Page 39 of Not Another Love Song

Gwen nodded and ultimately erased her marking, changing it to later in the music.

She spent the rest of the day walking, trying to piece together the idea of the Pops losing so much of their funding. She wandered through the Upper East Side, taking in the neighborhood she had always wanted to live in. She and Jacob would sometimes put on their fanciest clothes, call each other Vivienne and Princeton the Fourth, and walk through the Upper East Side, talking in loud voices about all the celebrities they’d dated. One time, Jacob got a dog-sitting gig and they took their adopted Bichon-poodle mix through the neighborhood, changing their narrative to a couple who needed to socialize young Waffles more with the neighbor’s pug.

There was a taqueria on Park that had some of the best tacos in the city, located on the Upper East Side but with prices of the Lower East Side. A perfect place for people who didn’t want to break the bank while pretending to…have a bank. She’d only had soup and free bread at lunch, so she was starving again an hour later. She popped in to grab a few tacos to take over to Central Park, planning to watch the Broadway League play their softball games before heading back uptown.

“Two al pastor, please,” she chirped to the cashier, pulling out her debit card.

The older lady shook her head. “Sorry, sweetheart, we switched to cash only last month.”

Gwen blinked at her. “Oh. Really?” Had it really been more than a month since she and Jacob had been back here?

“There’s an ATM next door.”

Gwen wavered. A four-dollar ATM fee for nine-dollar tacos. If only it were next month. She’d get her first paycheck as first chair in a few weeks. Not that she could really count on a paycheck at this point.

“Okay, I’ll, um…”

A crisp twenty-dollar bill appeared on the counter. And Gwen followed it up to the long, callused fingers that produced it and the forearm that stretched out from behind her. She craned her neck to find a gray T-shirt pulled tight over a familiar set of shoulders.

She stood, helpless, as Xander Thorne paid for her tacos and collected the change from the smirking owner. Her tongue was dry as she watched him toss a dollar bill into the tip jar before pocketing the rest.

Thank you.

Thank you was the correct thing to say, wasn’t it? Or I’ ll get you next time—

No, no. No next time.

“Why are you here?”

That. That was what she chose to say.

He lifted a dark brow at her and said, “I wanted tacos?”

“You’re supposed to be”—in Tampa tonight, Atlanta tomorrow—“on tour or something, right?”

He handed her the ticket with her order number on it when the older woman waved it at her for the third time. It crinkled in her fingers.

“We got an offer for a gig in the city, so we canceled some concerts.”

He looked down at her. Standing too close. She could feel the warmth of his arm. When a customer tried to move up to the counter, Gwen jumped.

“Thank you for…You didn’t have to. I’ll pay you back.…” She took the opportunity to move over to the pickup counter. He followed, and she noticed his own order ticket in his hand.

“Do you live around here?” he asked, his eyes tracking her.

She almost laughed. “Uh, no. No, I live uptown.” She doubted he’d ever been north of 72nd Street. “I just”—like to walk around here like I have money—like to people-watch the rich—like to call myself Vivienne and wear floppy hats—“wanted tacos,” she ended up saying, echoing him.

He nodded at her, his eyes saying more than his mouth— don’t stare at his mouth—almost like he heard the things she didn’t say. His fingers played with the corner of his receipt. She had a strange urge to tell him that she’d just had breakfast with his violin tutor and lunch with his mother, but had a feeling that wouldn’t go over very well.

“What are you working on?” he asked, eyes cast down on his scrap of paper that read 492.

Gwen swallowed. “What are you working on?” was one of those expressions artists used with each other. Something that implied no end goal, just a desire to create and improve. She’d heard people use it before, but she’d never been directly asked what she was working on.

“Nothing. I mean, the Pops starts back up on Wednesday, so there’s that…”

She glanced at the cook, willing him to work faster.

“Do you feel ready?” he asked, eyes flipping up to her. “Have all your markings done?” A small smile curved his lips, and now she was staring at his mouth—full lips that she suddenly imagined on her jaw. She wondered what would have happened the night of the Anniversary Concert if Mei hadn’t been in that stall…

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