Chapter Text
1953
There is nothing quite so beautiful as autumn in New York City. So ran Mike Timlin’s thoughts as he headed down to Washington Square Park, guitar in hand and jacket zipped up tight. Thus far, he’d turned up no evidence to persuade him otherwise. Winter was nothing but a drag, and Mike had yet to spend an entire summer in the city. Springtime offered competition, but week upon week of sun was nothing compared to the rare blessing of its appearance in the fall, when the sky’s smokescreen rolled away. Though the streets were less crowded, they felt cozier. Even the wind’s nipping was a caress, rather than the slap in the face it became during December. And of course, the changing leaves were another rare sight to cherish. When Mike had first returned to Long Island during his freshman semester’s fall break, the trees’ vivid colors, which he’d previously taken for granted, proved overstimulating. Since then, autumn had never looked the same.
Finally, to Mike and the thousands of other students enrolled at New York University, autumn meant the beginning of the school year, a fresh start for new students and a chance for returning students to reconnect with old friends. Welcome back, the campus itself seemed to whisper. Welcome home.
Home. Mike gazed lovingly up at the tall buildings surrounding him, their grayness mingling with that of the sky above. Not home yet, but it will be soon.
By Mike’s side, Jean let out a huff, drawing his attention. He chuckled at the sight of her flushed cheeks and slack jaw. “What’s the matter, Jean? A little walk’s got you all tired out?”
“Just this walk,” Jean protested, eager as ever to defend her character. “It’s your damn long legs, Mike. Would it kill you to go a little slower?”
Mike shrugged, gesturing aimlessly upwards with his free hand. “Who knows, it just might.”
Jean’s mild irritation turned into a playful smile. “Come on.” She tapped her gloved hand against Mike’s arm, and he shot her a smile of his own before speeding up, just to bug her.
By the time Mike and Jean reached Washington Square Park, the circle was already filled with musicians. Guitars were strummed, and hands clapped. A cacophony of voices soared through the air, unified melodies splintering off into a variety of familiar songs. Mike couldn’t resist peeking over at Jean, eager for her reaction. Jean didn’t meet his eyes. Vague excitement broke through her cool exterior as she drank in the sights and sounds.
“This is where the magic happens?”
Mike just laughed. If autumn in the city was the epitome of beauty, autumn in the park specifically took his breath away. He felt his muscles relax as he approached the throng, watching each person sway to their own rhythm. Although these weekly jams had been suggested as a tourist attraction, discovering them had proven to be a blessing. Outsiders made the park singalongs sound too corny, too “let’s all hold hands and sing and then we’ll have world peace.” But whenever Mike came down, he found it hard not to romanticize his experience.
In a moment he spotted three familiar faces, and elbowed his way through the crowd to reach them. All three men held guitars and wore faded, ragged clothes, and all were highly pleased to see him. The similarities ended there. Tall and lean, Lowell Granger strummed a much-loved guitar, a hole worn through it from his constant practice sessions. Long dark hair tumbled down the back of his neck, partially covered by a black beanie. Sam Gardu’s hair was shorter, thick and curly, his skin olive-toned and his guitar well-varnished, as if he’d just picked it up from a music shop the day before. Michael Newton was much smaller than the other two, and wore glasses to help him read chord charts in the clubs where he occasionally scored gigs.
“Mikey!” Lowell called, abandoning his strumming to clap Mike’s shoulder. “How’s it going?”
“Going good.” Mike gestured to Jean as she walked up and waved hello. “I’d like to introduce you to Jean Faber. Jean, these are my friends Lowell, Sam, and… Michael.”
“Two Michaels?” Jean breathed, surveying their faces.
“Nah,” Michael said with a jerk of the head. “He’s Mike, and I’m Michael. We’d never know the difference otherwise.”
Although Sam addressed Mike, his bright beaming face was directed towards Jean. “So, what are you doing with this lovely lady?”
