Thank you so much for all of your kind reviews! I seriously cherish them. Well, another month of social distancing brings another chapter. Enjoy!

Erik

The only thing keeping me awake right now is composing.

Finally, after a month of sleeping all day and recording all night, I am free of Zander's unconventional work schedule. I am certain it will take me a few days to return to my usual circadian rhythm, like returning from a stint on the other side of the world and fighting jet lag.

We wrapped up recording last night, which I believe was Friday. I allowed myself to sleep only briefly this afternoon, beginning the journey of retraining myself.

Composing keeps me focused on a central goal. When I feel like I'm running on fumes, I feed this part of myself, and it begins to regenerate on its own. Snowballing into a juggernaut. I write down shitty ideas that inspire new ones, better ones. The headphones block out every distraction, almost a little too well. I almost forget to eat dinner. This isn't too outside my normal, but eating at mealtimes is a valuable part of the process of recovering from jet lag.

I check my phone as I reheat leftovers. I have three missed calls from Nadir. Shit. I forgot about his usual nightly check ins. If I don't call him back, he could show up at my apartment to check on me. He says it's because of my health, but I think it's just an excuse to force me to talk to him. I haven't had any issues in over a year.

I sigh and call him back. He picks up before the second ring.

"Erik!"

"I'm fine, Nadir. Just got distracted composing."

"Oh, right. Good. Listen, would you be able to come out at 9?"

I glance at the clock. 8:30. "Fucking Zander—"

"It's not—"

"Nadir, we completed the contract! If he wants to extend, you need to double the—"

"Erik, it's not to record. Zander wants to take us out to celebrate."

"...Oh."

"I know it's not usually your scene, but I think you deserve to let off some steam after that month. Or at least let Zander drop some cash to make it up to you…"

Nadir is right, going out drinking with guys like Zander is not my scene. Raucous bar hopping, doing drugs in the bathroom, finding hookups… I've heard plenty of his stories to know his scene. And it's not for me. However, I'm not quite tired yet, and spending the evening out in a crowded bar drinking and carrying on conversations with Zander would definitely wear me out.

"Fine. But if he offers me a line of coke, I'm out."

Nadir picks me up and we meet Zander at a small bar not too far from my apartment. It's packed, which makes sense on a Saturday night. I keep having to remind myself what day it is. Luckily, the bar is also dimly lit so I don't feel like I'm drawing attention to myself as we find a table. Wearing the mask in public places is always a gamble—especially when people have been drinking. I never know if someone is going to drunkenly call out my mask in front of the entire establishment or if I will be completely ignored.

We find a table on the perimeter and I sit so my masked side is facing the wall. Nadir has learned my idiosyncrasies over the years and allows me first choice on seating. My back is to the natural front-of-house where some mediocre singer-songwriter plays the acoustic guitar on a small stage.

Zander returns from the bar with an armful of shots. He passes them out and holds one up for himself: "Here's to your fucking genius minds in business—" he nods at Nadir, "—and music," he nods at me. "Here's to many more projects together, boys!" Zander throws his shot back and I raise an eyebrow at Nadir. He shrugs at me and takes his shot too. I roll my eyes and join. This is going to be an interesting night.

"Anything you want tonight is on me," Zander says after his second shot. "Seriously, I think this piece could make it into Sundance." Ah, so it was for a short film.

I'm not one to take advantage, but I feel like I deserve a few drinks tonight. Nadir was right yet again. So I order a whiskey sour and try to pay attention to the new project ideas Zander pitches. A concept album with a corresponding film, creating an entire online catalog of royalty free music, launching his spoken word career… My head spins and it's not from the whiskey. I'm not sure which of these are legitimate ideas and which are drug-fueled dreams. Nadir isn't helping, either.

He gets talkative when he drinks—even more so than usual. So he just fuels Zander's fire, throwing out names of more producers and connections he has who could make each fever dream a reality. Luckily only my name comes up once. I give a noncommittal grunt in response. Unless it's in a legitimate contract Nadir drafts, I'm not giving any hint of interest.

