Once Upon a Real Good Time Read online

  “You were checking me out when I was a hot teenager.”

  She shrugs as if to say what can you do? “You were a totally hot seventeen-year-old. I told you I had pictures of you on my wall, so I had to check you out after you showed up here.” She grabs her mug and takes a drink.

  “Did you compare me to my younger self?”

  “Look, my younger self perved on your younger self, and my older self pervs on your older self. I think the man you are now is hot as sin, but we’re not supposed to be going there.”

  I groan and take a sip of the tea. I wish we were going there. But I get it. I do get it.

  “Also,” she says, gently, “I have the feeling you didn’t want me to ask what I asked you. Is it an off-limits topic I shouldn’t bring up again?”

  “No.” I shake my head and finally answer her. “Sam’s mom died when she was two.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She reaches forward and squeezes my hand, a kind gesture. “That must’ve been so hard.”

  “It was at the time. We were married for three years, and the band was still together, though not playing as often. But we toured into our early twenties, for Miller and me at least, since we’re older than Miles. That was really hard on Julie, my late wife. After Sam was born, it was even harder. Julie wound up suffering from postpartum depression.”

  Mackenzie’s expression is etched with sympathy. “That’s so tough. I didn’t experience it myself, but I’ve heard it can be an awful thing.”

  “‘Awful’ is exactly the word to describe it.” I shudder, recalling those dark days when I had no clue how to help my wife. “I had no idea what to do. She was completely depressed. Honestly, I think the postpartum depression probably never ended. It carried over to regular depression. She was taking meds, and she really struggled when I was out of town. I tried to set it up so she’d have her family or her sister around and she wouldn’t be alone, but it wasn’t enough.”

  I take another drink of the tea, grateful for the distraction of the beverage. It’s been more than a decade, but some stories are always hard to tell. “One night, she took too many pills, along with some other meds she had. It was lethal. Her sister came over early the next morning to help, and discovered Sam playing alone in her room, waiting for her mom to wake up. Her sister found Julie in her bed.”

  Mackenzie clasps her hand to her mouth, holding in a sob as a sheen of wetness crosses her brown eyes. “That’s so sad, Campbell. I’m so sorry for your family, and that you and Julie and your daughter went through that. It’s so tragic.”

  “That’s exactly what it was. I blamed myself. Really beat myself up over it.”

  She pulls back and stares at me sharply. “But it’s not your fault, Campbell.”

  “It felt like it was at that time.”

  Her voice is firm. “No. It’s not your fault. People are wired in certain ways. We’re not responsible for somebody else’s mental health. You did everything you could for her.”

  I know what she’s saying is true, but a small part of me always wonders. “Sometimes I would think I should have stayed home. Not toured at all.”

  “But that’s not how we’re supposed to live our lives. You’re not supposed to have someone you love under house arrest.”

  “I know that now. It was hard at first, but I really do know that now.”

  She reaches for my hand and clasps it. It’s not sexual. It’s comforting. “That must have been so hard, to be twenty-three and have a baby girl to take care of all on your own.”

  “Sam got me through it. Taking care of her was my top priority. I had to focus on my life.” I picture Sam as a little girl, wanting me to take her to the park, to play with dolls and trucks, to make cookies with her. “Raising Sam helped me stop missing her mom so much and carve out a new life. It was a long time ago, and I learned over time how to move on.”

  Mackenzie’s smile is gentle, full of understanding. “I don’t know if it’s fair to expect anyone to ever truly be over a loss like that, but I’m glad for your sake you feel that way.”

  “But that’s why the band broke up,” I add, tapping my chest. “I ended the band. I didn’t want to play anymore like that. Didn’t want that lifestyle.”

  “Is that why you teach?”

  I shake my head. “I always wanted to teach. That was the plan when I went to college. Everything moved faster in the teaching direction when I became a single dad. I wanted to be there for Sam. Not miss a thing.”

  Mackenzie squeezes my hand. “And now look what you’ve done. You’ve made this incredible second career as a fantastic teacher. I’m excited Kyle is going to be working with you. He really lit up at the end of the lesson.”

  “He did. He was a blast to teach. I’m psyched to work with him. He’s a good kid.”

  As we drink our tea, we talk more. I ask her questions about her graphic design business, and she tells me about some of the projects she’s worked on over the years for ad agencies, boutiques, authors, web designers, and more.

  “Did you always want to work for yourself?”

  “No, actually.”

  That surprises me. “Explain.”

  “Well,” she says, a look of chagrin on her face, “I planned to work at an ad agency, and I had a job lined up after graduation, but then this happened.” She makes a basketball-size arc with her hand over her belly.

  “You didn’t take the job?”

  She shakes her head. “The hours would have been too brutal with a newborn, so I lived with my parents the first year after college, saving up money by doing freelance graphic design at night. After a year or two, I had enough clients to move into the city, get my own place, and build out my business, but it took a little while.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  She narrows her eyebrows. “It’s impressive that I had to live with my parents and a newborn?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s impressive you pulled all this off, Mackenzie. You weren’t planning for a kid, but you made it work, and you paved a whole new path to your career.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs.