“Didn’t I mention her before?” Mike said. He sat down at the edge of the fountain and opened his guitar case. “I’ve been trying to talk Jean into coming down here for months. It’s time the world hears her voice.”
“Mike,” Jean admonished.
“Don’t you sing?” Lowell said. “Mike said you’ve got the voice of an angel.”
“Did he really?” Jean rolled her eyes. “He’s exaggerating. Honestly. I just came to hear the music.”
“Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t join in,” Mike announced. He adjusted his guitar strap over his shoulders and sprang up, strumming an aggressive chord. The sound turned a few nearby heads, which stayed turned once they realized who was playing. Mike tried not to let the attention distract him. He’d learned that even after a summer-long break, he was still a recognized figure at the park. The more he played, the more folks were drawn in. Sometimes it baffled him, when he stopped to think about it. What made him any different from the other musicians?
“What do you want to start with?” Lowell asked, already falling into place beside Mike. He, Michael, and Sam usually led a large group in a singalong, but today the crowd around them seemed thin. Mike wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he’d shown up late. Now that he was here, perhaps more would join him.
“Have I got a song for you.” His fingers landed on the guitar’s strings, already picking out a melody. “There’s one I learned as a kid that I’ve been meaning to try. Y’know ‘Raglan Road?’”
Sam shook his head, but Michael nodded. Lowell moved in closer so he could watch Mike’s hands, offering harmonic support. Jean drifted, shifting her weight from foot to foot and staring at the ground as if determined to sink into it.
“Okay, here we go,” Mike murmured. “Try to keep up.” Without another word, he launched into one of the many ballads he and his family had sung together countless years ago.
“On Raglan Road on an autumn day, I saw her first and knew, that her dark hair would weave a snare that I may one day rue…”
Irish verse wasn’t a popular choice in the park, but sometimes those who shared Mike’s roots decided to join in. Slowly but surely, the song began to spread. Sam quickly picked up the melody, while Michael fashioned a vocal harmony. Some of the folks who had been watching Mike from afar drew closer, watching his and Lowell’s fingers for the chords. In no time a circle of musicians had clustered around Mike and his group. Some sang along, while others, like Jean, simply tapped their feet slowly, but all were undeniably connected.
Emboldened, Mike allowed his voice to soar above the group. “The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts, and I not making hay. Well I loved too much, by such and such is happiness thrown away.”
Ain’t that the truth… Before Mike could let the thought consume him, he began the next verse, concentrating very hard on the melody and the shape of the words. It was easier, now that a few years had passed, to put aside the difficult times he’d suffered. To replace such memories with that of multiple voices shouting, multiple hands strumming in rhythm. A Sunday-afternoon congregation pouring forth their souls under a crisp autumn sky.
Surely nothing could be better than this. Not even the joints Mike smoked from time to time, or the alcohol he’d sworn off after his disastrous freshman year, could afford him a purer high.
When the song ended, some of the musicians who’d added their voices came over to Mike, slapping his back and thanking him for pulling an old ballad out of his pocket. Lowell ran his finger along the worn hole in his guitar, grinning quietly.
“Interesting way to start… You getting nostalgic on us, Mikey?”
Mike shrugged, reluctant to explain his reasons for performing the song. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to conjure up the boyhood memories of his family’s nightly singalongs, or trying to block them out. Either way, it wasn’t worth mentioning. Looking about for Jean, Mike quickly discovered her mingling with the crowd, already lost in conversation. As if she could sense him staring, she glanced his way. A warm smile touched her face, and Mike’s heart filled with warmth as well. Good to see she’s enjoying herself.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. You got anything better for us?”
For the next couple hours, Mike and his friends ripped through several of their old favorites– “House Carpenter,” “In the Pines,” “Silver Dagger”– while their newfound group kept up as best they could, and Jean stood swaying, drunk on the sound. Eventually, when the sun came out to play, the group dispersed for a break, and Mike sat down to re-tune his guitar. Jean sauntered up to him, her head cocked, absorbing the music surrounding her.