Finally, Zander needs a smoke and heads out onto the patio. I order another whiskey sour.

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourself," Nadir's green eyes glint mischievously.

"Fuck off. I decided you were right... For once."

"Sure. By the way, I realized we have another reason to celebrate tonight."

I take the bait. "What's that?"

"It's our sixth anniversary," Nadir says mock-sentimentally.

"Excuse me."

"Six years ago, I took you on as my talent!"

"I think you mean six years ago, I took you on as my manager," I smile ever so slightly.

"Don't get emotional on me," he teases.

"What are you now, 40?" Nadir is sensitive about entering a new decade and I love jabbing him for it.

"Fuck you, Destler!" He throws his head back in laughter.

By the time Zander returns, I am sufficiently loosened up. I even allow myself to laugh at his latest joke. I order another drink.

But in the middle of Zander's next story… I think I'm having an auditory hallucination. I hear her—the soprano. 7A. Am I that drunk? Have I completely lost my mind? Am I dreaming? Am I having another episode?

I slowly turn toward the sound behind me. There is a new singer on the small stage up front. And she has the same voice as 7A. The longer she sings, the more sure I become that she is 7A. I feel my mouth fall open, but I do nothing to stop it. She's… stunning.

She tucks a brunette curl behind her ear. Moody pink and blue stage lighting plays off her skin and hair, like a modern painting. They cast harsh shadows under her cheekbones and jaw. Her strappy black dress reveals subtle curves. Soft and harsh juxtaposed.

Her fingers graze the mic on the stand as she sings in character, confident and sultry. Her voice is even more incredible in person. I can properly hear the subtleties in her breathing, her vibrato, her cadence. Each note is magic. I'm spellbound.

I hear Zander's voice behind me, but it sounds like he's underwater.

"What?" I ask without looking away from the stage.

"You drop something, Destler?" he repeats, chuckling. "Your jaw is on the floor."

My what? Her vibrato reverberates between my ears. Nadir clears his throat, jolting me back to reality. I snap my mouth shut and turn back around to face the table. The heat of embarrassment creeps up my neck.

"She's good, right?" Zander nods toward 7A. "She's been singing here the last couple weekends. Fucking sexy." His voice drips in lechery. It sends a nasty chill up my spine, spiking my disdain for Zander to an all-time high. I choke back an impolite retort. Instead of engaging that part of the conversation, I try to steer Zander elsewhere:

"Do you come here often?"

Luckily, my question launches him into a new story about how the Rosé Lounge became his spot for the last month. Picking out musicians to collaborate with, hooking up with the female singer-songwriters… I quickly tune him out and listen to the rest of 7A's set. I wish I could turn around and watch her.

She sings a variety of covers, jazzy classics, contemporary ballads, and a few acoustic pop songs. Her style fluctuates with the needs of each song—proper slides and accents for jazz, solid belts and emotional dynamics on ballads, and unique takes on pop. Her sheer talent and range has my mind racing... What does she do? Where did she learn how to control her voice? Where has she been? My brain starts composing solos perfectly suited for her voice. I shake my head, trying to file it away for later.

Zander heads to the bathroom yet again—my suspicion about drugs remains uncompromised. Nadir and I share a knowing look. And before he can start a new conversation, I turn around to watch 7A singing, "La Vie En Rose." The lights now match the song—all reds and pinks, casting her in a softer, rosy glow. Her French is mesmerizing. Most of the bar has gone quiet, also enraptured by her finale. Her lips turn up in a partial smile as she belts the last line. Chills surge across my body and I join the crowd in applause.

Zander returns to the table looking excited. "Hey, some of my buddies are going to hit the club." He sniffs. "Uh, I'll catch you guys later. The tab's taken care of!" Before either of us can thank him, he's out the door.

In a slightly uncharacteristic move, I take his seat to face the stage. Mask-side out.

"You've gotten quiet," Nadir comments, sipping on his gin and tonic.

"I'm always quiet," I say, tracking 7A as she exits the stage.

