“The harmonica sounded great…honestly.” Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I study her profile.She’s a sad little thing. I care. Not sure why, but I care.
“Yeah, maybe. I just don’t want anyone else playing it. It’s mine, ya know?”
“Sure.” I don’t fully understand, but I feel I should… somehow. “Want me to talk to Marcus?”
What are you doing, Konnor?
Marcus would kick my arse for interfering with his staff, but for some reason, I’m more than happy to piss him off for this girl’s smile.
“No, thank you,” she mutters.
“Okay.” Words dissolve on my tongue; I’ve got nothing. I should just eat this kebab—I’m sitting here, clutching it like it’s my last meal. The juice from the tomatoes is making the Turkish wrap wet; I should really just eat it.
Pretty girl... kebab... Pretty girl... kebab.
“The musician in her natural habitat thing was stupid… Want to go for a walk?” I hear myself ask.
Girl: One.
Kebab: Zero.
“It wasn’t stupid.” Her sadness slips. “And yes.”
We stand and walk awkwardly, soon finding a pace, half-turned towards each other, waiting for the other to do something. Neither of us speaks.
Then we face forwards, and I listen to her shoes tapping in time with mine. I would usually fill these moments with quips and commentary, but this is strangely comfortable now. I step off the footpath to bin my now soggy kebab—possibly the best kebab ever created.
Shame.
I know these paths like the back of my hand, having walked them many times with Pemberton, with Jax, with countless girls. Tonight, though, they seem a littledifferent.
Blesk sniffles every now and then. My chest aches each time. I hate that she’s crying. As she wipes her tears, I resist the urge to brush them away for her. The wind swirls her hair around her face, so she collects it and pulls it down one shoulder.
Cheer her up, Konnor.
“Ah… Let’s do this again,” I suggest.
She frowns suspiciously. “O…kay.” She pauses. “Do what again exactly?”
“Wait right here.”
I spin and walk away from her. Ten steps later, I turn back around. She’s still rooted to the spot, chin lifted slightly, eyes questioning what I’m doing—not thinking about the hero boy, and that’s the point.
I pause, caught in this moment of… her. Can a person be a moment? She shifts her weight, one hand fidgeting with the fabric of her dress, the other dangling beside her. When she blinks up at me through the darkness, I forget what game I was playing.
Oh, yeah.
A meet-cute.
I break eye contact and stroll toward her, shoulders back, hips loose. A little strut that is entirely embarrassing, but when she giggles—just a small sound in the night air—it makes it worth it.
I reach her side and extend my hand for her to shake. "Konnor Slater. Grad student, functional alcoholic. I hate harmonica players. I'm told I'm a decent human being, but I have only one source for that, and she's biased because she's my mum."
She smiles. “I’m Blesk Bellamy, and I don’t hate harmonica players.”
“Really? Huh. Maybe I just haven’t met a harmonica player I like.”
“You should get out more. I meet a new harmonica player I like every day.”