Love’s Crescendo

Chapter 1

T he first time I saw her was on a cold, miserable day in September. She was wrestling with a backpack in the pouring rain. Her long, dark, curly hair was plastered to her head as she shoved something into the bag and then, almost violently, zipped it up. She stood there for a moment, rain dripping off her face, sweatshirt soaked through, her frustration apparent on her face. Then she flipped her hood up and began to trudge her way across the street, toward the park, and out of my view.

The second time I saw her was in the same spot, six weeks later. I had returned to the middle of the busy outdoor mall to busk as it was almost Halloween, and the tips were sure to be good with so many shoppers out and about. She was standing outside the local coffee shop, Kafe, wearing her green and brown apron, smoking. She wasn’t enjoying it. At least it didn’t look like it. She wasn’t standing calmly, lazily tugging on the cigarette. No, she was huddled over it, sucking it down as quickly as she could, almost looking like she had to, but didn’t actually want to. It was the saddest smoke I had ever seen in my life.

The third time I saw her, she finally saw me. It was the night before Thanksgiving, and I was singing in the same area again. She was leaving Kafe with a group of people and was holding her apron in one hand with her overstuffed backpack in the other. Her hair was a mess of waves around her, cascading all the way to her waist. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, yet she turned when she heard the sound of my guitar. Her gaze caught mine, and I was startled to see how blue her eyes were. They looked even brighter in contrast to her olive-toned complexion and long, dark lashes. I kept singing and strumming on my guitar, keeping my face impassive as she studied me. Her friends began to make their way toward the parking lot, yet she walked over to me, standing very close to the speaker, seemingly unbothered at having the music blaring in her ears. I sang the last notes of the song and then went quiet, letting the guitar rest loosely in my hands against my knee.

“I like that song. You have a good voice.”

Oh, her voice had a rasp to it, and it sent tingles down my spine.

“Thank you.” I dipped my chin at her. She glanced at the money strewn in my guitar case, then reached into the pocket of her threadbare coat and pulled out a crumpled five dollar bill. She bent slightly at the knees and placed it gently on top of the other money.

“Thank you,” I said again. She nodded, biting her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Do you know the song “Something in the Orange” by Zach Bryan?” she suddenly asked.

“I’ve heard it.” I nodded.

“Can you play it?” She gestured to my guitar.

I shocked myself by saying, “I can learn the chords and play it for you the next time I see you.”

“I work right here,” she offered, jerking her chin in the direction of the coffee shop.

“Then I’ll be back,” I told her. She gave me a slight smile and then turned to follow her friends. It was the most words I had voluntarily spoken to another person in a long time.

After watching her walk away, I counted the money in my guitar case. One hundred twenty-one dollars. In this life, that was not bad for a six-hour day. I shoved the money into my pocket and gathered up my guitar, mic, and speaker. On my walk back to my van, I stopped at a food cart and got myself a shawarma with extra hummus and fried onions. I ate it for the rest of my walk. As I approached the lot where my van was parked, I noticed a couple of guys in hoodies standing in front of it while their friend was trying to remove my hubcaps. The adrenaline in my blood got pumping immediately. I placed my guitar down gently on the grass and then shouted, “Get the fuck away from my van!”

They looked up, surprised, as they hadn’t heard me coming. When they saw it was just me, one guy, against the three of them, they grinned and kept working.

“Mother fuckers, I said get the fuck away from my van,” I called out again as I ran full speed toward them. The one trying to jack my hubcap stood up, holding his tool in his right hand.

“Boy, back up,” he said menacingly. I didn’t slow down as I ran up to him and knocked him out with one punch to the side of his head. I turned to his friends as their guy fell to the ground.

“Let’s go. Who’s next?” I all but growled. They took off, leaving their friend behind, unconscious and bleeding from his face.