“Who’s that?” she asked, gesturing towards a large group in the distance. Mike glanced over to see the group enthusiastically dancing and singing in a language that he knew to be Israeli.
“Zionists,” he said, plucking a string and listening to its resonance. “Fun guys to watch, but we don’t really mingle.”
“You sure get all sorts,” Jean murmured. Her gaze drifted through the crowd, her eyes hardening. Mike knew that look intimately. Jean was in the mood to challenge him.
“Do you know those guys?” she asked, jerking her chin towards a collection of musicians to Mike’s left. “The preps with the banjos and mandolins?”
Mike followed Jean’s gaze, though he knew all too well who she was referring to. Several young men huddled around the opposite end of fountain, clad in white button-down shirts and black slacks. The mandolinists kept time, while the banjoist plucked arpeggios to accompany a particularly nebbish-looking boy as he yelped his way through a simple tune.
“The bluegrass boys. We don’t mingle with them much, either." Mike's eyebrows shot up. “They go to our school, d’you know that?”
Jean groaned. “Thank God we’ve got you to balance out that crap.” She fell silent as her gaze wandered. Mike finished tuning. He was about to stand up and call for a new song, when Jean murmured, “What about that one over there? The one without an instrument. I don’t suppose you mingle with him?”
Again, Mike knew who Jean was referring to, but he looked anyway. A young, bearded man in a fleece turtleneck had approached the bluegrass boys and was now speaking staidly to them. If he’d interacted with Mike’s company, he would have come across as a kitten stumbling under the paws of tigers.
“That’s Jim Berkey,” Mike said. “He comes down here from Columbia Records, scouting for fresh blood. And no, we don’t mingle.” Because he didn’t want to give Jean a poor impression, he decided not to mention his suspicions that the talent-scouting was a scam. Jim was a nice guy and all, but he was too tenacious for Mike’s liking. A guy’s got to learn that no means no… The only reason most of Mike’s group even bothered with Jim was that he happened to be the current holder of the permit that allowed the Sunday gatherings to occur. Don’t want to get on his bad side, if he even has one.
“Columbia Records?” Jean murmured. She stood still, completely absorbed in Jim’s movements. “I think I’d like to—”
She never got to announce what she would like to do, because Sam suddenly appeared, wedging his way between Jean and Mike with a bright smile. “So, Miss Jean, when are you gonna sing for us? Or is all this folk stuff not your style?”
Mike leapt up, snickering. He threw his arm around Jean and adopted the energetic tone of a carnival barker. “Oh, Jean can sing anything you put in front of her! Blues, jazz, hymns, ya name it, she’s got it down!”
“Mike!” Jean laughed, escaping from his clutches. “I told you. Not today.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Sam protested. “Don’t spoil the fun.”
“Hey.” Mike drew closer to Jean until she met his eyes. “If you really don’t want to, you don’t have to. But you’ll be fine if you do. No one’s going to laugh. Just pretend you’re in my dorm and I’ve got a record on.”
Jean stared unflinchingly back at Mike. With one look, Mike could see her resolve forming. She licked her lips and squared her shoulders, before opening her mouth. Her fragile, shaky voice formed a clear, decisive melody.
“Come all ye fair and tender ladies… take warning how you court your men…”
“All right,” Sam exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. He reached for his guitar, his fingers shaping the chords. Mike fumbled with his own guitar, trying to accompany Jean by ear. He almost wished that Sam hadn’t started playing– Jean’s voice was beautiful enough on its own. The wisps of melody enveloped him, like a blanket pulled over his shoulders.
Soon enough, Lowell and Michael noticed what was happening. They crept close, wearing matching grins that Jean probably would have demanded they wipe away had she seen them. But her eyes were squeezed shut, concentrating only on the notes flowing through her. Reluctant to disturb her, but also aching to join in, Mike began a quiet harmony.
“Oh, love is handsome, love is charming, and love is pretty while it’s new… But love grows cold as love grows older, and fades away like morning dew.”
