11:50 Jax:Reading back on those messages, I can see how crazy that sounds. I won’t hurt myself. I promise. I need you to be here tomorrow though. You have to be back tomorrow if you can’t message me back in the next ten minutes.
11:55 Jax:I’m sorry…
11:58 Jax:Please forgive me…
11:59 Jax:Goodnight A, can’t wait to talk to you tomorrow.
Doing my best to ignore the guilt gnawing at my chest I put my phone back on the nightstand and hoist myself up and out of bed. It’s a feat but not impossible.I cannot fix what I cannot control. I can only do my best to be there for him tonight.I walk into the master bathroom of my home. A bought and paid for penthouse apartment, courtesy of a guilt induced plea from my mother that I allow my father to show his love by trying to buy me things.
I tried to argue that it was too much for one person and that I’d feel more comfortable in something less ostentatious, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They wanted me in the safest parts of the city so here I am in my Tribeca penthouse, living the life of theRock PrincessI’m trying so desperately to avoid. On a positive note, I’m only a fifteen minute walk to the University of New York City campus and a twenty minute subway ride from my job at the cutest little Italian restaurant—Mia Popletta.
Turning on the stream of water from my shower as hot as I can get it, I take a moment to strip down, then hop in and scrub my body clean of the sweat and tears, cleansing myself literally and metaphorically, all the while singing the songBlackbirdby the Beatles—a song that Paul McCartney wrote to inspire hope after reading about the civil rights struggles in the sixties. My wispy voice carries through my bathroom and resonates within me, offering me my own brand of hope. When I get out of this shower, I’m going to be back to the old me, full of sunshine and smiles. My mom always says that the best way to change your attitude is to simply smile. I’ve made sure to practice that theory as often as I can, and I have to say, it works for the most part. I tend to have a more cheery disposition than most people. It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it. I got this.
***
Walking through the sidewalk traffic, I manage to escape getting trampled by the usual hustle and bustle of the city. It never fails that the busy streets of New York are lined with people toe to toe as street vendors sell their hearts out, bike messengers have near misses as they hurry along to their next job, tourists scramble about as they try to navigate their way through a new and exciting place.
New York is genuinely one of those places that everyone should experience once in their lifetime. It’s eclectic and loud. There’s people singing on subways and breakdancing in parks. There’s art and history everywhere you look. Not to mention the food on every corner and city block. There’s life to be lived and love to be made. There’s a heartbeat to this city that’s undeniable. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known and I’m proud to be a New Yorker.
Taking a moment to stop and smell the flowers from a cart, I pick a few daisies from a bunch and pay for them, quickly turning them into a cute little flower crown to sit atop my intentionally messy French braided pigtails. It matches perfectly with my white crop top that saysyou’re worth it, paired with my sunshine yellow, high waisted shorts, and white low top chucks. I’m feeling pretty damn good about myself now that I’ve made a mental note to be the reason someone smiles today. Several someone’s if I can help it, and it starts with me.
I’m almost to campus when the sweet smell of bitter coffee lulls me to the coffee cart like a siren’s song and I can’t deny my delicious drug of choice for a moment longer. The owner of the little to go coffee spot sees me coming and offers me a big wave as he singsongs one of our daily renditions of songs with my nickname from him in it. My improv game has to be strong to do this before coffee, but I love it so much. It never fails to fill my heart with joy.
“Hello, my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happyyyyy when skies are gray,” he sings.
“You’ll never know Pops, how much I love your coffeeeee, please don’t take my caffeine away,” I sing back, earning a few laughs and a small round of applause from passersby.
“Good morning my Sunshine, I’ve got your usual hot and ready!” Oscar, the sweet old man’s thick Brooklyn accent reaches my ears, his face lit up with a smile as he holds out my iced coffee and cheddar bagel with extra cream cheese.
Walking around the cart, I give him a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good morning Pops! How’s the city treating you today?” I greet him.
