“Absolutely.”
“We’re playing three songs, so if you want to come down during the last one I can meet you backstage.”
I nod and smile up at him.
Am I really here? On a date with Calvin?
I’m momentarily light-headed. We’re negotiating getting married.
He wraps a hand around my upper arm and gently squeezes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” I pull a few strands of hair out of my face, and notice when he glances at my lips. “This is just sort of surreal.”
“I know.” He pauses, seeming to be on the verge of saying something more about this, but in the end just tells me, “I’ll give them your name and see you in a few?”
“Good luck.”
At this, he gives me a grin and leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that nearly annihilates me, before heading down the stairs.
Calvin’s band is on about twenty minutes later, and when he looks up while tuning his guitar to offer me a little wave, my knees grow rubbery.
He was right about the distinct lack of animal print. There are four guys in total, all of them in varying degrees of distressed skinny jeans and vintage band T-shirts, all of them hot. Calvin is playing a guitar I’ve never seen him use before—it looks acoustic but plugs into an enormous amp near his feet.
Within the first notes of the opening number, I can already tell these guys are good. The singer is a gritty baritone, but impressive on the higher notes, too. The songs are short and range from indie rock to a bit heavier, and each one showcases Calvin’s incredible fluidity on his guitar.
Unlike in the station, Calvin is playing to the audience here. He grins wickedly, lifts his chin in greeting to the screaming women up front, and steps into the spotlight during his solos. It’s such a starkly different version of him—and still so obscenely sexy—that I can barely drag my eyes away.
And I’m not the only one. A girl with platinum hair and a nose ring stands next to me at the railing, her gaze locked in on the stage. “Is that the new lead guitar?”
The girl next to her is equally impressed. “Jesus Christ. Is he going to be at the after-party? Because if he is, so am I.”
At this, I essentially sprint down the stairs and toward the backstage entrance.
“Um, Holland Bakker?” I tell the security guard. “I’m supposed to meet Calvin McLoughlin.”
He looks down at me—seriously, I think he’s seven feet tall—and then at his list. With a bored sigh he steps to the side, allowing me to pass.
Calvin is just coming offstage and spots me immediately. Having known Robert all my life, and worked at the theater for the last few years, I’m familiar with the adrenaline rush that comes with performing. It’s a high as good as any drug, and is the only explanation I can find for the way Calvin’s eyes light up when he sees me, the way he makes his way straight to where I stand and picks me up in a squeezing, sweaty hug.
“Could you see all right? How did it sound?” he asks, amped.
“It was amazing.” Being this close to him makes me legitimately dizzy. I now know how hard his chest his, how strong his hands are.
He sets me down again. “Yeah?”
I don’t even need to exaggerate my breathlessness. “You were amazing.”
“McLoughlin.”
Calvin turns to find the lead singer standing right behind him. “Devon, hey.”
“Thanks for filling in on such short notice. We would have been screwed without you.”
“No problem.” Calvin tucks an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. When my sweater rides up, I feel the rough press of his hand on my skin, making me grow as hyperaware of each of his fingertips as if he’s just brushed them across my nipples. “I appreciated being asked.”
Devon wipes his face on a towel and lays it over his shoulder. “Do you think you’d want to make this a permanent thing?”
Calvin takes a moment to consider before looking down at me. He blinks, and a beat of silence passes between us where I think he’s asking, Well? Are we doing this? His fingers rub my waist gently, as if to remind me there’s no pressure.
I swallow, giving him a smile that says: Fuck yes we are.
Calvin turns back to Devon. “Dev, this is my fiancée, Holland. Holls, this is Devon.”
Holls.
Fiancée.
And I die.
Devon’s eyes disappear into his artfully styled mop of sweaty hair before he reaches out, and I return the handshake awkwardly with my cast.
“Fiancée?” he asks. “Well done, man.”
Calvin laughs. “Thanks, mate.”
“So what do you think?” Devon asks.
Another glance in my direction before Calvin grins. “Thanks for the opportunity, Dev. I really appreciate it, but I’m going to be pretty busy for the next several months.”
nine
The coldest day of January also happens to be my wedding day.
What a strange, strange sentence.