Damn. The words struck deep into Mike’s heart, though he forced himself to carry on. So many folk songs were infused with melancholy– to the point where they’d named a whole style of music the blues. Now that he’d lived some of their darker lyrics, they hurt to sing. And yet, the same sense of melancholy attracted Mike to them. Even as a carefree child, he’d been obsessed with songs that dealt with what were back then unknown emotions. Heartbreak, devastation, anguish… Mike only hoped that the lyrics’ sting would eventually fade. It had to fade. Wasn’t that what they said– time heals all wounds? Time… and in Mike’s case, a recent life decision.
As the song wrapped up, Mike was startled to hear clapping. He briefly wondered who was square enough to do that, but when he found the source of the applause, he knew he shouldn’t have wondered. Jim Berkey had left the bluegrass boys and was now examining Mike’s group with a polite smile.
“Nicely done!”
Jean’s eyes popped open. The instant she realized who had paid her the compliment, her cheeks turned pink. “…Thank you.”
“Is this your first time here?” Jim said. “I haven’t seen you around.” He moved forward without bothering to greet Mike or Sam. Obediently, they parted to make way for him. Jean stared blankly as Jim held out his hand. “I’m Jim Berkey.”
“I’m Jean Faber,” Jean said softly. She took Jim’s hand and gave it a hearty shake. “I haven’t been around to be seen.”
“I figured as much,” Jim said, a more authentic smile blossoming on his face. “I would have remembered a voice like yours.” The warmth emanating from his blue eyes seemed to allure Jean more than his praise. She angled her body towards him, on the verge of smiling back. Mike couldn’t help but marvel from the sidelines, half awed and half concerned. Jean was rarely sweet on strangers, and as for Jim, Mike couldn’t say he’d ever seen him act so genuine. He leaned closer to Jean, his stomach lurching slightly.
“Hey. You wanna do another one?”
Jean glanced at Mike with a jolt, as if she’d already forgotten he was there. “No, I… I’m fine.”
“Oh, no.” Jim gestured with his hands. “Please don’t let me stop you.”
Again Jean’s full attention snapped onto Jim. “I, uh. Didn’t come prepared.”
“We should probably be leaving soon anyway,” Mike murmured. The Sunday afternoon jam session was far from the only reason he’d taken Jean out. Nerves crawled beneath his skin as he stared beyond Jim to the row of buildings bordering Washington Square.
“That’s okay.” From within his pocket, Jim smoothly produced a business card. He held it out to Jean, who took it and scrutinized it. “Here’s my card. If you’re ever interested in turning a talent into a career, give me a call.” His eyes twinkled as Jean thanked him, drinking in the sight of her for a moment longer before taking his leave.
“Jim Berkey,” Jean muttered, gripping the card between two fingers. “Guitarist and songwriter, Columbia Records…” She turned to Mike, an air of excitement falling over her. “Mike! This is great. You should have this.” Jean tried to slip the card into Mike’s hand, but he wouldn’t take it.
“Already got one.”
Jean’s face quickly dissolved from thrilled to unimpressed. “What? And you haven’t called him?”
“Why should I?” Mike said. “He’s here every week. Besides, that’s not… It’s not how I want to earn my living.”
“Really?” Jean folded her arms over her chest. “You don’t want to work for Columbia? They churn out a hit a minute! You’re bound to get a good cut, no matter whose song it is.”
Mike shrugged. “Just isn’t for me.” Maybe if he’d give Jim a call if he failed to make enough money at a straight job… But Mike didn’t relish the idea of starting his music career beholden to bigwigs. If he had to be in the studio all day, how was he supposed to find the time to work on the music that got his blood going?
“Come on.” Before Jean could push the matter any further, Mike slung an arm around her shoulders and steered her away. “We’d better get going. There’s something else I wanted to show you.”
Jean’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.”