I could still feel the adrenaline coursing through my body, but I forced myself to walk slowly as I went back to retrieve my guitar. I double-checked that my tires and hubcaps were still intact, then hopped into my van and pulled out of the parking lot just as the remaining offender started to stir. It felt good to be able to defend myself. I felt the thrill of it thrumming through me as I drove.

Every night, I parked my van near the gym where I had a membership and worked out for two hours till I exhausted my brain and my body and depleted every bit of pent-up anger inside of me. Tonight was no exception. When I was done, I took a scalding hot shower, reveling in the way the water pounded on my back. When I got out, I put on a pair of clean sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Then I took out my razor to clean up my short beard. I had never grown a beard before and had been surprised to find that it grew out in a mix of dirty-blond and light-brown shades.After trimming my beard, I dried my hair that had grown out so much that I had begun pulling it back into a small man bun. I figured I was less recognizable now that I had grown my hair out from the usual buzz cut I had sported my entire life. I didn’t mind it, as anonymity was now a priority of mine. Once I packed my belongings back into my gym bag, I went to the little coffee area they had set up with free drinks and protein bars. I made myself a hot chocolate, stirred my amino acids powder into it, and then grabbed two protein bars for the road. Once I was back in my van, I ditched my usual routine of staring at the photo in my wallet until I wore myself out enough to fall into a fitful sleep. Instead, I sat in my makeshift bed, learning the chords to the song my wild-haired stranger had requested to hear me play.

I didn’t return to the outdoor mall for three days. I didn’t want to go back until I knew the song backward and forward. I almost didn’t go at all because I couldn’t figure out why I was being stupid. I had avoided people for over a year now, and for good reason. I had seen plenty of beautiful women, so many of whom had thrown themselves at me. I had never even blinked in their direction, and suddenly, this curvy girl with a mess of curls had me learning a new song and setting up my mic and speaker outside Kafe again. I saw no sign of her for the first half of the day, so I played my usual playlist of songs and collected a decent crowd around lunch. This area was bougie. I knew this group well. One didn’t stroll around shops that sold designer clothes and bags on a random afternoon in the middle of the week if you didn’t have stupid money. I knew that women with stupid money usually had husbands who were never home who were giving them said stupid money. These women liked to watch the overly muscled pretty boy with a strong jaw, bright green eyes, and dirty-blond hair play guitar. I knew this because they said it out loud as if said pretty boy couldn’t hear them. I also knew if I looked at them from under my long lashes, giving them a smolder and a slight smirk, the tips would be plentiful. Many times those tips came with a number on a paper, which I always threw away. Women like that would use you and discard you like the trash they thought you were.

I was finishing up the last chords of the song “All Eyes On Me” by Bo Burnham when I saw her. She was wearing her green apron again and a sorry excuse for a coat, which belied how cold it was outside. I watched her light up a cigarette and take a long inhale before exhaling in a cloud of smoke. I saw her see me. She grinned and pushed off from the wall she was leaning on. I didn’t smile back as I watched her walk over in her black, scuffed Doc Martens look-alike boots and wide-legged cargo pants.

“So you finally learned the song, huh, music man?”

She was so blunt it startled me, and I felt a sizzle of something spark in my blood. I was so used to feeling angry all of the time that I couldn’t name what this different emotion was.

“It’s Kian.” I pulled my beanie further down on my head and watched, waiting for a flicker of recognition to pass over her face. But to my relief, it didn’t. She just continued to observe me. So I stared back.

“You gonna play?”

Again, her direct tone surprised me.

“Maybe.” I gave a noncommittal shrug.

“My break is over in five minutes.”

I humphed and leaned over my guitar, placing my fingers on the frets. I didn’t look at her for the entire song, but I put my whole soul into it. When I finished and looked up, she was grinning. She has a dimple, my brain noted.

“You’re really good, music man,” she told me. I know , I thought. But I didn’t say anything.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“What’s that?”

“Do you want a coffee?”

