Chapter 10
I’M HEADING FROM the subway station toward my street with Mariana and Marcel in tow.
The streetlights are on, radiating a warm glow onto the pavement.
The brick homes and all the tall windows make for a lovely atmosphere.
Through the window panes, we can see the silhouettes of the people inside.
One couple is dancing. There’s an older woman observing a group of kids partying outside as she holds a glass of wine in her hand.
And someone enjoying a book in the comfort of their recliner.
Though it’s already close to eleven, the streets are still busy with cars and the sidewalk is a bustling scene of people passing by.
We just went for dinner at a restaurant in Tribeca, where we split the biggest pizza in the history of time. When I told them I still hadn’t had a chance to check out the bar next to my building, we quickly decided it would be the perfect location for us to put our liver-capacities to the test.
Mariana’s husband was thrilled to hear that she was finally taking some time for herself. At first, she was pretty thrilled to share that update with us, but now she’s checking her phone with increasing frequency, and she’s gone noticeably more quiet.
Sean won’t forget to use diaper cream when he changes her, right?
she mumbles, fishing her phone from her purse for the thousandth time.
Poor thing’s been dealing with a rash. And when he warms up her bottle, I need him to remember to test the temperature of the milk on the back of his hand.
It’s so easy to overheat it. I’m gonna give him a quick call just in case . . .
Marcel and I exchange a glance, shaking our heads as Mariana pulls up her husband’s number. Their quiet conversation is surprisingly short.
He told me to enjoy my night instead of acting like a hormonal mother hen, she scoffs. He just hung up on me. All because I’m trying to be a good mom over here.
Let it go, Mari. Marcel wraps an arm around her.
You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.
Being a good mom means you have to look after yourself, too!
Do you really think Rory needs a mom who’s completely drained and frazzled?
Or would she benefit more from a mom who loves life and refuses to drown in the all-consuming stress of motherhood?
Mariana and I give him a perplexed stare. Where do you get this stuff? I marvel.
My sister had a baby in January, he shrugs. So I told her the exact same thing. She was worried the babysitter would accidentally feed my nephew honey or something.
The blood draws from Mariana’s face. Honey! I haven’t even told him he can’t give her any honey!
Mariana, do you even have honey at home? There’s a gentle patience in Marcel’s voice.
She pauses to think, brow furrowed, before letting out a sigh of relief. No—you’re right. I never use honey and neither does Sean, thank goodness.
See? Nothing to worry about! Don’t forget she’s Sean’s kid, too. I assume he has as much of a vested interest in keeping her alive as you do.
Okay, okay, you’ve made your point, Mariana chuckles as she shakes her head. Now, where’s this bar of yours, Emma?
Almost there, I say. See those people up there? That’s it.
Oooh, it looks cozy! Marcel delights. I love it already.
The place is packed. Over to the right is a long bar staffed with bartenders hustling back and forth with cocktail shakers in hand. The wall behind the bar is one massive collection of drinks from every corner of the world.
One of the bartenders hands a martini to a man dressed in a suit and I’m convinced he’s about to accept it with a mention of, The name’s Bond. James Bond. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he gives her a piece of his mind, claiming he actually ordered a Bloody Mary.
Pendant lamps are scattered around the ceiling, creating a dimly lit mood. In the middle of the room are a bunch of bar tables, while U-shaped booths covered in dark green leather make up the left side of the space.
The air is filled with live music that seems to be coming from a stage near the back and .
. . It sounds great. Incredible, really.
The warm, raspy voice coming through the speakers makes the soft hair on my arms stand to attention.
It’s the kind of voice that could do some serious damage in the bedroom.
Whoa. Who is that? Mariana lets out a wolf whistle. She’s standing on tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the stage over the crowd. If I hadn’t just had a baby with the love of my life . . .
Really?! I follow her lead, trying to see the stage, but there’s only the backs of people’s heads as far as my eyes can see. I swear under my breath.
Want me to lift you up for a sec? Marcel snickers. I really don’t think you want to miss this. This guy is hot. What’s the deal with rockstars? There’s something so wildly attractive about the combination of rugged looks and musical talent.
What. Does. He. Loo-hook. Li-hike? I’m jumping up and down now, hoping to lay eyes on the man who has my coworkers in a drooling frenzy.
Check it out: the booth over there is opening up, Mariana hisses at us through the side of her mouth. It should give us a perfect view of the stage.
As quickly as possible, she sprints over to the booth and plops herself down, nearly getting squished under the backside of a man who seems to have had the same strategy in mind. He glares in her direction, shouting something unintelligible.
Hey, this is my first night out since giving birth, buddy, Mariana shouts back at him.
Have you ever spent four weeks sitting on an inflatable donut pillow while doing the work of a dairy cow?
Have you ever been ripped open from front to back?
Have you ever lost control of your bladder because you were forced to blast a whole human being out of your hoo hah?
I— She’s cut off by an impressive sneeze and instantly crosses her legs. Oops . . .
The man has gone pale now, glancing at the spot where Mariana is sitting. He mumbles something else, then finally turns to walk away.
Returning to her regular seated position, Mariana looks back at us with a triumphant thumbs up.
I guess that Moscato she had earlier is finally kicking in, Marcel says with a nod of approval.
Mariana seems entranced by what’s happening on the stage, as she moves along to the rhythm of the music.
Heading over to our booth, Marcel and I are now just a few steps away from an unobstructed view of the band and their hot lead singer.
I feel the gravelly, seductive voice seep into every fibre of my being.
When I finally lay eyes on the man behind the voice, I gasp.
There he is. Up there. In the middle of the stage. Rudy. He’s hitting a glorious extended note. Eyes closed. Effortless. His hair has tumbled into his face and, for the first time since the airplane, I spot a touch of eyeliner on him. Somehow it looks just right, completing the rockstar picture.
He’s wearing a white shirt, black jacket, and matching pants.
As he pours his entire heart and soul into his delivery, his lace-up boots stomp along to the beat.
There’s a chestnut-haired girl behind the drum kit, her sleek tresses bouncing around her face in time with the music.
The bass player has short, bleached hair and he’s wearing an outfit of distressed jeans paired with a white t-shirt.
There’s a sense of precision to the way he’s plucking at his strings.
Rudy has his guitar slung around his neck, but he’s not playing it. He’s way too consumed by his vocals. In fact, the band members are all so wrapped up in their passionate performance, I doubt they even realize they’re playing in a crowded bar.
When Rudy sings his final note and opens his eyes to the world, the room erupts into loud applause. He seems caught off guard for a split second, then stands up a little straighter and gives the audience his most impressive smile. It makes my heart skip a few beats.
I already thought he was cute—not necessarily my type, but definitely cute.
But when he’s on stage? This version of him goes so far beyond my definition of attractive.
As his gaze moves around the room, he lets it linger approvingly on some girls shouting at him from the crowd below.
When his eyes finally reach our booth, they go wide with surprise.
Cocking his head, he lifts a corner of his mouth and nods hello.
His eyes stay latched onto mine as my unsettled feeling transforms into a nervous tingle in my belly.
And then I . . . wave. Not a flirty wave.
Oh no. It’s the kind of wave a mom would give her kid who’s climbing onto the bus for his very first field trip: wildly exuberant and a touch emotional.
But rather than waving at a seven-year-old who loves to play with Lego, I’m waving at a man who likely has bras and panties tossed at him on stage every night.
The other side of his mouth quirks up and a wide grin appears on his face before he turns his attention back to his band.
And I . . . want the ground to swallow me whole.