Page 67 of Waiting for Gilbert

“That’s right, no caffeine after lunch.”

He smiles gently. “You remembered.”

27

GILBERT

WHITESNAKE—HERE I GO AGAIN

Twenty minutes into our set I spot Cordelia with some guy I’ve never seen before in khaki pants and a green sweater. I almost didn’t recognize her with hair ironed flat as my grandpa’s Sunday pants and dark make-up around her eyes. She doesn’t look like herself at all. This must be some kind of business meeting. There’s no blushing, laughing, or flirting from what I see. I try to ignore them. But my traitorous gaze keeps wandering over to her table.

She catches me watching her once, and she raises a hesitant hand toward me. I smile and turn my attention to my set notes. Does she seem nervous? What kind of business meeting takes place at a food court on a Friday evening?

At the end of the next song it hits me. This is David. The date from her online thing. Well, then. I pity both of them. If that’s what dating in the modern world looks like, count me out.

John steps toward me while pretending to straighten my music stand. “Just go talk to her. Your head’s not in the game, man.” He shoots me a father-like expression. “And let the record state that I bow out. I won’t compete with whatever’s going on between the two of you.”

“I’m not dating?—”

“Stuff it. You’re not dating. Big whoop. You’re completely crushing on each other.”

“It’s not like?—”

“Shut up, we’re on.” He returns to his keyboard and hammers out the chords to the next song.

“Are you mad?” I catch up by the second measure.

“No.”

“You’re playing like you’re mad.”

“I’m mad.” We go on together and he picks up the tempo. Normally, I lead the set. Keeping up with John takes all of my focus. Our version of Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” is completed in record time. Out of breath from the effort, he steps toward me again.

I wipe my palm on the back of my shirt and wait for him to speak.

He shuts off my mic and speaks quietly ten inches from my face. “You’re a fool if you don’t act on this. To have something as special as you and CJ have and pretend it’s nothing, it’s—it’s garbage. Don’t waste a good thing.”

“You really think she likes me—like that?”

“I’ve never known you to be an idiot, Gilbert.” He straightens. “When we get back from L.A. you’re going to do something about this, or I’m—I quit. I’m not going to be in a band with an idiot. I’ll find another musical genius. You’re replaceable, you know.”

I work at controlling my features. Obviously he doesn’t mean it. We’re not the kind of friends to throw out threats like that. His point was made loud and clear though. Do I believe him?

The first half of our set blows by without more discussion, and I do my best to keep from staring at Cordelia and her date. John’s outburst ruminates through my mind song after song. I eventually come to the conclusion that he’s not wrong. The snag is my glaring lack of resources. I’m a broke house-flipping musician. And I’m comfortable here.

If we land the job in California, the future of the band would be set. I could quit construction as a business, work on my own projects while enjoying life as a famous cellist in Hollywood.

There’s a blur of fantasy edging this daydream. I have no idea what kind of life that would be. How can I tell John that I’d rather stay broke in Hadley Springs, Nebraska?

Halfway through “Last Christmas” I watch Cordelia and her date stand up. She gathers the trash from the table and piles it on the tray. The other man takes the tray from her. They shake hands. He walks toward the trash can. She strides toward the mall exit while zipping her coat.

Why would she wait for me? I have nothing to offer.

28

CORDELIA

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23

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