Despite Lowell, Michael, and Sam’s protestations, Mike eventually managed to convince them that he had to leave. With his guitar in one hand and his other arm still resting on Jean’s shoulders, Mike headed out of the park and down the block. On the other side of the street, he saw vendors hawking everything from warm, oversized pretzels, to cheaply-produced artwork, to unflattering jewelry. The street was crawling with taxis, yellow blotches sullying the landscape. Jean sighed and wriggled out from under Mike’s arm, her step growing sure and her movements looser.
“Thanks for taking me down to the park, Mike,” Jean breathed contentedly. “I really had a great time.”
“Glad to hear it.” Mike stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for its flashing light to change. In a couple more blocks, they’d reach their destination. “So, you’ve forgiven me for making you sing?”
Jean’s cheerful gaze rolled to the heavens. “Y’know, now that I’ve done it… I can’t remember why it felt so frightening.”
“I knew you’d warm to the idea!” The light changed, and Mike nudged Jean. Together, they shuffled across the crosswalk. “Of course, with a voice like yours, there’s no way you could fail.”
Jean blew air from her cheeks, her bangs flying up. “Jesus, a little more flattery and I’m yours.”
“Suuuure.” Not much farther now. To tease Jean, Mike upped the pace, and was slightly disappointed when she didn’t remark on it. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “To tell the truth, you can’t fail with any of those guys. It’s the best place to play. There’s no judgement. We’re not gonna start booing or heckling anyone we don’t like. We just… play, and somehow, it all comes together.”
“I see why you like it so much,” said Jean. “It’s the one place you can play where people won’t think you’re having a seizure.”
“Hey!” Mike protested. “What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Jean insisted. “The way you dance around with your guitar. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very charming. Just be careful, or you’ll take someone’s eye out. Or end up in an institution, whichever comes first.”
“Maybe one will lead to the other,” Mike murmured. He tried to squelch his silent befuddlement. Neither Jean nor anyone else had ever commented on his odd movements when playing music before.
“You see why I had to bring you down?” Their destination was up ahead; Mike could see it in the distance. As he slowed his pace, Jean impulsively took his arm. “I knew you’d appreciate it.”
At the end of the sidewalk, Mike stopped abruptly and pulled his arm from Jean’s grasp, gesturing toward the building before him.
“That’s why I’m moving down here, too.”
Across the street rose an apartment complex, which with Mike had already grown intimately familiar. In his opinion, complex really didn’t do the place justice. The front stoop led upwards to a great doorway framed by two columns, above which was a fire escape. And to the right of the fire escape was the smudged window upon which Mike eagerly set his sights.
“Wait.” Jean turned slowly to Mike, her large, beseeching eyes filling his range of vision. “Christ, Mike, you mean one of the apartments over there?”
“Yep.” Mike pointed to the right-side window with one hand, while orienting Jean with the other. “That one, specifically.”
Jean’s gaze shifted, and a baffled laugh fell from her mouth. “How the hell did you end up with a room on the second floor?”
“I jumped on it as soon as I saw the ad in the Voice.” Mike slid his hand from Jean’s shoulder and came closer to her side. “Low rent for this neighborhood. I got lucky. Someone died in that room, and it spooked the landlord.”
“How’d that happen?” Jean murmured, her forehead creasing.
“The previous owner threw himself out the window,” Mike explained. “Or so they say. I guess he didn’t die in the room, but still. Supposed to be haunted.”
Jean shook her head. “From that angle? There’s no way the fall would have killed him…”
Mike shrugged. “That’s what they say. Anyway, the place is mine now. I signed the lease last weekend, and as soon as I can get my stuff together I’m all set to move in.” He studied Jean’s face for a reaction. Her inscrutable eyes drifted back to the window of what was soon to be Mike’s apartment, and remained there for a long moment before returning to Mike.
“Guess you’re getting rid of the dorm for good?”
“Yeah. Good riddance, am I right?” Mike nodded fondly towards the apartment. “This is definitely a step up.”
“Yeah, if you want to commute to class every day,” Jean muttered.