"Do you know her?" he nods at the soprano, eyeing me.

"Not exactly." I run a hand through my hair and stand up.

This apparently utterly shocks Nadir. "What are you doing?" he's almost giddy.

Thanks to the whiskey sours and shots, I feel a level of courage I haven't felt in a long time. I'm going to introduce myself to her. I have no plan, and for some reason, I am perfectly content with winging it. However, as I take my first step, someone else approaches her. He's blond, built, and has soap-opera-level good looks. He takes her hand as she descends the stage and her eyes light up. My confidence plummets. One look at her flirty smile and I bail, awkwardly pivoting in place.

"Uh, bathroom," I answer Nadir, briskly escaping toward the hall.

Christine

I am alive with electricity and adrenaline. This is my best night so far! After a couple weeks of performances, I finally feel comfortable in front of this more intimate audience. And tonight is a testament to that! I could feel the bar hushing with each song—we weren't just the soundtrack in the background, we were the entertainment! I could burst with pride!

The pianist (Tony), James, and I came up with the set list together. Tony was easy to work with and we both felt free to make suggestions here and there when we rehearsed. As the applause erupts, I take a quick bow and acknowledge Tony as well.

"Thank you, everyone! Enjoy the rest of your night," I murmur into the mic. The house lights brighten up and I can properly see our tip jar at the front of the stage. It's overflowing with cash. I grab the jar and bring it to the piano so Tony and I can split the tips. He gives me an extra $20 and says, "We've never had an ovation like that before. Good job, kid."

I am floating! Performing is like a drug. That rush of being on stage and the thrill of hearing yourself through the microphone. I forgot how much I loved that high of singing for others. I decide to celebrate and head toward the bar. As I step down from the stage, a hand appears from thin air to assist me. I look up into the most dazzling blue eyes.

"You were amazing." An incredibly handsome (like cleft-chin handsome) yet somehow familiar man smiles down at me. My knees go weak for a second at the combination. I rack my brain trying to remember how I recognize him. His eyes glance at my lips, which I realize are hanging open. I compose myself and smile.

"Thank you… Do I know you?"

Somehow his smile grows wider. "Raoul. I think we went to the same high school. Christine, right?"

That's the thing about growing up in the suburbs and only moving to the closest city. If you don't move far enough away to a big enough city, you're bound to run into people from your past. But I never thought I'd see Raoul again.

"Raoul DeChagny!" I cringe internally for gushing.

"Can I buy you a drink, Christine? I'd love to catch up."

I pause, glancing at our still-clasped hands. He squeezes my fingers gently, confidently. Damn, he's smooth. "I can't stay late, but one drink would be wonderful."

He nods toward the bar and lets me lead the way.

If you would have told me ten years ago that someday Raoul DeChagny would ask to buy me a drink, I would have laughed. Raoul was in the popular crowd in high school—he was rich, played baseball, and partied. I was anonymous, floating between show choir, debate, and band. The fact that he remembers me, let alone knows my name has me baffled. It's weird how your high school experience colors your self esteem even a decade later.

Raoul is incredibly handsome. He's not like those jocks who peak in high school, gaining beer weight in college and losing hair early. Time has treated him very well. He has just a hint of wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles. His blond hair is coiffed perfectly with no hint of thinning. Those blue eyes still sparkle like he's a teenager. And damn it, that cleft chin!

We get our drinks and find a small table. I take a drink of my rosé, not knowing where to start.

"So, why the early night? Will your carriage turn into a pumpkin?" he asks lightheartedly.

I smile, "In a way, I guess. A ball tonight, work in the morning."

"On a Sunday?" he asks incredulously, like a man who works in the corner office at a 9-5 salaried job.

"Do you think I sing for fun?" I retort, feeling cheeky.

"Don't you?" Raoul asks, grinning. "If I could sing like you, I would always sing for fun. I remember you singing in the musical junior year."

My stomach drops, weirdly exhilarated that he had noticed me. "Can't afford not to charge on a teacher's salary," I reply, sidestepping his last comment.