She had some sort of frenetic energy to her. It felt like she could never be tamed. Maybe it was her hair giving me that vibe. The cold air had caused all the little hairs around her hairline to frizz up, giving her a bit of a halo.

“Um, sure.”

“Be right back.”

She was gone in a whiff of coffee grounds, nicotine, and something else that I couldn’t place.

Ten minutes later, she came back with a large cup of hot coffee, which she handed to me as she said, “Take Your Time, Sam Hunt.”

“Huh?” I gripped the coffee cup, warming up my cold fingers with it.

“The next song I want you to play for me.” She tossed her insane hair over her shoulder as she turned around to walk back to her job.

“How much do I owe you?”

“A song,” she called back without turning around. I felt my mouth try to smile, but I reached up to smooth my mustache and stop my lips from curling up. I wasn’t sure what was happening, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.

That night in the gym, I boxed out my frustration barehanded until my knuckles bled. No one from home would recognize me with my six-pack, ripped arms, and muscles bulging from my shoulders. My old self was thin, wore round-rimmed glasses without a prescription, and the only calluses I had on my fingers were from playing guitar. This version of me had turned myself into a fighting machine. I knew why—I just didn’t want to think about it. So in order to shut off all the noise, I worked out until my body broke—night after night. Tonight, I went even harder than usual. I was especially annoyed at myself because something hummed in my blood when my mystery girl was around. The hairs on the back of my neck had stood at attention when I caught a whiff of her natural scent. The muscles in my stomach had clenched when my fingers brushed against hers as she handed me the coffee. I hated my body's response to this objectively beautiful woman. It had been so long since my body had defied my orders to live the lonely life I had curated for myself, and I didn’t know what to do with this tug-of-war going on inside of me. On one hand, I wanted to go back to my home in my van and obsessively learn the Sam Hunt song that had been requested of me, and on the other hand, I wanted to pack up shop and drive as far away from temptation as I could. I had chosen this permanent vigil, and I couldn’t be distracted. I hadn’t been until now, and I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of it either. They say time heals all wounds, but I was determined to keep mine open and bleeding.

I didn’t go back to her for over a month. Instead, I made my way deeper into town to sing and play music near the bars at night and by the town square during the day. This area was where the college kids hung out, so the tips weren’t as generous as they were by the mall with the horny housewives, but I did okay. I had no major bills—mainly gas and food. I didn’t even have a phone number right now; I just connected my phone to local, free Wi-Fi when I wanted to. I was singing “Dependent” by Keenan Te when a group of drunk, college-aged girls gathered around. They threw a few twenties into my guitar case.

“Do you take requests?” one of them called to me. I nodded, shifting on my stool. They all giggled, and I heard snippets of them commenting on my face and body. One said a little bit too loudly, “I bet his beard will get dirty when he goes down on me.”

I kept strumming and didn’t let my gaze rest on any of them for too long. I wouldn’t know; I hadn’t gone down on a girl since I had grown my beard. I flinched at my own thoughts. One of the girls, with a long braid resting down her back, walked closer to where I sat. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her lips were done heavily in red lipstick. This was my usual type: tall, thin, blonde, and compliant. A glimpse of dark curls and a rounded ass flashed in my mind's eye. I blinked to brush away the unwanted thoughts that were harassing me.

“Do you know the song ‘In The Stars’ by Benson Boone?”

“Oooh, good choice, Sasha!” Her friends clapped gleefully and turned to me to see what I would say.

“I know it,” I said gruffly. Sasha blinked at me prettily and took a fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket. She dropped it in the case and then looked at me expectantly. Shame flooded my system. Sasha made me feel dirty. She reminded me of people and things that I wanted no reminder of. The shame quickly turned to anger, and I had to lean down to pretend to fiddle with the tuning machines to try to restrain myself. After taking a deep breath, I played the song without looking at her again. Sasha, with her red lips that would be sure to leave a rim of color on my cock. Sasha, with her blonde hair that would look so good wrapped around my wrist. Sasha, whose skin was pale enough to bruise just a little. With a huff of breath that turned into a cloud of smoke in front of me, I finished the song and then hopped off the stool to pack up. It was a little early for me to call it quits for the day, but I’d rather get dinner now and then go to the fight than be tempted by someone who would make me feel dirty when I was done with her. No, I deserved every bit of misery that was coming to me, even if a lot of it was now self-inflicted.

