Page 36 of Exchanged

“This town,” he mutters, “is so fuckin’ weird.”

For once, it doesn’t sound like an insult.

The following Friday, I’m hurrying down the stairs from my bedroom, dressed in concert black and carrying my oboe case, my collapsible music stand, and a folder of sheet music. Our quintet has been hired to play for Casino Night at the Irontown Senior Center. It’s not glamorous, and there’s a one hundred percent chance we’ll spend the night having people wander up to us to complain that we’re either playing too loud or too soft. But it’s a gig.

I arrive at the bottom of the stairs the same moment Garrett steps out of the bathroom. He’s wearing only a towel, a cloud of steam billowing behind him. I’m moving too quickly and have no time to think, let alone veer around him. We collide. My cheek slaps into his collarbone and my arm makes contact with his stomach, the back of my hand brushing against the spot just above his hip bone and beside his abs. My oboe case and music stand spill out of my arms. The folder of sheet music tumbles open, scattering pieces of paper around his bare feet.

We both swear and apologize at the same time, and I crouch down and begin gathering up all the things I’ve dropped. He holds his towel—riding dangerously low on his hips—in place with one hand, bends down, and begins passing me pieces of sheet music with the other.

I saw him shirtless when we went to Lake Superior together, but I had time to prepare that day, there had been several feet of distance separating us, and I kind of hated him.

But this. This should come with a warning label. He’s inches away, and I can feel damp heat radiating off his body. This close, I notice the shifting patterns of freckles on his skin, how they’re thicker on his forearms and shoulders, how they taper off farther down his torso. A single drop of water lazily runs down his perfect chest. I want to reach out with my thumb and catch it.

I realize he’s saying something to me. I collect the last of my sheet music, stuff it into my folder, and stand up. I take a step back. “Huh?”

“I said, do you have a gig or something tonight?”

“Oh. Yeah. Just this thing at the senior center.” I begin moving past him down the hall, very late and very flustered by the memory of his skin on mine.

“Casino Night?”

I stop. Turn around. “How’d you know?”

He scratches the back of his head. “I’ll actually be there, too.”

“You’re going to Casino Night.” I scan his face to see if he’s joking.

“Yeah. Mrs. Makinen invited me while I was helping her in the shop the other day. Well, mostly she told me I’m going to Casino Night with her and her friends.” A patch of red appears on each of his cheeks. “And it’s not like there’s a ton of things to do in this town. And I’m counting it for volunteer hours.”

I shrug, enjoying his embarrassment. “I’d have thought Mrs. Makinen was a little old for you, but no judgment here.” I settle my sheet music in the crook of my arm. “You should probably go get dressed for your date.”

“I knew you’d be jealous.”

“You’re not my type,” I quip, then instantly realize his joke was about my being jealous of him for going to Casino Night with Mrs. Makinen. Not the other way around.

Shit.

He looks at me funny and there’s an uncomfortable pause, like a dropped beat in the middle of a measure of music. “Right.” He gestures up the stairs. “I’m gonna go change now…”

“See you later!” I say too brightly, already rushing off down the hallway, my back to him. I’m positive my voice betrays the burning I feel in my cheeks.

The Irontown Senior Center looks like a middle schooler’s New Year’s Eve party threw up everywhere: black and gold streamers, polka-dotted plastic tablecloths, helium balloons, all beneath harsh fluorescent lights. The staff kind of tried, but not really. The effect is depressing.

But the old people don’t seem to mind. They sit around tables with cards and dice in their hands, laughing and chatting. I spot Mrs. Makinen at a table with several other ladies, all of them nursing water bottles they snuck past the staff, which are definitely not filled with water. She wears a green plastic visor and a flowery blouse; it’s the most dressed-up I’ve ever seen her.

After setting up, our quintet plays a Sound of Music medley. We’ve created a set list of music from old movies and some light classical music that the old folks might recognize. We’re only background music, so in about an hour we’ll switch to stuff that’s actually fun to play. They won’t notice.

We’re about to start a Handel piece when Garrett walks in, wearing a navy suit, a white button-down, a skinny tie, and brown loafers. He has carefully combed his hair up and away from his forehead and is carrying a bouquet of coneflowers I’m guessing he grabbed from our yard on the way out the door.

He looks incredible.

Against the shabby decor and the varying levels of effort people put into their own outfits, he’s like a Caravaggio that has wandered into an elementary art class gallery.

He strides over to Mrs. Makinen and hands her the bouquet. The reaction from her entire table is so extreme I worry one of the ladies will end up in the hospital. I’m reminded of a flock of seagulls after someone tossed a loaf’s worth of breadcrumbs onto the beach. They chatter and pinch at his suit and fawn over the flowers.

“Someone’s trying a little too hard,” Katrina says. I can see what she means: He’s dressed way nicer than us, and we’re paid to be here. Still, there’s something sweet about how he went all out to make Mrs. Makinen and her friends feel important, to make this night feel special.

He settles into a chair, and Mrs. Koski deals him in. The ladies at the table begin explaining the rules of whatever game they’re playing, and he listens intently. At one point, someone says something funny and he laughs, throwing his head back, his whole face wrinkling with humor. He’s not faking this, I realize. He’s enjoying himself.