It’s one thing to say, Oh hey, I should totally marry this guy so I can save the day. It’s quite another to make it happen. Despite what I told Calvin—a few forms, an interview—Google happily informed me that this process is arduous. There are a million forms. There are a million requirements. And although there are visas specifically for this situation—where someone in the arts wants to hire a foreigner and an American citizen can’t fill the role—Calvin having lived here illegally makes that option unlikely. Which is why just yesterday we were here, getting our marriage license.
Marriage license. Holy hell, this is happening.
“I know I’m always encouraging you to get a life,” Lulu says, sliding her hand into mine, “but this is like me suggesting you eat something and you go and scarf down three dozen donuts.”
My heart is in my throat as we climb the stairs in front of City Hall, and I grip Lulu as if she’s keeping me above water. I am so grateful that she’s here: she got a great deal on simple gold bands from her shady uncle and came over early this morning to do my hair.
“You did say it would make a great story for my biography one day.”
Her dark hair—blown out and curled for the occasion—falls in a polished wave over one shoulder. “I said my biography,” she says.
Tipping her head back, she takes a final draw on her cigarette before snuffing it out. Her exhale plumes into a dense cloud in front of her, and I let go of her hand and subtly step away. Lulu quit smoking twice this year—going from Marlboros to vaping, to nothing, and back to Marlboros again. According to her, it’s not so much that she’s addicted as that auditions make her nervous, the wait after the audition makes her nervous, working in a restaurant in Manhattan and dealing with people’s shit makes her nervous.
“Just giving you a final chance to back out.” She fishes in her small bag for a box of orange Tic Tacs. “We don’t have to go in there.”
Her suggestion would be the easy choice, and certainly the smart one, but I can’t back out now. For as nervous and as terrified as I am, there’s another side that’s secretly, shamelessly giddy.
Self-consciously, I smooth the front of the pleated chiffon skirt I’m wearing as we pass through the glass doors. I’m still not sure it was the right choice. Trying too hard? Not trying hard enough? What does one wear to a fake wedding, anyway?
“You look good, kid.” Lulu pauses to spare me a glance. “What underwear are you wearing?”
“We’re playing three songs, so if you want to come down during the last one I can meet you backstage.”
I nod and smile up at him.
Am I really here? On a date with Calvin?
I’m momentarily light-headed. We’re negotiating getting married.
He wraps a hand around my upper arm and gently squeezes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” I pull a few strands of hair out of my face, and notice when he glances at my lips. “This is just sort of surreal.”
“I know.” He pauses, seeming to be on the verge of saying something more about this, but in the end just tells me, “I’ll give them your name and see you in a few?”
“Good luck.”
At this, he gives me a grin and leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that nearly annihilates me, before heading down the stairs.
Calvin’s band is on about twenty minutes later, and when he looks up while tuning his guitar to offer me a little wave, my knees grow rubbery.
He was right about the distinct lack of animal print. There are four guys in total, all of them in varying degrees of distressed skinny jeans and vintage band T-shirts, all of them hot. Calvin is playing a guitar I’ve never seen him use before—it looks acoustic but plugs into an enormous amp near his feet.
Within the first notes of the opening number, I can already tell these guys are good. The singer is a gritty baritone, but impressive on the higher notes, too. The songs are short and range from indie rock to a bit heavier, and each one showcases Calvin’s incredible fluidity on his guitar.
Unlike in the station, Calvin is playing to the audience here. He grins wickedly, lifts his chin in greeting to the screaming women up front, and steps into the spotlight during his solos. It’s such a starkly different version of him—and still so obscenely sexy—that I can barely drag my eyes away.
And I’m not the only one. A girl with platinum hair and a nose ring stands next to me at the railing, her gaze locked in on the stage. “Is that the new lead guitar?”
The girl next to her is equally impressed. “Jesus Christ. Is he going to be at the after-party? Because if he is, so am I.”
At this, I essentially sprint down the stairs and toward the backstage entrance.
“Um, Holland Bakker?” I tell the security guard. “I’m supposed to meet Calvin McLoughlin.”
He looks down at me—seriously, I think he’s seven feet tall—and then at his list. With a bored sigh he steps to the side, allowing me to pass.