A flicker of annoyance kindled in Mike’s heart. In order not to become crestfallen, he held onto it and let it blossom. “Aw, don’t be so sentimental, Jean. That dorm was never meant to be permanent.”
“I’m serious.” Jean turned, and Mike turned with her, meeting her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice place. I’m happy for you. But how are you going to afford it? You’re not gonna beg your folks for money, are you?”
“Christ no.” Mike exhaled slowly. “I’m gonna find me a job, once I’m all moved in.” Hoping to reassure Jean, he offered a comforting smile. “I’ve got it all planned out. You don’t need to worry on my behalf.”
Jean’s frown told Mike that she remained unconvinced. She tossed a long strand of hair from her eyes. “When will you find the time to work? I’ve seen your schedule, Mike. It’s not what I’d call accommodating.”
“I…” Mike stopped himself as Jean’s words touched a sore spot. He was tempted to tell Jean that he had no idea, because her disappointment was comparatively bearable. But since he’d already revealed so much about his plans, there was no going back. Jean had to find out eventually, and prolonging the inevitable news would cause more damage in the long run.
“Actually I’ll have plenty of time,” Mike breathed. He rested his hand on Jean’s upper arm, studying her pale face. The admission escaped quietly from his lips, his nonchalance masking the nervous flutter in his stomach. “I’m leaving NYU, Jean. This is going to be my last semester.”
Part of Mike expected Jean to selfishly berate him. Already he had concocted several deflecting arguments to use on his behalf. However, while the news definitely struck Jean, she didn’t immediately open her mouth. Instead she stepped back, breaking Mike’s hold on her, and folded her arms over her chest.
“Have you told anyone?”
“The school knows. My professors know.” And now you know. Mike chose not to mention that he’d failed to inform his parents of his decision. Rather save that conversation for December. Jean was aware that his relationship with them was strained, but had never questioned why, which was all Mike asked of her. He knew there was no way in hell he could decently explain his motivation to cut all ties with them, without revealing information about himself that Jean might reject. Besides, she’d grown up under different circumstances, and though she respected Mike, she didn’t understand that loyalty to one’s family wasn’t everything.
With an uncertain hand, Jean brushed her hair behind her ear. When she spoke, her voice balanced on equally unsteady ground. “So… you’re not planning on writing for the papers anymore?”
Mike shook his head without having to think twice. Even before he’d made the decision to move to Greenwich Village, his interest in journalism had been the first to falter. He supposed his family would swallow a half-truth– that he’d withdrawn from NYU’s journalism program because he’d lost his passion for it. However, the part they’d find unbelievable was the passion that had replaced it.
“I’m tired of ignoring my instincts, Jean.” Mike took a deep breath. “You saw what it was like at the park today. All summer long, I couldn’t wait to get back there, and now… It’s like I’m coming home.” Just remembering the joy of the hours past brought a soft smile to Mike’s face. “That’s what I want to do, more than anything else in the world. I’d be happy to play music for the rest of my life.”
Instantly Jean’s face softened, and Mike could tell that he’d won her over. Music didn’t pump through Jean’s veins the way it did Mike’s, but he knew that it held a special place in her heart. It was their most common bond, one that they’d developed through singalongs in Mike’s dorm, his finger-picking matching the speed of the record on his turntable while Jean conjured harmonies from thin air. It had been enough to convince Mike to bring her to the park, because he’d known she would love it. He wasn’t surprised that she approved. More than my folks ever will.
“I’m going to miss seeing you around all the time,” Jean said earnestly. “But goddammit, Mike, you deserve it.”
Before Mike could stop himself, the words he’d meant to conceal until a later date slipped out. “You don’t have to miss me.”
Jean tilted her chin upwards, peering quizzically into Mike’s eyes. A flash of regret bit into Mike. He’d spoken too soon. He should have waited at least until winter break, at best by the time the school year was over, slowly encouraging the idea until nothing about it seemed strange. Otherwise, such a suggestion came from out of the blue. But as Mike remembered the nights that he had spent walking the streets with Jean, and how she’d welcomed him into her home and confessed to him her most intimate thoughts, his resolve strengthened. He’d never know unless he asked.
