the hall. I guess I wasn’t as sly as I’d thought.
I kissed her forehead once we arrived at her homeroom. “’Kay, babe. I’ll see you later.”
The PTA warlords were still idling on the curb. They whispered among themselves and then tried to wave me down.
“Sorry ladies, I’ve got this thing I’m late for.” I gave them a two-finger salute and rushed to my Range Rover.
* * *
I pulled into the graveled parking lot of Rev and Go, a coffee shop in East Atlanta, after I dropped off the kids. I’d contacted my old classmates to see if they had any openings in their bands. No one had a vacant spot for a lead singer/guitarist, but someone’s uncle was interested in adding music to his coffee shop.
So here I was, strapped with a guitar I hadn’t touched in a year up until a few weeks ago, nerves and attitude jumbled up into all 140 pounds of me. Okay, lies, 147 pounds, but who’s counting?
Despite my internal battle, I strolled in like I owned the bitch because I was a rock-and-roll goddess, and goddesses didn’t punk out at the finish line.
I noticed a man with blond hair with sprinkles of gray. He wore a purple T-shirt that displayed a colorful sleeve of tattoos on his forearm.
I gave him a chin jerk. “I’m looking for Eric Scott.”
“You’ve got ’im,” Eric responded in a gravelly voice. “Are you Nikki?” He looked me up and down. I knew what he was thinking. Dressed like an extra on Mad Men in my hot pink cardigan, blue flared skirt, and kitten heels, I didn’t exactly blend in with the locals.
“Yup.” I extended my hand and we shook. “Dana tells me you’re looking for a musician to play in your shop once a week. Any preferences for music?”
Eric shrugged. “I heard you were good. Wow me.”
“Right here?” I looked at all four customers in the café.
“Yep. They’re regulars, so I’ll want their approval.”
“Let me grab my amp from the car.” After I wheeled it in, I noticed the group of customers clustered around the front with Eric in the center.
“Up here, Nikki.”
“All right.” I moved my guitar to the front and strummed the opening of “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix, one of my favorite electric guitarists. I took them on a psychedelic experience, minus the narcotics. Two of the regulars popped from their seats, dancing and darting around like wood nymphs.
My performance was met with loud claps and whistles from the group and the staff.
“So, Nikki,” Eric said with a shit-eating grin. “When can you start?”
* * *
For the last few weeks, I’d been living my double life as a mom by day and musician by night. No one had been the wiser.
I felt like hot garbage, lying to James. But every time I tried to tell him, my mouth dried up. My tongue would get thick like I was having some allergic reaction. My feet got all tingly, and I had to slam them against the floor to regain feeling.
Not to mention, I’d sweat like a hooker during Communion. One time I’d been sweating so bad, James asked if I’d been running.
There were reasons, legit reasons why I couldn’t tell him just yet. Like the one time when, for our four-year anniversary, we went to this shitty all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. The food was crappy, so we drank too much and screwed like bunnies. It was fun until he drunkenly confessed that he was happy his wife was no longer a musician because music took too much time and he liked me being home. He passed out.
James was usually so careful with me, with his words and his actions. I knew he didn’t realize what he’d said. So I buried it deep, pretending to be perfectly happy.
He hadn’t realized that I’d written him a song and planned to sing it for him.
He hadn’t realized that my heart had dried, fractured, and crumbled into a million pieces. Because for once in my life, my soul mate hadn’t realized what fed my soul.
So I quit. Put up my guitar. Buried my lyrics in the closet and the music in my heart.
I became a good little wife and kept house. I could tell it made James happy. He stopped giving me nervous looks when an epic guitar solo came on the radio because I stopped strumming the chords in the air.
And he no longer did the weird head bob thing when I launched into a tirade about good music.
Or maybe