Covers

Chapter Six: Cinderella

My dad leaves in the evening. It was a bittersweet goodbye because I'm not sure what paternal wisdom he's been sipping lately, but I'm definitely seeing the benefit of it. I'm looking forward to winter break in a few weeks when I can probe the topic without worrying he'll feel cornered.

I get an email from each of my professors within five minutes of each other: I am no longer subject to the attendance or participation grading metrics for the rest of the term and my work will be emailed to me so I don't have to go to the campus. I like to imagine that they all met up and discussed this together. I'm thrilled that I can take the time to heal fully without damaging my grades, but a tiny part of me is a bit disappointed that I no longer have an excuse to leave my studio.

But I find an excuse anyway.

I bundle up and wander outside. I'm carefully to move and walk slowly, as though sudden movement will exacerbate my concussion. I mean, I guess it could. Biology was not my strong suit.

I traipse along the sidewalks, looking all around my beloved city for the homeless man with tattoos on his face and the voice of an angel. I'm not sure what I'll do when I find him. I guess I'll find out.

I find him between here and the Mission. He sings Ed Sheeran to a crowd of admirers. It looks like some of them are lovers, Heads on shoulders, hands in hands. I drift to them, floating along Evan's music like it's a sweet breeze.

He catches my eyes. He smiles again, his eyes alight with a fresh vigor. He finishes his song with such a beautiful passion that I am not the only one who sheds a tear. I don't even recognize the song.

"That's it for now, folks. Thank you for being awesome," he says into his mic. Bills and coins shower down. A few clap him on the shoulder, smiling as though they don't have a care in the world. Good music has that effect, I've learned.

Instead of taking the time to filter through the cash in the guitar case, he simply closes his guitar into it and latches it firmly. He steps toward me, case in hand, and I look up at his eyes in the streetlight.

"Audrey. Should you be out? With your concussion?" he asks, concern underneath his glowing smile.

"Yeah. Just no lifting weights or marathon-running," I say. "Don't worry about me, Evan." I take a breath. "Can I buy you a coffee?"

There's a twinkle in those gorgeous eyes. "This time of night? Maybe you don't sleep on your mission to save the world, but I'm just a mortal."

I cock my head at him, returning his easy smile. "Then what?"

Evan steps back a bit, shifting his weight away from me. "How about this club down the street?"

"I'm not much of a dancer, even without a concussion," I warn him, even though I love the idea of doing something so spontaneous.

"Me either," he promises. He nods down the street. "I get free admission."

"Do you?" I ask we head in that direction.

"Yeah. I play there sometimes," he says humbly.

"That's awesome. Even though you don't belong in a club. You belong in a stadium," I tell him.

"Thanks, Audrey. That... that means a lot to me," he says. He shrugs his backpack a bit. "So... what's your story?"

I shrug. "Moved here from a small town south of Eugene. I'm attending PSU."

"Not near Roseburg, is it?" he asks.

I look over at him, stunned. "It is Roseburg."

Impossibility lights up his features. "I'm from Glide."