▪️Sunday, November 29th, 2017▪️

▪️Chicago, IL▪️

The index cards from the Rolodex are on the table in front of me. Cards with new names have been added, but the system in place is the one Master Chang's late wife put together in the eighties. It's not what I should be thinking about now, but I wish he would've let me one of the twenty times I've offered to move the staff's and students' contact information into an electronic system.

I get up and walk over to the dry erase board-the biggest technological advancement Master Chang allowed me to implement in the Academy.

"I'll need you to sub on Friday nights, at least while I'm looking for another person to takeover," I say into the phone.

"When is Master Chang getting out of the hospital?" asks Ben.

The cold sweat the news of Master Chang's hospitalization covered me in is gone, but until he's out of the fucking hospital, the best way I can pay back the support Master Chang provided me over the last ten years is to take care of his Academy. He poured his life into this dojang and the people he views as family.

Most of the kids and adults who join become part of the Chang clan. Ben and I certainly did. During the worst years of my life, no matter what I got into, Master Chang was there for me-the father who actually wanted me. This dojang—the home away from home I needed after our move to Chicago.

"When I was leaving, the doctor said three to five days. He's in the coronary care unit, and they're monitoring his heart function closely. His daughter is flying in from Canada tomorrow morning."

"Seems like you have it under control, but I'll pick up as many classes as you need me to," says Ben. "For as long as needed. It will be a good distraction."

We don't talk about Amelie moving to France. He hasn't mentioned her, so I don't ask. It's clear they broke up, but Ben didn't tell me the details, and I'm not going to pry. We don't talk about him shutting down on Friday, either. I'm glad he is back to his usual state because I need his help. Well, Chang's Taekwondo Academy, which we've both attended since middle school, needs Ben's help.

Another call is coming in. I hang up on Ben, hoping it's one of the other instructors calling me back to sub this week and not to curse me out for leaving him a message way after work hours. It's Angie's number I see.

"Angie." My heart processes the information faster than my brain because my neck is a raging furnace, while my arms get a rush of goosebumps. I shake my knee under the desk, waiting to regain the ability to speak. I clear my throat. "I was on the other line with Ben. We have an emergency on our hands."

"Is Ben okay? What's going on?"

"Ben's. . .fine. The owner of the dojang had a heart attack, so I have to make sure the classes can keep going."

"Dojang? What's that?" I hear some shuffling, and a slammed door on her end.

"The Taekwondo Academy I work at?"

"Aren't you a structural engineer?"

"I am. I'm both. Structural engineering is my day job. Taekwondo is a lifelong passion of mine."

"Can't you do Taekwondo full time? Or are you not that good at it? Sorry, I so shouldn't have said that. You don't have to answer. Leave it to me to put my foot into my mouth." Running water interrupts Angie's babble. "Today was so much of everything, and I know I need to go to bed once I'm done cleaning my face. The stage makeup is a lot, and there is no state of tiredness that would prevent me from getting the goop off my face, so I thought I'd call you. Spur of the moment. Are you busy?"

"I'm not busy." I'm way beyond busy but I'd stay here all night dealing with the schedule if I can talk to her first.

"It's okay if you're busy, this doesn't have to be long, but at least tell me if you liked the photos I sent you."

Fuck. I forgot to text her back. With Master Chang's hospitalization, nothing about this evening was normal. I should've answered the moment I got her text, but I was on the phone with his daughter, and then with the hospital again. "They were great."

"Good."

I go to the before-and-after concert selfie and save one of them as my home screen, which I'm not going to tell Angie. She doesn't need to know how fucking pathetic I am when it comes to her. I need to say something else, but my mind is still lagging behind, not offering any original ideas for a conversation. An irrational fear that I'm messing this up, and she'll find an excuse to hang up threatens to override the warmth in my chest from hearing her voice.

"Your text read like you had a great time." I sound like Mom when I came late from my first party junior year of high school. She wanted to know what I did, probably expecting me to lie about drugs and alcohol, while I was too embarrassed to tell her Ben and I skipped the party and took a taxi to the Bruce Lee retrospective I was a lot more interested in.

