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‘Let’s see if we’re good enough to be keepers.’ His insecurity is so endearing and refreshing, as opposed to some of the big egos I’ve had to deal with in the couple of years I’ve been working at Melkweg.
I take out my phone. ‘I’m sure you are, so let me cyberstalk this rising star of country music. I’ll name-drop and brag that I met him as he was starting to take the world by a storm. There,’ I add, tapping on my screen. ‘One more member of the fan club in your motherland.’
Eyes glued on me, he says, ‘The most important one.’
I know it’s just friendly banter between two strangers. I’m also pretty sure that the next time we meet, if ever, he will most likely not remember a random venue employee. Yet it’s heartwarming to have this stunning stranger single me out from the crowd.
Have I become so starved for the compliments I once received in abundance during the first few months Johan and I dated? The ones that now resurface only alongside an apology after friction.
As if I have conjured him, he calls my name. Luuk and I freeze, as if caught doing something bad—wrong. And just like that, the magic is gone.
Luuk
In my mind, insta-love is one of the things belonging to movies and books and, of course, songs. Because, what bigger effect and swoon-eliciting than heart-stopping smiles, time-pausing glances or world-tipping energies? In this case—ironically the case of the non-believer—it starts with a sound. I’m heading for Melkweg’s kitchenette to get some coffee, when I hear a whistling that wraps around me like a hug. The coffee can wait, at least for the time it takes for the whistler to finish that song.
I lean against the doorjamb, taking in her swinging body, soft curves wrapped in a pair of tight jeans and a black, fringed leather waistcoat, the strands moving with her long, thick curls as her Chelsea boots step left and right without straying away from the coffee machine. But then the bridge comes, and the words slip out of my mouth of their own accord, ignoring my intention for stealth.
Startled, she turns around.
It’s interesting how, upon seeing the face of a person dressed in dark clothes, the first thing that comes to mind is a garden full of campanulas or a field of bluebells or an orchard of lilacs. Her eyes, smiling as her full lips form an “O” of surprise when she realises she isn’t alone, invite me to lose myself in them, to explore how the light changes their hues, how her irises dilate or constrict like a tide claiming the shore before receding.
Then there’s her feminine figure, inviting hands to trace its lines. Hair like molten gold cascades over her shoulders before tumbling down her back like rays of sunshine invading a dark space and my sanity. Like the actual sun, they come with a warning: too much closeness, and I’ll get burnt. Am I listening to the warning? Hell no!
My gaze stays fixed on those eyes, that cerulean capable of drowning a man, circled by a ring of darker blue like a fence. Or, in my case, a trap. The moment they land on me, all I want is to remain in their orbit—her orbit—and watch them shift with the light, or with her mood.
But the first thing I got to know about her was that whistling—it piqued my curiosity. Oblivious to my presence, she twirled to her own tune, almost falling against me when she turned to see who was there. I swear time fucking stopped, like people claim it does when you meet the person. Your person. A claim I used to laugh at.
Who’s laughing now, smartass?
Before I know it, I’m diving headfirst into a banter. Am I imagining it, or is she enjoying it as much as I am? I hope I sound clever, not only because I want to come out as brilliant, but mostly because I want this to last as long as possible. Every bit of information is collected and saved, and I’m more than happy to be stalked on social media, momentarily ignoring the bump-like word my imagination has stumbled on: boyfriend.
Until I hear a voice calling her name—one I recognize as Johan’s—and almost wince. Fine, I wouldn’t have been happy if the guy were nice, but this particular idiot had the ability to rub me the wrong way from the get-go. By the looks of it, he has a similar effect on most of the members of our two bands—only I am the one who actually understands his Dutch comments, the kind that make me test the strength of my molars just to stay silent.
Corrie’s relaxed posture tightens. She straightens, as if trying to look past me, her smile more forced. ‘Hey, babe…’
I step aside and turn slowly to face the large man with ash-blond hair and light green eyes, who would have been attractive if not for the smirk. Or the coldness in his gaze as it flicks from me to her, like a snake deciding which of us to strike first. When he does, he goes for his girlfriend.
‘You’re gonna get more lip wrinkles if you keep whistling like that.’
My jaw almost drops at the snide comment, and I butt in. ‘No such danger. And aren’t good things worth a bit of sacrifice?’ I turn towards Corrie, who looks baffled by my intervention.
Her smile is strained when she speaks. ‘I’ll make sure to send you the bill for my fillers.’
Johan ignores her words and turns to me. ‘You are wanted onstage for the soundcheck.’
It’s more like a command for me to get lost, but what actually bothers me is the fact that I have to go. So I mutter how lovely it was to talk to her and try not to linger as I thank her for the coffee by lifting the mug. Then I get the hell out of the small space, knowing I’m totally and absolutely screwed.
She is beautiful, and for reasons I can’t explain, she feels like the home that I’ve been searching for since mine fell apart years ago. Not because of Mum—after all, Dad is still around and is doing his best—but because of that warmth, that safety of belonging, that gezelligheid my mother tongue clings to. Only this home belongs to someone else.
I dismiss the thought quickly, the warning lost in the sensation that hits me like a lick of a flame on a frozen winter day.
‘Nah…’ My mind scoffs, mocking the exaggeration.
‘Oh, really?’ the universe replies. ‘Just you wait and see…’
Chapter Two
Now
