For You (13 page)

A band was already playing, doing a slowed-down version of a song that sounded familiar. This pub was bigger on the inside than it seemed from outside, the opposite of Bruce's place.

We found a seat and ordered drinks. I still couldn't place the song, so I asked Sawyer.

He grinned. “Katy Perry.”

“Oh!” I made an exaggerated show of smacking my forehead. The song sounded so different slowed down and sung by a guy. Not bad.

“Wanna dance?” Sawyer nodded over to the tiny dance floor, not much more than a space between tables.

“Lemme warm up.”

“Come on, before our drinks get here.” He jumped up, not taking no for an answer, and wove his way over to the space before the stage. The singer, an otherwise-cute guy with stringy hair, grinned and leaned down to give him a fist-bump, then went back to singing the Katy Perry.

This was the band Sawyer played in sometimes. They were good, I thought, but what did I know?

I didn't want to dance, but I didn't feel any more comfortable at the table by myself, so I got up and joined him on the dance floor.

We swayed back and forth, me with my arms stiffly at my sides, him with an easy confidence. He faced the band and sang along with the chorus, then played the air drums for a moment as he made grinning eye contact with the drummer.

I got this strangely intense feeling about him not looking my way, like I was jealous of his love for the band. Which was ridiculous.

The song finished, and they started an eighties song,
Summer of Sixty-Nine
.

Sawyer gave them the thumbs up and then started clapping.

After a moment of swaying, I leaned in and said, “So, they're a cover band? That doesn't seem so hard to describe.”

“This is just the crowd-pleaser stuff. Gotta give the people what they love, make 'em feel smart, singing along with lyrics they know by heart.” He held his arms bent up in front of his chest, wiggling his fists side to side in a cute move as he sang along with the chorus of the Bryan Adams song.

I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to relax, let go. My feet weren't moving much, I realized, and all my movement was in my hips. I shook one leg and then the other to get them going.

“Nice moves,” Sawyer said, making fun of me.

“At least I don't dance like this.” I held my arms up at the same angle as his and made a goofy face as I wiggled my fists with the beat.

He leaned back and laughed so loud, it distracted the band and caused them to lose a beat or two.

“Drinks!” he said, pointing to the server making her way to our table. “Race you back. Loser buys the round.”

He covered the distance quickly with his long legs, but then he did that thing again, where he made me pay using money from his pocket.

After a few more cover songs, the band did play an original. I wasn't sure how I felt about the song. Unlike the others, it was my first time hearing it, and I couldn't say I had any strong feelings, good or bad.

Sawyer leaned in and said, “This song is about his mean girlfriend. Notice how he punches the word
cruel
. That was a bad scene, but it's been an endless source of creative inspiration.”

“What did she do? That was so cruel?”

“She lied.”

I took a sip of my drink—a rye and Diet Coke.

“What did she lie about?” I asked.

He fixed me with his green eyes that looked so dark and bottomless in the low light. “Does it matter what she lied about?”

“Of course it matters.”

“A shorter list would be,
what things did she not lie about?
”

I nodded along with the music. “Great song.”

He stared at me, his face having the look of someone figuring out a puzzle. Self-conscious, I looked down at my lap and rotated my chair around, so I was partly facing the band and could watch them without craning my neck.

The band took a break, with half of them going outside to smoke and half of them joining us at our table. Every bar in the city was smoking-free, because it was a law for the whole province. Some places had covered patios outside just for smoking, with huge signs imploring the patrons to not yell too much, please.

The guys from the band who joined us at our table were really cool, neither ignoring me completely, nor being too interested and inquisitive. They kept calling the guitarist a word I'd never heard of before.

Finally, curiosity got the better of me and I asked, “What's a
keener
?”

The stringy-haired lead singer explained, “One who is keen. A real go-getter.”

Sawyer said, “Same as a brown-noser.”

“No,” the singer said, shaking his head. “Words are specific. They have specific meaning and are not interchangeable. The meaning is slightly different. A keener might brown-nose their superiors, but they get ahead in life on their own merits. On their own hard work.”

The other guys laughed. To me, Sawyer said, “Beware a lyricist. They really care about words.”

The singer turned to me. “We're trying to encourage Tommy here to be less cool. To care more about art, without apology.”

“Tommy?”

“They call me Tom Sawyer. Tommy. It's not my name, though. I mean, come on, do I look like a Tommy?”

“Why are you named Sawyer?”

“Why are you named Aubrey?”

The singer waved his hand between us to interrupt. “May I write a song about you, beautiful, mysterious Aubrey?”

Sawyer shook his head, playfully mouthing the word
no
.

“Sure,” I said.

“You won't be sorry,” the singer said, giving me a double eyebrow raise.

And then they were off, back up on the stage.

We watched them play for a while, and I tried to remember the last time I'd been out to see a band with friends. It was something most girls my age took for granted—being able to have fun, thinking only of themselves. I pretended to be watching the band, but I was mostly looking at the other young women in the bar. One group in particular was hard to ignore.

Over the sound of the girls squealing and downing tequila shots the next table over, I said to Sawyer, “Is that a normal bachelorette party around here?”

The girl at the center of the action wore an oversized white T-shirt that had multi-colored hard candies stuck all over it. Crudely written in felt marker on the front, back, and sleeves, was BUCK A SUCK. I watched as a few guys gamely offered her a dollar or two, then sucked the candies off her shirt as everyone watched and squealed. The girl wore a tiara with a small veil, which was the main thing tipping me off that she was the bride-to-be.