Raoul seamlessly switches from our flirting to an actual conversation. Thank god one of us has some charisma. "So what do you teach?"

"Choral music for middle school."

"Agh, middle school! The best and worst years!" He takes a sip of his Manhattan.

"You have no idea." We both laugh. "What about you?" I ask.

"I manage some of my family's hotel franchises locally and in a couple other states."

Right. That's where that family money came from. I think his parents are originally from France, hence the surname. He might have even been born there. I can relate on some distant level, my dad was the child of Swedish immigrants.

"Wow, that sounds interesting." I try to sound convincing.

"It's really boring, actually," he chuckles. "The best part is the travel. But you! You're molding the young minds and voices of the future!"

I finish my wine as we talk about our college studies, international travels, in-between jobs… all the things that led us here to this moment. He seems genuinely interested in every story I have. And it's… nice. It's just not who I expected him to be.

I'm engrossed in his story of European travel when my phone's alarm buzzes on the table. Right, my early morning. I reluctantly turn it off. "I'm sorry, I need to get going. That carriage is turning into a pumpkin."

"Can I walk you to the door?" he asks politely, fingers grazing mine on the table.

My cheeks flush. "Sure."

As we navigate through the tables, Raoul ends up taking my hand to guide me.

"Listen," he says gently when we step outside the front entrance. "I loved catching up with you tonight, Christine. Can I take you out on a real date that isn't at your place of work?"

Excitement flutters in my chest. "Yes, I'd really like that."

"Next weekend?"

My heart sinks, remembering my calendar. "Um, do you mind if I check my schedule?" I ask, holding up my phone. This is so far from romantic. "If it's not in my phone, I will not remember."

"You're a busy woman, I get it." He seems a little deflated.

"Please know I'm not dodging you, I am legitimately booked for the next two weeks." I half-heartedly scroll through my full calendar.

"When are you free next?"

"Thursday, two weeks from now." He's going to give up, isn't he? This is why I can never date anyone, I'm classically "married to my job." I start to lose hope.

"Put me down for 8 o'clock. May I?" Raoul takes my phone out of my open (dumbfounded) hand, adds his number as a contact, and texts himself.

"Can't wait, Christine Daaé." He kisses my cheek and heads back inside.

Erik

I decide to leave out the back door by the restroom. I've never felt so foolish. What was I thinking going up to the beautiful singer after her set? Me. The awkwardly tall and terribly thin man in a mask. I'm sure dozens of handsome men fawned over her constantly. Why would she want to talk to me?

I text Nadir that I'm leaving. He offers to drive me home, but I want to walk to think and sober up. I don't usually have that much to drink—usually just a glass or two a couple nights a week. The bar is only a few blocks from my apartment. The air is warm and the night is still young. Plenty of pedestrians are still walking the streets, hopping from bars to clubs.

Seeing 7A tonight was so unexpected. So surprising. What are the odds! She is beautiful and talented and clearly desirable. I didn't know I would feel so strongly about her, and I don't even know her name! I was so confident that I could introduce myself to her and she would be impressed. She's the one who always makes requests. But when that handsome guy beat me to the punch, it was a harsh reminder of my reality.

I am not attractive. I don't mean it to sound so pathetic, but it's true: I'm not conventionally handsome. I'm all sharp angles and bones. My fingers are long and spider-like. I'm pale. I wear a mask that covers a facial deformity and botched surgeries. I have a genetic condition that is to blame for this and more. Unfortunately, this is my circumstance.

I am not one to wallow. But damn, when what you lack is flaunted in front of your face, fate feels cruel.

I stick to the well-lit streets. I've had a few unfortunate incidents in the past of people thinking I'm some kind of villain out to rob or hurt them. I can't say I blame them; the mask doesn't help my case. Hands out of pockets, to show I'm not hiding a weapon. I get a few weird glances on the street corners, but honestly I'm probably not the strangest thing they will see tonight.