"I thought when people say they'll remember something for the rest of their lives, they just say it, you know?"

"Yep." I know what she means.

"I'm certain this night is recorded in my long-term memory storage." The clicking noises and rustling of plastic stops. "Only one regret."

"What is it?"

"I was imagining what it'd be like if you were there to share it with me. To see you in the crowd, to wave at you. I've never had anyone I know be part of the audience apart from Am and my parents."

The flush creeps up from my neck, and I must sound like I just finished sparring, because the strangled chuckle I make sounds like I'm short on both breath and common sense. "I would've loved to be there for you."

"I can get you tickets, if you ever want to come, check out a show."

"I'd love to come check out your show." Fuck yes. I'm going to do just that. I'm going to drive or fly or hire a carriage, whatever gets me to her faster.

"I can send you the tour schedule. If you'd like."

"I'd like."

"I'm glad you'd like to."

"I'm very glad you're glad that I'd like to."

"Stop it."

"Bossy. I like that."

"You're supposed to help me get ready for bed, not wake me up."

"I'd be very glad to do that too. What's an appropriate topic of conversation?"

"Tell me something about you, about the dojang, something I don't know yet. Like, is that where those abs and stamina come from? I seriously had no clue a body could have so many muscles."

I laugh out loud. My shoulders lower, and I rub my burning face. This is Angie, and not someone I have to pretend around. The stress of the day recedes as I chuck any delusions of a perfect romantic conversation and talk like I would with Ben. If I want her to like me, I need her to like the tired, everyday Mike too. Nerd and all. "We have about the same number of muscles. The amount of muscle and its definition, however, might be one of the reasons MMA has so many female fans."

"Mixed Martial Arts? Are you like Mike Tyson?"

"No, not like him, no. I'm neither a boxer nor a professional. Although my primary is Taekwondo, I've trained in other styles. Most Martial Artists do."

"Sort of like musicians. So many play multiple instruments or sing and play." Angie's passion for music travels well through the phone. Her enthusiasm doesn't need to be experienced in person to be contagious.

I lean back and rock in the chair, contemplating her point. "I guess if you're good at something, you want to have a more comprehensive view of the subject. Different martial arts for me. Different instruments for you. No singing on my end, but I do an occasional competition or an amateur fight when I have the time."

"A fight?" I can imagine her eyes light up, and I want to be there with her, watching the emotions play across her face. "Can I come to see you fight?"

"Sure?" I pull up the photos she sent me earlier and zoom in on her megawatt smile. "But you're probably imagining something a lot more glamorous. Let me put it this way: none of my matches are on ESPN."

"None of my concerts are on TV either. They might be in the future if I keep it up, but it's progress over perfection, as Paul used to say. Perfection is something I gave up on years ago." She loses some of the sparkle, going into a quieter tone. "I went to two universities for a total of three semesters, but I quit after I started writing songs."

Quitting has never been an option for me. My father quitting on us was a rough and early lesson that taught me real men don't quit. No matter how hard or challenging something is, I promised I will not be a quitter. "You quit? But isn't it better for your career if you have a degree?"

"Depends." Her sigh is longer than I'd like it to be. "Quitting Julliard was inevitable—my crooked fingers, remember?" I do remember: kissing the scars, holding her, wanting her to tell me what happened, yet scared to break our connection with something she might later regret sharing. "They can't belong to a professional pianist. My hand is agile enough to accompany myself, but professional classical piano—it's different. It's like if I were a swimmer with a severely injured arm, I'd be able to swim after it heals, and I wouldn't drown, but I wouldn't ever become a professional swimmer."

"Thanks for the sports analogy."

"Only if you promise not to expect many more." She chuckles. "Paraphrasing a guy I know, I'm a singer-songwriter, not an athlete."

A smile parts my lips. "You write your songs?" I close my eyes and replay the ones she performed, her voice, the way she made me and every other member of the audience feel.

"I do, and that's my favorite part. Also why I quit UChicago. I wanted to do music and not just theorize about it. Breaking into the music business and writing songs felt like the right life for me."

