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For about the fifth time in as many minutes, Joel couldn’t believe he let Tommy talk him into this.
He was sitting on a stool in the corner of The Good Bean, his favorite coffee shop, with his guitar in his lap. Unusual, true, but the whole situation would have been completely fine if he hadn’t been surrounded by tall speakers, a microphone placed in front of him. If this particular corner of the shop hadn’t been where the live entertainment usually sat. If Joel hadn’t been that evening’s live entertainment, because, as Tommy had said to him last week, he needed a break from hauling bits of lumber around and hovering over Sarah while she did her homework and doing laundry.
How the fuck this counted as a break, Joel had no earthly idea.
Joel jiggled his leg up and down, his six-string clutched close to his chest, his hands so sweaty he thought he wouldn’t be able to play a single note. He glanced over at Tommy, seated a few feet away from him, seven-year-old Sarah gathered up in his lap. Tommy was grinning, a wicked twinkle in his eye.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” Joel mouthed to his younger brother. Tommy only grinned wider and whispered something in Sarah’s ear. She giggled as she gazed a Joel adoringly, her eyes bright with excitement. Joel hated the thought that in a few minutes, he might disappoint her.
The coffee shop was tiny -- it could seat barely twenty people -- so Tommy, of course, had thought it would be a good idea to invite Joel’s neighbors, his own neighbors, their old foreman, their coworkers, and a few of Sarah’s friends’ single mothers, to boot.
Joel decided that Tommy was definitely getting his ass kicked, preferably at this moment, more likely immediately after Joel’s performance.
A moment later, Rose, the shop’s manager, stepped up to Joel, grabbing the microphone off the stand in front of him. Joel had liked Rose, once upon a time, before she had agreed with Tommy that it would be awesome if Joel could fill in for one of the shop’s regular acts while he was down with the flu. She winked at Joel, but his stomach only flopped pathetically. He couldn’t return her smile; he stared at his lap instead.
“Good evening, Good Beans,” she said into the mic. Joel wanted to melt into the floor and die. “Samson couldn’t be with us tonight, but we have a special treat for you.”
Tommy gave a loud whoop, and Joel looked up to glare at him.
Rose’s voice shook with barely suppressed laughter as she continued: “Joel Miller is one of our favorite customers, so I’m very pleased to welcome him to our stage. He’ll be playing for an hour tonight. Please enjoy.”
Rose stuck the mic back into its stand, whispered “Break a leg,” and walked back behind the service counter.
Joel looked out into the small crowd of forty or so faces, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat, the sound amplified by the mic. He winced, but mumbled, “Thank you for coming, everyone,” into the mic.
He settled his fingers on the frets of the guitar, his other hand poised above the strings. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Looked up and saw Sarah, a crooked smile on her face, breathless with anticipation.
This was his living room. He was playing to her.
“This first one is for my baby girl,” he said.
And then he strummed, crooned low into the mic, his eyes never leaving hers.