“You mean the
stagette
,” he said. “That's what we call it. Most of us. My mother's from New Zealand, and she'd call it a
hen party
.”

“But is this typical? With the costumes?”

“Didn't you do this when you got married?”

I shook my head, no.

He looked pointedly at my stomach, and I knew what he was thinking—that I'd been a knocked-up bride.

One of the entourage came by our table, teetering on her high heel boots. She wore a tight bodysuit and cat ears, like several of the other girls. “Only a buck,” she squealed.

Sawyer answered politely, “Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back on my sugar.”

The girl glared at me, as though I was the one holding an invisible leash, keeping him from fondling her best friend.

“What's the money for?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes and walked away.

I leaned in and said to Sawyer, “Was I rude to ask that? It's just that with a kissing booth or something, it's usually for charity. That takes away some of the…
you know
.”

He gave her another look, then turned back to me, his eyebrows high with excitement. “She could make a hundred bucks if she sells all the candies on her shirt for a buck each. And I'm sure she's got more that she could re-load with.” He nodded down at my purse, on my lap. “Hey, let's make some cash. Get out some of those suckers I know you have in your purse, then we'll dip them in water to stick on your shirt.”

“Very funny.”

“You say that now, but it could be very lucrative.” He laughed harder and harder. “And tax-free, too.”

The girls pushed past us and formed a circle on the dance floor. The atmosphere and the booze in my system was making me introspective. Part of me wished I had a group of friends my age to do that stuff with—I'd already missed out on so much, and who knew what the future held for me. Time was slipping away.

The band started to play a familiar-sounding song I couldn't quite pin down. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, focusing on the lyrics.

When I opened my eyes again, Sawyer looked sad, like he wished the bass player wasn't there that night, and he could be up on the little stage instead.

When he caught me staring, he flashed me a grin, revealing those perfect teeth of his. Now that my tooth didn't hurt, I wasn't thinking about teeth as much, but his were really nice.

“You're having fun,” he said.

“I am?”

“Always leave 'em wanting more.” He pushed back in his chair, stood, and nodded for us to go.

Outside in the cool night air, as I was fastening the chin strap of my helmet, he said, “Wanna learn to ride?” He held out the keys, his face lit only by passing headlights and red taillights.

“Don't I need a permit or something?”

“Spoilsport,” he teased.

An elderly man with a hunched-up back approached us, mumbling something incomprehensible.

“Sorry, man,” Sawyer said, but I was already reaching into my pocket for some change.

The man's expression turned hopeful and he trained his watery, pale blue eyes on me, shuffling closer. I could see by the angle of his jaw he had no teeth, and his gaunt cheeks told me he was thin under his clothes. His top layer was a woman's ski jacket—pink—and it might have appeared funny to people who had never been truly poor.

I handed him all the change from my pocket, which included some two-dollar coins.

He muttered a blessing that was far too generous for the small amount I'd given him, and shuffled off into the dark night.

Sawyer said, “Now I feel like a dick. Wait. Hang on.” He handed me his helmet and loped off after the guy.

I watched, my arms getting goosebumps from the cold night air, as he talked to the guy for a few minutes and emptied out his pockets into the man's hands.

When Sawyer came back, he had his head down, and he took back the helmet quietly.

We got on the motorcycle, and I looped my arms around his waist without hesitation. I hung on tight, and because he couldn't see my face, I allowed myself to cry.

I cried because the world was beautiful.

When we pulled up in front of my building, the little wannabe-gangsters were in full force around the front door. The kids were in their early teens, and one or two of them lived in the building. They were more annoying than actually scary, but I tried to avoid them.

As soon as Sawyer turned off the engine, I heard their strident voices, calling out and demanding we go buy them alcohol. When I didn't respond, a few started calling me a stuck-up bitch.

I saw something flash in Sawyer's eyes—a look that scared me. “Which one of them lives here?” he asked me.

“I've seen the stupid-looking one around a lot. Red jacket. He's harmless, though. Don't worry about him.”

Sawyer had his helmet off, his wavy brown hair still flattened down and plastered to his forehead. We were in the dark, at the edge of the light shed by the security lights at the front of the apartment building.

“He's not harmless,” he said, growling and looking like a big dog who just saw a pack of mutts step into his yard.

“Calm down, they're all talk.”

“He just pulled out a knife and flashed it at that other kid.”

I squinted their way. Sawyer could see that amount of detail from where we were?

Holding onto his arm, I said, “Don't worry about it. I'll just go around to the side entrance.”

He shrugged his arm from my hands and strode across the front lawn, then straight into the middle of them.

I stayed where I was, my feet frozen to the pavement.

They seemed to talk for a minute, the five teens—all shorter than Sawyer, but not by much—circling around like wily pack animals. One of the guys—not the one who lived in the building—acted like he was walking away, then turned quickly and snuck up behind Sawyer.

Before I could yell out a warning, the kid punched Sawyer in the back of the head. Big mistake. Sawyer whipped around, all fists and fury. The kid was knocked flat to the ground, and when the next one came at Sawyer, he was sent flying back, and I heard the slam as he hit the glass building door behind him.

Oh, fuck.

I started running toward them, but my shoes weren't made for running and one of them started pulling off my foot, tripping me. By the time I got to my feet again, the skirmish was over. The visiting kids ran off, and the one who lived there had his head bowed, using his key to open the door. He'd been the one tossed back into the glass.

I tore open the door, praying the kid wasn't hurt.

Inside the lobby, I heard Sawyer was saying, “If you'll apologize to Aubrey, I think she'll forgive you and not tell your mother what just happened.”