“It’s too early in the day to start drinking, but you’re gonna owe me at the end of this. Not beer either, I need something harder.” She kicked out a chair at the kitchen table and dropped into it. “But actually, you’re wrong about the problem. Or you’re wrong about the first problem.”
Ari was getting used to the idea that he was wrong about a lot of things, so he poured two cups of coffee and sat down. “Since I’m incapable of using the sense I was born with, would you care to enlighten me?”
“The first problem is,” Afra said, pulling her mug toward herself, “youdidn’t know you were an asshole.”
Grimacing, Ari stirred a half teaspoon of sugar into his drink. “I can learn to live with my own mistakes.” Well, that wasn’t the whole truth. “Provided Jax can forgive them.”
“At leastnowyou’ve got your priorities straight.” She blew out a long breath and picked up her mug. “So what’s your plan?”
“Grovel?”
“That’s a good start. Vague, though.”
Yes, that was a problem. “I’m still working out the details.” How did you make up for something like that? He could amend his behavior going forward, but he couldn’t undo the mistakes he’d already made.
And any apology was going to have to include addressing the original issue, which meant telling his parents the truth and introducing them to Jax.
Ari needed a few hours and a lot more coffee to work up to confronting that fact.
“Uh-huh.” Afra sounded skeptical. “Just don’t put it off too long. I mean… you were happy. I have never seen you like that. Don’t fuck it up any worse.”
“Your encouragement is heartwarming,” Ari said morosely.
“You’re damn right. Now.” She sat forward in her chair and pulled her tablet out of her purse. “We’ve got four months until the tour begins. It’s time to start looking at scheduling. I talked to Noella, and she’s got a list of venues and festivals she wants you to hit.”
Grateful for the distraction, Ari sank into several hours of planning and worked up a list of potential venues so Afra could start putting the tour together. By the time she left, he felt almost okay about what he had to do next.
Key word beingalmost.
He made a sandwich for lunch and ate it standing next to the piano, looking out the window at the view but not really seeing it.
He needed to call his parents—possibly even go over there and explain in person so they could see how serious he was. And then he needed to open his mouth and say,Maman, Baba, I know you have dreams of me settling down with a nice Persian doctor, but I’m dating a white bartender and I need you to pretend to be okay with that.
There should be a song for that. And maybe he was still in procrastination mode, because he brought his sandwich plate back to the kitchen and then sat down at the piano, pulled his notepad toward himself, and started to scribble.
You say you won’t be
my dirty little secret.
Oh, but everybody knows.
You say I’m singing solo,
But this is half of a duet
I’ve been trying to transpose.
How can I tell someone what you mean
When I haven’t got the words?
How can I sing a song unseen
If I might also go unheard?
If you have an accusation, honey,
I’ve got the perfect excuse.