  “Hey, it’s not a maybe. It’s a hell yes. And it’s awesome.”

  A small smile sneaks onto her face. “Thanks.”

  “Were you one of those kids who was always good at design?”

  “I was a champion doodler,” she answers, holding her chin up high. “I doodled constantly in school. I could have taught a master class in doodling.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I doodled on absolutely everything. All over desks and notebooks. They called me Mackadoodle.”

  “Mackadoodle,” I say, letting that sound roll around on my tongue. “That is the best nickname I have ever heard. You are Mackadoodle from now on. You can’t be anything else.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I will not answer to Mackadoodle.”

  I lean closer and bump my shoulder to hers. “I will get you to answer to Mackadoodle. If I have to wear you down with—”

  I can’t wear her down with kisses like I want.

  “Kisses?” she whispers softly.

  “Kisses we can’t have.”

  “No more kisses,” she says with a frown. “From now on, you are only my son’s violin teacher.”

  I roam my eyes over her, enjoying the view of her tight, trim figure, her lush hair I’ve wrapped my hands in, her freckles that somehow are the height of adorably sexy. “And you are my student’s ridiculously hot mom that I fucked and still want to fuck.”

  She shivers. “When you say things like that, you make it that much harder.”

  I glance at my crotch. “Oh, it definitely is much harder. It got much harder in the last ten seconds when I thought about fucking you again.”

  She swats my thigh. “You’re really naughty.”

  “You’re really tempting, Mackadoodle.”

  “You’re tempting too, Mason Hart,” she says, and I drop my jaw in mock surprise over the name. “But we have to be good. We agreed to be
good.”

  I nod. “We will be good. We will be so good at not fucking each other.”

  She raises a fist in victory. “We will be the best at not fucking each other.”

  I let myself savor one last look at the gorgeous woman by my side. “On that note, I really ought to leave because if I stay another second, I’m going to try to fuck you on your not-exactly-an-ex’s couch.” I stand. “And if that happened, I’d have to fire myself on his behalf.”

  She raises an eyebrow in a question. “Why on his behalf?”

  “A man’s couch is sacred.”

  Chapter 14

  Mackenzie

  * * *

  I am serenaded by Bach and Jay-Z all day Saturday as I work on a new design for an ad agency client. Kyle stops playing for lunch—my world-famous turkey with avocado toast is the star of the meal—and a quick jaunt to the office supply store around the corner for a few last-minute school items. Then we’re back at the apartment, and he insists on showing me the mash-up he’s been working on since yesterday.

  I park myself on the couch and give him my undivided attention for a few minutes of aural goodness.

  I cheer and clap at the end. “Encore, encore.”

  He takes an exaggerated bow. “Be sure to tip the musician on the way out.”

  I root around in my wallet for some pennies and toss them at his feet.

  He drops to his knees and scoops them up with one hand. “I can eat a cracker! At last, I can eat a cracker, Ma!”

  His theatrics make me chuckle.

  When he sets down his violin in the case, he glances up at me, earnestness in his brown eyes. “Did it sound okay?”

  I beam. “Yes. For something you’ve been working on for less than twenty-four hours, it sounds great.”

  “Right, of course. It needs work.”

  “But you’ll get there. It’s a fantastic start.”

  He plops next to me. “Mom, that teacher is cool. I really like him. He texted me some new exercises to work on.”

  I arch a brow. “He did?”

  “Yeah, and they’re not boring exercises like the ones my last teacher had me do.”

  “Not boring is a most excellent way to go.”

  He pops back up, darts to his room, and emerges a few minutes later wearing a pin-striped jersey and punching the inside of a well-worn baseball glove. “Dad is picking me up in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right. Baseball game tonight.”

  Soon enough, Jamison stops by, and father and son take off to see the Bronx Bombers. I dive back into work, burying myself in the design for a travel ad campaign.

  As the afternoon starts to fade, my social life, or lack thereof, smacks me in the ass.

  I have no kid tonight. I was supposed to be on a date.

  I push away from my desk, grab my phone, and call Roxy. When she answers, I ask if she wants to go see a movie or grab a bite to eat.

  “I would, but I have a date tonight thanks to Plenty of Chunka Burning Hot Love.”

  “Is that a new site you’re using?”

  “Sounds promising, doesn’t it?”

  “Is that really a dating site?”

  She laughs. “Nope. I’m going out with this guy who lives around the block. We kept bumping into each other on the subway, and he finally asked me out.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, remembering her telling me about the train dude. “That’s awesome.”

  “What about you and Guitar Hero? Aren’t you supposed to go out with him tonight?”

  I sigh heavily. I haven’t caught her up since the tragedy of yesterday’s bitch-slap from fate. “It turns out he’s Kyle’s new music teacher.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s like soap-level mix-up drama.”

  “It’s like a telenovela, sister. Oh, and there’s one other little detail we both failed to pick up on when he played at The Grouchy Owl.”

  “What’s that?” Roxy asks curiously.