Dinner was a whole rotisserie chicken. On a fight night, I always bulked up on as much protein as I could. I would go to the local grocery store and buy one of the small chickens sitting under the warmer in a plastic container. I would bring it back to my van and strip it all off the bone, then dip it into a chili sauce and eat it piece by piece until I was bursting at the seams. I kept doing it because it always worked. I hadn’t lost a fight since I found this little town and joined their underground fight club. I didn’t keep signing up to fight for the winnings, although the money didn’t hurt. I kept coming back because it let me pummel another guy without the risk of going to jail. It was a safer place for me to channel all of my pent-up rage than out on the streets. I wasn’t a boxer or a trained fighter. I was a singer and musician, but now angry enough to have learned how to use my newly discovered muscle mass and strength strategically.

Tonight’s fight was being held in the basement of an abandoned church. The irony wasn’t lost on me because the crowd that showed up to these fights wasn’t exactly church friendly. It was a mix of hard-core boxers, their multiple girlfriends, and their girlfriends' crew which was usually made up of strippers and hookers. In attendance were also bookies, drug dealers, and rich men who made their money in suspicious ways—bored enough with their own lives that their excitement came from attending these illegal events to bet on a fight. I sat on my own as I wrapped my fists. Beau, who arranged the fights, was the only one who I interacted with. Everyone else knew to leave me alone. I took one more look at the photo in my wallet, then folded it back up and hid it under my jacket as I heard them announce my name. I was fighting a young kid tonight who had never lost a fight yet either. However, he wouldn’t be winning tonight. That much I knew. I had nothing left to lose in life, and I fought like it. I walked into the ring, ignoring the crowd, the noise, the music, and the women screaming about how much they wanted me to fuck them. It was an even crazier crowd tonight, being that it was New Year’s Eve. All I focused on in the ring was hitting as hard as I could, as often as I could, and reveling in the feeling of being one with my pain and my anger. Some would say that my behavior was unhealthy, but for me, it was a place where it was okay for me to be completely blinded by my anger and sadness. Once a month, during my fights, I was finally at peace with it.

As I walked into the ring, the young, cocky boxer with an obviously still-healing gash over his eye, a buzz cut, and a missing tooth sneered at me.

“They sent me a pretty boy, I see.” He all but laughed. Underestimate, bitch, I thought to myself. But I said nothing. My silence generally unnerved my opponents. They hated that I wouldn’t engage in their shit-talking. They got off on riling me up, and it wasn’t very satisfying when I wouldn’t react at all. The referee got between us to remind us of the rules, which in sleazy underground fights like this were basically don’t kill each other. The bell rang and I felt my adrenaline and unbridled fury rise to the surface until my body was all but buzzing with it. It took me three minutes to get this undefeated boxer, who outweighed me by thirty pounds, down on the ground, bleeding profusely from where I had split his eyebrow. The crowd went wild. The ref lifted my arm as he proclaimed me the winner, and I barely reacted. Other than breathing heavily, I wasn’t even moving. The constant tornado inside of me was hardly satisfied as I stepped out of the ring and returned to the other room to gather my belongings. Beau met me and slapped a stack of hundreds in my hand.

“I don’t know why people bother to bet against you anymore.” He cackled. I nodded wordlessly.

“Aight, bro, I’ll text you the location next month.” He knew I didn’t talk much, so he didn’t bother trying to drag me into conversation.

“Cool” was all I said as I zipped up my jacket and tugged my beanie back onto my head.

Tomorrow I will go back, I decided. And I’ll play that damn Sam Hunt song.