Calvin is just coming offstage and spots me immediately. Having known Robert all my life, and worked at the theater for the last few years, I’m familiar with the adrenaline rush that comes with performing. It’s a high as good as any drug, and is the only explanation I can find for the way Calvin’s eyes light up when he sees me, the way he makes his way straight to where I stand and picks me up in a squeezing, sweaty hug.
“Could you see all right? How did it sound?” he asks, amped.
“It was amazing.” Being this close to him makes me legitimately dizzy. I now know how hard his chest his, how strong his hands are.
He sets me down again. “Yeah?”
I don’t even need to exaggerate my breathlessness. “You were amazing.”
“McLoughlin.”
Calvin turns to find the lead singer standing right behind him. “Devon, hey.”
“Thanks for filling in on such short notice. We would have been screwed without you.”
“No problem.” Calvin tucks an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. When my sweater rides up, I feel the rough press of his hand on my skin, making me grow as hyperaware of each of his fingertips as if he’s just brushed them across my nipples. “I appreciated being asked.”
Devon wipes his face on a towel and lays it over his shoulder. “Do you think you’d want to make this a permanent thing?”
Calvin takes a moment to consider before looking down at me. He blinks, and a beat of silence passes between us where I think he’s asking, Well? Are we doing this? His fingers rub my waist gently, as if to remind me there’s no pressure.
I swallow, giving him a smile that says: Fuck yes we are.
Calvin turns back to Devon. “Dev, this is my fiancée, Holland. Holls, this is Devon.”
Holls.
Fiancée.
And I die.
Devon’s eyes disappear into his artfully styled mop of sweaty hair before he reaches out, and I return the handshake awkwardly with my cast.
“Fiancée?” he asks. “Well done, man.”
Calvin laughs. “Thanks, mate.”
“So what do you think?” Devon asks.
Another glance in my direction before Calvin grins. “Thanks for the opportunity, Dev. I really appreciate it, but I’m going to be pretty busy for the next several months.”
nine
The coldest day of January also happens to be my wedding day.
What a strange, strange sentence.
It’s one thing to say, Oh hey, I should totally marry this guy so I can save the day. It’s quite another to make it happen. Despite what I told Calvin—a few forms, an interview—Google happily informed me that this process is arduous. There are a million forms. There are a million requirements. And although there are visas specifically for this situation—where someone in the arts wants to hire a foreigner and an American citizen can’t fill the role—Calvin having lived here illegally makes that option unlikely. Which is why just yesterday we were here, getting our marriage license.
Marriage license. Holy hell, this is happening.
“I know I’m always encouraging you to get a life,” Lulu says, sliding her hand into mine, “but this is like me suggesting you eat something and you go and scarf down three dozen donuts.”
My heart is in my throat as we climb the stairs in front of City Hall, and I grip Lulu as if she’s keeping me above water. I am so grateful that she’s here: she got a great deal on simple gold bands from her shady uncle and came over early this morning to do my hair.
“You did say it would make a great story for my biography one day.”
Her dark hair—blown out and curled for the occasion—falls in a polished wave over one shoulder. “I said my biography,” she says.
Tipping her head back, she takes a final draw on her cigarette before snuffing it out. Her exhale plumes into a dense cloud in front of her, and I let go of her hand and subtly step away. Lulu quit smoking twice this year—going from Marlboros to vaping, to nothing, and back to Marlboros again. According to her, it’s not so much that she’s addicted as that auditions make her nervous, the wait after the audition makes her nervous, working in a restaurant in Manhattan and dealing with people’s shit makes her nervous.
“Just giving you a final chance to back out.” She fishes in her small bag for a box of orange Tic Tacs. “We don’t have to go in there.”
Her suggestion would be the easy choice, and certainly the smart one, but I can’t back out now. For as nervous and as terrified as I am, there’s another side that’s secretly, shamelessly giddy.
Self-consciously, I smooth the front of the pleated chiffon skirt I’m wearing as we pass through the glass doors. I’m still not sure it was the right choice. Trying too hard? Not trying hard enough? What does one wear to a fake wedding, anyway?
“You look good, kid.” Lulu pauses to spare me a glance. “What underwear are you wearing?”