My composing brain is working furiously in the background, taking in noises and rhythms. And suddenly, it replays the soprano's rendition of "La Vie En Rose" and the rest of the world fades away. Something about her voice draws me in; I can't quite figure it out. Every time I hear her, I'm inspired. She just awakens that part of me more than any other music or drug has. How would I go about introducing myself to her? Could I just go upstairs and knock on her door? No, I wouldn't want to frighten her. A mask isn't what a woman who lives alone wants to see when she opens her apartment door.

I'm still trying to figure out the logistics of how I would even begin a conversation with her when I arrive at the apartment building. I look up at the pattern of lights on in the windows and tilt my head from side to side. I feel mostly sobered up. And fairly tired. I guess that was the entire purpose of the evening, wasn't it?

I unlock the front door and head to the main lobby to check my mail. And lightning strikes twice. 7A is standing there at the mailboxes, still in her strappy black dress. Her brunette curls are pulled up into a perfectly messy pile on top of her head. I can see freckles dotting her shoulders. She's just flipping through her mail but she looks so elegant in this moment. I jingle my keys lightly as I approach, praying I don't startle her. She glances up and does that thing that everyone does, quickly looking away as if to make sure I know she isn't staring.

Every plan and all logic I have goes out the window.

Christine

It's a little unnerving to be alone in a hallway with a tall man in a mask. I look up and almost scream. He's tall, imposing, wearing black from head to toe, and has a mask covering up part of his face. A mask. I adjust my keys between my fingers, ready to stab and run. But he sits back for a moment and holds up his keys, almost like he's surrendering.

"Excuse me," he murmurs and I step aside. A weird thrill goes up my spine and I can't tell if it's because of the rich timbre of his voice or the fact that he is reaching to open mailbox 6A.

"Keith?" I whisper. 6A turns his head to glance down—way down—at me. Did I just say that out loud? For a moment I see only the unmasked side of his face in the dim hall lighting and my head swims. He has high, sharp cheekbones that look like they could cut glass. His eyes are a steel blue and he looks at me uncertainly.

"Pardon?"

My mouth is hanging open and I try to snap out the spell his velvet voice has over me. Get it together, Christine, he's said all of three words. "Uh, I mean—you're 6A? You live in 6A?"

His tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his lips. "Yes."

"I'm 7A," I reveal. And then for some reason, I jokingly add, "Your number one fan." Christ, I'm an idiot. But then his eyes warm and he smiles slightly and I forget what an idiot I am.

"Right, 7A. The trained soprano. The feeling is mutual." He nods.

"Trained. You must have a pretty good ear to notice my breath control from an entirely different floor!" People really shouldn't compliment me.

The visible side of 6A's face shifts between multiple expressions so quickly I nearly miss them. "Actually," he says, almost sheepish, "I heard your set tonight at the Rosé Lounge. I went for a drink with some friends. I didn't realize you were the resident prima donna soprano of 7A!"

I giggle at the title and lean against the wall of mailboxes. "What are the odds… do you go there a lot?"

"No, I'd never been before. Nice place. Have you performed there before? Do you perform often?"

"It was my third time there. I hope it didn't sound like my first time!" I tease.

His eyes get concerned. "Oh no, of course not—I was just wondering—"

I can't help but laugh at how flustered he's getting, afraid he's offended me. I think Raoul's confidence has rubbed off on me.

"I'm messing with you!" I chuckle again.

His eyes turn playful. Am I flirting? With 6A Keith? Only he's not a 60-something retired pianist. He's a tall, thin, 30-something pianist with a mask. He looks like he's about to quip back with something funny but a chiming ringtone interrupts him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, glances at the screen and rolls his eyes slightly, "My manager."

My hopes fall a bit. I don't want whatever this conversation is to end.

"It was lovely to finally meet you…" he trails off.

"Christine," I say, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Erik."

His long, spindly fingers curl around my hand slowly and I feel a pull deep within myself. And despite his cool skin, a warmth spreads across my chest. "Nice to meet you, too."

A mailbox meet cute! Please leave a review let me know what you think!