. “So it’s like that?”
“No. It’s not like that . He’s Annika’s ex. I barely know the guy.” I shrugged. “Besides, he’s not my type.”
Not sure why I’d felt the need to add that, but no sooner were the words out than the front door flew open, and in waltzed Gabriel.
I quickly averted my head and took refuge behind a curtain of hair, silently praying he wouldn’t notice me if I continued staring at the wall.
It had been three months since he and Annika broke up. He’d probably forgotten all about me by now.
“Gabriel,” the barista singsonged. I think her name was Karen. “Coffee? Or is it wine time?”
They laughed like it was an inside joke.
Maybe he was sleeping with Karen, and she was plying him with free wine and shots of whiskey. I’ll bet Karen loved every song he wrote and never criticized his music. She probably worshipped the ground he walked on.
Why couldn’t I be Karen? A happy-go-lucky barista who was free to pursue the Monday night magician.
“Are you hiding from me, Cleo?”
I released a breath and squeezed my eyes shut as if I could make him disappear.
But no, there he was, crouched next to my chair with an amused smile on his face.
His hair was longer, sticking out of a black beanie and touching his collar, and his cheeks were ruddy from the cold, but other than that, he looked the same.
Ridiculously long lashes. Pouty lips. The face of a romantic poet.
He’s not your type.
Oh yeah? Then why am I so attracted to him?
He smiled, and his whole face lit up as if he was so happy to see me, he couldn’t contain all the joy. “Hi. I’ve missed your face.”
“Hi.” I’ve missed yours too.
No! No, you did not. Bad Cleo. He barely ever crossed your mind.
“Mind if I sit here?” Without waiting for an answer, he shed his army jacket and sat in the chair kitty-corner to mine.
He wore a navy wool sweater with a stretched-out neck and a hole right above his heart. I could see his white T-shirt underneath, and for some reason I found that endearing.
After he took off his beanie and ran his hands through his messy hair, trying to unflatten it, he turned to my mom who I’d failed to introduce. “Hey. I’m Gabriel.”
She shook the hand he offered. “Nice to meet you, Gabriel. I’m Alice, Cleo’s mum.”
“You look too young to be her mom. I would have guessed older sister or distant cousin.”
“What a charmer,” my mom said with a smile. “In fact, we were just talking about you.”
“And you’re British. ” He nodded like he was confirming something he’d already suspected.
His gaze swung to me. “So you were talking about me, Cleo?” He gave me a boyish grin. It was adorable.
But I tried to steel myself against his charms.
I shook my head. “Nope. Sean was.” My gaze dipped to his guitar. The case was chunkier than his Telecaster and covered in stickers. “You’re not playing here now, are you?” I sounded horrified, like I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being subjected to his music.
“This?” He looked down at his guitar. “Nah. I just carry it around to look cool.”
“Such a poser.”
“You’ve got me all figured out.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “So, how’s the fashion designing coming along?”
“Great. I’m designing my first capsule collection.”
His brows shot up. “Yeah? You’re really doing it?”
I couldn’t help but smile with pride. “Yep. I’m really doing it. Sink or swim, I’m all in.”
“No point in half-assing it,” he said. “But don’t doubt yourself for a minute. It’s going to be incredible.”
“You sound so confident.”
“Because I know what you’re capable of.”
Before I had a chance to respond, he turned to my mom, dismissing me. Which was a good thing. I needed a minute to pull myself together.
“Cleo said you’re a music journalist?”
“I was. Years ago.”
“How did you get into it?”
My mom said she was young and determined and just figured, why not. What have I got to lose?
Gabriel asked her a million questions about the musicians she’d interviewed, and which ones were most memorable.
She talked about Bob Dylan who was famously elusive.
Janis Joplin who she met at Woodstock and had a drink with.
And a few of the other music legends she’d met in the seventies and eighties.
No mention of Nick Ashby or the Rogue Prophets, thankfully.
“I interviewed Robert Plant in his suite at the Park Lane on Central Park South,” she told Gabriel. “He was hobbling around on crutches with his golden curls. He was lovely. Very friendly. He’d been in a car crash in the Greek Isles. We talked a bit about that and the band, of course.”
Gabriel couldn’t get over it. He was mad about Led Zeppelin. “Jimmy Page is one of my heroes. I taught myself how to play finger vibrato because of him.”
“I can picture you as an angsty teen in your drafty attic bedroom playing ‘Stairway to Heaven,’” I teased.
He nodded solemnly. “With tears streaming down my cheeks.”
“Such a sensitive soul.”
“You remembered the drafty attic bedroom.” He grinned like he’d just won the lottery.
I quickly changed the subject, steering it back to my mom. “My mom wrote a book and it’s absolutely brilliant.”
“Absolutely brilliant,” Gabriel said with a smile. “Must run in the family.”
I could feel my cheeks blushing.
My mom watched us with an amused smile then stood up from the table. “I’m going to get us some more cappuccinos.”
My eyes implored her to stay, please don’t leave me alone with Gabriel , but she didn’t get the message.