  “He’s Mason Hart, former lead singer and guitarist for the Heartbreakers.”

  She squeals. Her pitch rises so high I yank the phone away from my ear. “I loved them. I still love their music. I was listening to ‘Hit the Road’ the other day. And ‘Love Me Like Crazy’ is one of my favorite songs ever.”

  I make a mental note to search for those songs on Spotify later. “I remember playing them when I was lying on my bed in high school, staring at the ceiling, daydreaming of some guy I crushed on.”

  “Also,” she says, her words tumbling out at the speed of light. “William works with Miles Hart. He mentioned it when he started his firm. He took him on a year or two ago.”

  My jaw drops as she mentions her brother, a finance guy who recently launched his own wealth management company. “Are you kidding? Don’t tell me Ike made the intros.”

  She laughs. “Ha. I don’t think so. William snagged a few high-profile clients when he started. Athletes and celebs. But I still can’t believe Mason Hart moonlights in a little local bar. And teaches music. That is so cool. It’s like the height of I-do-this-because-I-want-to attitude.”

  I flash back on my conversation with him yesterday. That’s exactly why Campbell does what he does. “It is.”

  I can hear Roxy moving around her apartment, her heels click-clacking against the floor, her cabinet opening and closing as she’s probably putting the finishing touches on her makeup. “But what you did was for the best,” she says. “Can you imagine what would happen when he was no longer able to deliver multiple Os? You’d ditch him, but he’d still be coming over to teach ‘do re mi fa so la ti do.’ Can you say super awkward?”

  I slump onto my couch. “Somehow, I don’t think he’d suddenly lose that ability.”

  “But the point is, relationships have a way of not working out,” she says, ever the cynic. “Speaking of, I need to skedaddle and see if this date will turn into the next relationship that dies an ugly death.”

  “Good luck, my pessimistic friend.”

  “Love ya.”

  When I hang up, I decide to make the most of my solo time.

  I find a Saturday night spinster spin class, exercise my old maid brains out, and douse my sore muscles in a hot shower when I’m done.

  By seven, I’m the good kind of exhausted, and I’m decked out in yoga pants and a tank top. Do I know how to party or what?

  I grab my trivia book and read several new chapters. I flip open my laptop and play a few online trivia games. I click over to Netflix and see that Idris is still waiting for me. But Netflix also thinks I should watch Hugh Jackman in Les Mis, which reminds me . . .

  One text can’t hurt.

  I grab my phone.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: If we can’t go out, can you at least tell me the Les Mis story you were going to share?

  * * *

  Campbell: Think you can handle it?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Now my curiosity is completely piqued.

  * * *

  A minute later, a clip from YouTube appears on my phone. I hit play on a grainy video that’s about twenty-five years old. And oh my God, Campbell is the most adorable ten-year-old street urchin I’ve ever seen as he sings about “Little People.”

  When I’m done, I call him. “I don’t mean this in the same way I admired your teenage Tiger Beat face, but you are so freaking adorable on stage singing with the French revolutionaries.”

  He cracks up. “That’s my dirty little secret. I started as a child actor. Now you know why I couldn’t tell you who I was when I first met you. You’d have run for the hills.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. I think it’s completely amazing.” I practically bounce with excitement. “Dude, you were in a musical. You’re not just a rock star, but you were on the Great White Way. My admiration for you is sky-high now.”

  He laughs harder. “You’re a hoot, Mackadoodle.”

  “Tell me everything about it. What was the stage like? What were the dressin
g rooms like? How was Fantine? Was she a total diva? I need to know every detail.”

  I flop down on the couch as he entertains me with tales of what it was like to work on Broadway when he was ten. I’m smiling and laughing the entire time.

  He clears his throat. “Hey, are you just hanging out at home alone?”

  “I was supposed to have a date with this completely fascinating and handsome guy but that didn’t happen.”

  “Huh. Funny. I was supposed to have a date with this captivating blonde, but then fate decided to fuck us with a chainsaw.”

  “You should write a song about that. Fate screwing things with a chainsaw. That would be an awesome song.”

  “Actually, before you called, I was working on a new song for the Righteous Surfboards.”

  I sit up higher. “You were? Can I hear it?” My voice rises hopefully.

  “It’s not ready yet. But would you want to when it’s farther along?” He sounds eager to share it with me.

  “I’d love to. I really dig your music, Campbell.”

  “Thank you. I like hearing that, especially since it doesn’t really seem like it’s your style at all.”

  “Are you kidding? I loved listening to you guys play. I had such a great time, and it wasn’t just because I was thinking about you naked,” I say, and there’s something that’s kind of freeing, I’m learning, about talking to someone I like but can’t date. It’s as if I can say all these things that I might have held close to the vest before. Knowing it’s not going anywhere unleashes the honesty.

  “It’s good to know my songs can transcend thoughts of nudity.”

  “It’s proof of your musical talent.” I lean back against the couch pillows, settling into the conversation. “Where’s your daughter tonight?”

  “She’s playing miniature golf. There’s some glow-in-the-dark miniature golf place where she went with a bunch of friends.”