"And your parents were okay with it?" I wouldn't be able to look Mom in the eye if I quit . . . anything. I don't start things I can't finish.

"They dreamed of me graduating. The deal was, if I'm at school, they support me. If I'm out of school, I need to support myself. I quit and moved out. They were sure I'd move back home in a couple of months, couldn't imagine I'd be able to support myself. They saw no stability in it."

"My mom's big into us being able to support ourselves too. I guess all parents are. I'm telling Louka the same thing, but he's set on the film industry. It's hard to imagine something less stable."

"Well, writing music must be even lower on the stability pole."

"You're opening for The Whats. It doesn't seem like you're struggling financially. Sounds like your parents were wrong."

"This time, yes. But my parents had good reasons to be worried about me and my career choice. I got lucky. Many times. If I hadn't met Amelie's dad, none of this would've happened."

"Amelie's dad was your teacher?"

"At first. I signed up for his composition course at UChicago because I felt the music inside me but didn't know how to expel it-to make it live outside my body. He turned my view on being a musician upside down. I'd always been in performer mode, where I was the vessel for the works of others. Because of Paul D'Amico, I found a new lane, a new passion that made me buzz again. I got the bug of a creator." Angie's voice is dreamy and powerful and sweeps me into a vision of a younger her with bright eyes and an even brighter smile. "But enough about me. Back to Taekwondo—am I pronouncing it correctly?"

"Yes. What d'you want to know?"

"How come you love it so much?"

I open my eyes, take a second to move the office chair, and put my legs up on the desk. I get comfortable because this has every sign of a long conversation. I'd rather she was the one talking, but I don't want her to think I don't trust her with my stuff.

"It's gonna sound pompous, but Taekwondo saved my life several times. I think I told you I'm from LA: a spoiled kid of a successful Hollywood screenwriter. When I was six—Louka was born, and I couldn't stand the mewing ball that stole Mom's attention. One day, I was imitating Bruce Lee's moves and kicked her in the shin so hard, she fell over. My father decided Mom couldn't handle me, so he threw money at the problem. He hired a nanny and signed me up for a six-week trial at the nearest martial arts place he could find. I didn't know the difference between Karate, Judo, Taekwondo, Jiujitsu, and neither did he. It turned out to be a Taekwondo dojang. And it came with a free uniform."

Angie giggles. "I can imagine a little Mike in a cute uniform. Sounds like your dad made the right decision."

"I wouldn't give him that much credit. All he probably wanted was to get me out of his hair, but I became obsessed with Taekwondo. My nanny took me there six days a week. I got more focused and less aggressive at school: structure and attention to detail were in abundance at the dojang. The teachers and kids became my family, and I came up with a goal to be a famous martial artist, like my favorite Bruce Lee, and be in the movies Dad spent so much time on." In my six-year-old mind, that was a great way to earn Dad's love.

Angie yawns, and I hear more rustling on her end.

"Am I boring you?" I pretend that it's a joke question, but worry gets hold of me, sending waves of uncertainty into my chest. I shouldn't have told her so much about my childhood. I haven't tried to be interesting to a woman in a long time. Need to remember this is not a therapy session.

"Keep talking. You're a new and exciting album I've read the teaser for and am yet to hear cover to cover." She yawns again. "Tell me more about your dad."

"I don't think it's the best idea." Talking about my father rarely is.

"I want more Mike stories now that I'm in bed. It's too early for my normal bedtime, but the last two days were a bit too much, even for me." She sounds tired.

"How about a good night, then?"

"Fine. But I'm not sleepy." She yawns for the third time and reminds me of Louka when he was overtired as a kid but still wanted to stay and play video games with me. I'd love to wrap my hands around Angie and watch her eyes close, her breaths even out, and her fingers play invisible instruments again as she drifts off to sleep.

"Good night, Angie." How can you miss a person you've known for three days. If anyone would've told me they felt like a part of them they never knew was missing found a way into their life, only to disappear again, I'd tell them not to make a fucking fool out of themselves. To throw that notion out of their head and not even think of saying anything about it out loud. So all I tell Angie is "I miss you."

"I miss you more."

More is exactly what I want from her.