“Good, good. All is good, sweetheart. No new song for me today?”
“I forgot my headphones at home, sorry,” I say sheepishly.
I didn’t realize that I sang aloud when I listened to my music on my walks to school until Oscar had told me. At first I was embarrassed, not being one to share my music with the world anymore, but it’s what prompted our morning greeting to each other. The solemn old guy used to sing in a quartet once upon a time and to this day, his voice is that of an angel. He never fails to make my morning a good one.
It only took a week of me coming here for me to turn this surly old grump into a sweetheart. It started with me just being friendly and his grunts becoming more and more like words. Our fate was truly sealed though, ever since the day I ran out into New York traffic to save his only companion—his rambunctious dalmatian pup, Spot—who’d gotten off his leash. Oscar doesn’t move as fast as he once did so thankfully my quick reflexes averted a disaster. He hasn’t let me pay for my breakfast a day since, and I’m the only one who gets his smiles in all of New York City. It’s an honor really. He’s one of the few people in the world I’d call family and I’ve loved him all the years I’ve spent in this big ol’ city.
“Ah, you can’t fool me young lady. I know you don’t need a song in your ear to hear music everywhere you go. The beat is in your heart and the melody is in your soul. In all my years, I’ve never heard anything more wonderful than you,” he winks, and I blush. There are very few people on this planet that hear my voice—that hearme.
“Oh, stop it, you old softy. Other people might hear you and think you’re actually nice,” I joke, earning a hearty laugh from him.
“When you’re right, you’re right. Time for me to go back to being a gargoyle for the tourists to leer at,” he laughs. “Get on your way to class. I’ll see you tomorrow Sunshine,” he says, turning his scowl back on before taking the next order in line. He may be a mean son-of-a-bitch, but I swear he makes the best coffee on the East coast, so the line is always long. I slip his tip into the jar while he’s not looking and start on my way, only to hear him yell out, “I saw that!” Causing my smile to grow bigger.
“I know!” I yell back, then turn on my heel and make my way down the paved streets of opportunity. The only problem is that the only opportunity I see straight ahead of me is one I’ve already had. One that was ripped away from me once before. One I don’t think I can handle losing again. Seeing one of them broke me. Seeing two of them is a sign that something big is going to happen and it’s starting with the first boy to ever make me feel the pitter patter of a heart that’s met its match.
Phoenix.
I have to hold back an honest to god whimper at seeing my past once again staring me in the face, slouched over against a stairway railing that leads to the subway beating an enchanting rhythm against a graffitied garbage bin with the drumsticks I’d recognize anywhere. He’s had them since we were little. They were the first sticks his dad ever gave him and his dad was his idol growing up. I wonder if he still is. Maybe he’s more like me and as he got older realized that his dad isn’t a god, but a mere mortal that’s more flawed than not.
His eye contact never breaks mine. Not even when his song comes to an end and he stands to his full height—his incredibly freaking tall full height. His movements are nothing short of fluid and effortless as he makes his way toward me. Strong self-assured steps bring him closer and closer and I find it harder to breathe with each step he takes.
I can’t help but break away from his intense stare, because my greedy eyes want to take him in from top to bottom and miss absolutely nothing for fear that this may be their one and only chance to see the work of art that makes up Phoenix London. And what a work of art he is.
His left arm is made up with a full sleeve of different aspects of music: music notes, musical instruments, song lyrics, and the like. His right arm is a full sleeve of more diverse things: roses, gears, books, a pocket watch, and an inscription on the inside of his arm that I can’t make out.
His dark chocolate colored hair flows long and free to meet his shoulders in a wavy mess that looks unintentional. I look at his face and notice the small hints of maturity that have been nurtured over time. His almost-too-big eyes, long straight nose, and wide mouth that harbors the best secret smiles are all the same, but he’s lost some of that round baby face and you could now cut granite on his strong jaw line.
