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I took another sip of my beer and hunched down in my seat, trying to hide among the crowd. At this point, I was far enough away from the stage that I didn’t believe Mr. Delaney would immediately notice that I was here. As far as he was aware, this wasn’t the kind of place I would want to come.
They began to play their music. The conversations around me dulled a little, though I could still hear that one unnecessarily extremely rowdy table on the other side of the bar. It made it a little harder to appreciate the music, but I was glad most people were turning their attention to either that table or to the band.
And the longer I listened to the music (with more alcohol in my system with each song because I was nursing a beer, after all), the more I realized that Mr. Delaney didn’t always hide his emotions. I wondered if it was simply songwriting and playing the music that allowed the barriers to come down, or if I had unintentionally stumbled upon his passionate hobby.
He may have liked fishing – as he had pointed out to me so many times – but that was something that could be done alone. Music in this capacity required more people to interact with him. And I now noticed that he was smiling and interacting with the crowd by waving his hands for them to cheer louder or for them to be quiet as the music got softer.
It wasn’t just that he wanted to share the music with the crowd. It was clear that music was something he was just as passionate about as his fishing lodge, though why he’d never even mentioned his hobby in passing, I couldn’t begin to imagine.
As the end of their set approached, their lead singer leaned into the microphone.
“If you like what you hear, just a reminder that we have CDs for sale up by the bar and we’re back here every Friday to play for y’all. You’ve been a great audience; please enjoy our last song.”
I clapped appreciatively with the rest of the crowd before closing out my tab and slipping out to catch the shuttle back before the band finished their final song.
The waitress brought me the check, and I paid my bill quickly. As I walked towards the shuttle stop, I couldn’t help but think over the evening. Even though I was buzzed, two things stood out to me. The first was that there were indeed some new, fun things to do in Waterfront despite what I had originally thought when Bailey and I were looking around last week.
The second was that Mr. Delaney did indeed have emotions other than irritated, but he hated to show them. Why that was, I couldn’t fathom, but it made me feel even worse about the way we had been clashing already. Was it possible he just didn’t know how to express himself outside of music? I also wondered if I had aggravated everything by coming to the bar without warning him I would be there?
The next time I saw Luke, he made no comment about his performance the night before, and I figured it was safe to go back the next week.
I started going every Friday night. I’d sit in the far corner with a beer and a plate of food, always slipping out before the final song so that Luke didn’t have time to see me in the crowd.
Although tension with Luke at the Lodge continued as usual, I found myself trying to reconcile my boss with the man who wrote the emotional music I listened to every Friday night. Clearly, he was far more complex than he let on. Not only did he have hidden skills, but his lyrics and tender melodies challenged the gruffness that I still battled every day.
I found myself in a rhythm. Every day of the week, I butted heads with Luke at the lodge. Any change I tried to make to the menu (anything I suggested that had any flavor) was met with aggressive opposition. Then, on Friday nights, I’d go to the bar and watch “real Luke” play guitar.
I’m not exactly sure when I started calling this version “Real Luke,” but it felt like it fit. “Real Luke” was the Luke I watched play guitar every Friday. His smile was so genuine and the easy way he moved with the music was too sincere to be an act.
I suddenly shook myself back to the moment. The last song had snuck up on me, and I hadn’t closed out my tab. I’m a bit ashamed to admit that I hadn’t been paying attention because I’d zoned out, staring at Luke’s bright blue eyes as he grinned and sang a harmony line with the lead singer.
I considered leaving cash on the table and sneaking out, but I didn’t want to do that. The energy of the crowd was so wholesome, and the music had been particularly good. I let myself join the throng of people who stood up to give them a standing ovation. The lead singer took over thanking us for the attention. As always, he let everyone know they had some limited merch available for purchase.
I flagged the waitress down to grab the check, nervously glancing towards the band. I’d never stuck around this long before. Part of me had gotten so familiar with my idea of “Real Luke” that I felt pretty sure it wouldn’t be a huge deal if he saw me.
A practical voice in my head reminded me that as much as I like to believe this was the true version of my boss, actual “Boss Luke” and I tended to spend more time yelling at each other than anything else. It was probably better I get out of here without letting him see me.
I glanced over once more at the band. They were taking photos with people, and Mr. Delaney was making funny faces with the children he was taking pictures with.
It looked so natural.
And yet it was so different from anything I’d seen at the lodge.
As he handed the phone back to one of the mothers, we accidentally made eye contact, and I felt my stomach flip. His face clouded, and I watched as he excused himself from the photo opportunities to grab his guitar and disappear into a back room.
I felt my ears flush hotly. I’m not sure how I’d envisioned him finding out that I’d seen him play, but somehow his running away felt disappointing. I think I almost would have preferred if he’d charged towards me to yell at me. At least I was used to that.
Chapter twelve
Luke
I walked into the small breakroom in the bar, entirely caught off-guard. I felt furious, but I didn’t even know why. Seeing Laurel Pennington in the crowd had been so… jarring.
How could she waltz into the bar and think that she could glimpse this side of me? This is how I unwound, how I got a chance to be myself. I hadn’t been ready to share that with her yet, and now, she had seen it all. Warts and all, as some would say.
My brain tried to run over all of the songs we’d played today, and I groaned at the memory of a particularly personal ballad that the band had made sure to tell the crowd I wrote.
I put my guitar in the case. Then, I put the sheet music in the folder I had brought.
