Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“Uh, no. I know what I want.”
“Come on, just a peek?” She’s twisting her hands together in a way that makes her look like a twelve-year-old girl, not a grown-ass woman.
I look at the board so she’ll leave me the hell alone.
“What am I supposed to be—oh shit.”
“Language, dear,” Marjorie giggles.
On the Specials board, in bright green chalk, it says “The Daniel: 3 shots of expresso in a large coffee.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s…. Wow. I’m honored. It’s espresso, though, just so you know; no x.”
Oh Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Ginger is going to laugh her face off when she hears this. Marjorie looks a little pissed that I pointed out the spelling mistake, but she fixes it with the chalk. Then she looks back at me.
“Well,” I say, trying to move things along. “Thanks again. So, I guess you know what I want, then.”
Marjorie still says nothing, just looks at me expectantly.
“Uh….” I smile, like maybe that’s the magic sign she’s waiting for.
“Order it!” she says.
“I… did?”
“No, order it by name.”
“You want me to order my own drink—the one you already know I want because you named it after me?”
“Well, no one else is ever going to order it,” she says, clearly exasperated.
“Then why did you—Oh Jesus. Okay, I would like one ‘Daniel’ to go, please.”
“Coming right up, Daniel,” Marjorie says sweetly.
JAY SANTIAGO steps through my door just seconds after my student leaves.
“Hey, Daniel,” Jay says with a smile.
“Morning,” I say.
“You leaving soon?”
“Yep. On my way out.”
“Listen,” Jay says, sliding easily into the seat my student just vacated. “I really enjoyed our conversation last night. It was lovely getting to know you a bit better.”
“Me too, Jay. I mean, you too.”
Jay smiles warmly, then leans across the desk toward me.
“Look, Daniel, I don’t know what your situation is, but would you be interested in doing it again?”
“Again, like, dinner again?” I say stupidly.
“Yes. I wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me again. If we enjoyed one another’s company, that is, and it seems like we did.”
Oh crap, crap, crap. I can’t believe it. Rex was right.
“Like, as… friends?” I try, in a last ditch effort.
“No, as in on a date,” Jay says.
“Oh wow,” I say. “Um, well, thanks, Jay. I’m really flattered, I just—um, I’m seeing someone, though. Sorry.”
“The man I met last night?” Jay asks, seeming unperturbed.
“Yeah. Rex.” God, even saying Rex’s name almost makes me smile, even though I’m still mad at him.
“Of course,” he says. “I understand. Well.” He stands and reaches his hand across the desk. “Enjoy the conference, then. The offer stands, if you’d ever like to take me up on it.” He squeezes my hand once, lets it go, and, smiling, walks out the door.
Damn. That was the classiest ask-out I’ve ever seen.
My first thought is to call Rex and tell him he was right about Jay—both the gay thing and the into-me thing. But then what? I don’t want to apologize. I doubt he thinks he did anything wrong. No, better to just take the weekend and cool off.
LEO’S BEHIND the counter when I walk into the music store I never knew existed. I think the reason I never knew it existed is because the sign out front says Mr. Zoo’s Rumble. I don’t even want to know. He looks up when the bell tinkles my arrival and breaks into a big, excited grin, which he quickly twists into a wry smirk, but not before I see how genuinely glad he is to see me.
“Daniel! Hey, man,” he says. “You came!”
“This place is… something,” I say, looking around. The whole front of the store is second-hand instruments of every sort that parents would kill to keep out of the hands of their kids: recorders, clarinets, dented brass things that might be cornets, cheap bongo drums, and one very sad-looking ukulele. Around these, in boxes, are old music magazines, sheet music, and stacks of broken jewel cases. On the other side of the counter where Leo sits are crates of CDs with signs written on the backs of cardboard flaps hung from the ceiling with fishing line, a few flapping in the breeze of the air duct above them. The crooked black Sharpie lettering spells out “World Music,” “Rock ’N Roll,” and “Country,” but also “SoundTrax,” “Mrs. Perelman’s House,” and “Busted/Take.”
“Who’s Mrs. Perelman?” I ask Leo.
“Oh, she was this old lady who lived above the store, and last year she, like, died, and so Mr. Zoo got all her music—I guess her kids didn’t want it—and he didn’t want to file it because it’s old and didn’t fit in his categories, so he just left it together.”
“Mr. Zoo is a real person?”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Zuniga. He owns the place. So, what’s up, Daniel? It’s cool you came by!”
“Do you sell tapes?” I ask.