“Now that I’ve got a new place, I was thinking… maybe you’d like to move in with me once you graduate.” He nearly halted, but forged ahead, determined not to break the flow of his words. “I know you’ve got another year left, but… it seems to me—"
“What?” Jean broke in. Her lips curled in what looked to be a smile, but there was a tight edge to it, as though she couldn’t figure out if Mike was joking. She gave an awkward laugh. “Come on. My mother would never let me move in with a guy if I didn’t marry him first.”
Mike forced himself to stare down at Jean, and not at his feet. “I don’t know. I just thought– you’re my best friend, Jean, and we get along so well, I just—”
“Is this a proposal?” Jean blurted.
The question brought Mike up short. His heart began to pound. IS this a proposal? He’d realized that his words could be taken that way, but he wasn’t sure what he was offering Jean. Scrutinizing her face, he tried to decipher Jean’s thoughts on the matter. To determine her likelihood of saying yes or no. But her eyes were dark and remote.
“Maybe?” Mike finally admitted, in a small, weak voice.
Emotion rushed back to Jean’s face, her eyes and mouth both widening with disbelief. “But we’re not even—”
“I know,” Mike cut in, holding up his hands. “I know, I– God, just, uh, just forget I said anything.”
Now the disbelief on Jean’s face changed to a sense of appalled remorse. She fidgeted with her hands, reaching out halfway as if she wanted to touch Mike, but was unable to go the final distance.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you—”
“No, it’s okay.” Mike breathed heavily. “I’m not in love with you, Jean.”
“Oh.” Jean’s face changed fluidly yet again, from regret to perplexment. She turned away from Mike, casting her gaze back to the apartment complex across the street, while Mike glanced down at his scuffed shoes on the sidewalk.
He couldn’t say, after three years of friendship, that he didn’t wish he was in love with Jean. A few times, he’d even managed to partially convince himself that he was. It would have been an easy choice, given their closeness. And it might have saved him from the heartbreak he’d suffered in his freshman year, when he’d first felt the full force of the blues.
But while Mike regarded Jean tenderly, he’d never felt his heart skip a beat while looking into her eyes. His stomach had never crawled with nerves at the thought of seeing her. He hadn’t wasted time in class daydreaming about her and rehearsing his next move.
Only a handful of people had thus far affected Mike in such a way, and none of them were women.
Stupid idea. Slowly but surely, Mike shook away his heart’s lingering disappointment. His proposition to Jean was just the latest attempt to feel something more for her, to convince himself that he was in fact a normal human being. Should have known I’ll never be normal. Not after what he’d went through his freshman year. His imagined feelings for Jean were nothing more than wishful thinking.
A tentative nudge at Mike’s shoulder drew his attention back to the present. “You’ve picked out a gorgeous place, Mike. I’m glad you’re staying down here.”
“Yeah.” Mike reached down to pick up his guitar case from the sidewalk. “So ‘m I.” He turned to Jean with a sensitive smile emerging on his lips. “D’you want to go grab a coffee before we leave?”
Jean returned the smile, and the sight struck Mike with warmth. “Sure.” She held out her arm, and Mike took it. Together, they headed down the street, and with each step, Mike felt his excitement grow.
He wasn’t sure what the future had in store for him. The thought of informing his parents that he’d dropped out of school was intimidating, as was the thought of searching for a job in a field he hadn’t studied. But at the same time, Mike couldn’t wait to begin his new life in Greenwich Village. He itched to contact venues who might be interested in booking folksingers, and to spend more time with his friends in the city. Most of all, he anticipated the influx of free time and independence, now that he didn’t have to worry about making it to class on time or staying up late at night with textbooks spread out in front of him. Soon, music would quite literally become Mike’s life, and if he stuck to it, he’d never fall to a case of the blues again.