Perspective: Hers | Tone: Awkward/comedic | Setting: Piano store | Twists: She’s the employee; they’re neighbors

New to Mckenna Meet-Cutes? Visit here for an explanation.

---

“Everything’s fine, Momma. Really,” I say into my phone. I kneel on the floor of the piano storeroom and locate the shop’s last Kawai CX202 electric piano box resting along the bottom shelf of the industrial steel shelving. It’s large and dusty, with black letters printed on its thick cardboard. Rows of identical boxes stretch to my left and right. They’re lit by fluorescent bulbs so bright they practically illuminate my X-ray on the cement beneath me.

I sandwich my phone between my shoulder and ear, glass imprinting cracked patterns on my jaw. “The doctor—” I grunt, heaving the box off the shelf, “—said the hearing loss was mild, and mild is good. The best salsa is mild.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about this.” My mom’s voice is strained, though that isn’t new. Tired parents were the staple of my childhood, the consequence of long, underpaid elementary-teacher workdays and my younger brother’s unending medical bills. “If your clients found out—”

“They won’t,” I promise, righting the Kawai box. At full height, it stands taller than my collarbone. “It’ll be years before this has a serious impact on my tuning. And even then, only a trained ear would notice.”

“How many of your clients have trained ears?”

Most, I swallow back. Oh, the irony. All those grueling hours training and tuning, building my reputation as the county’s best piano technician—who knew it would come back to bite me? 

I collect the furniture dolly from beside the back door with the wire-mesh window. “It’ll be fine, Momma,” I insist. “I can still repair pianos. And I’ve got this job at the Piano Depot. I’ll always have work.”

Her anxiety crowds the line. “Ash,” she mumbles, “We can’t afford these bills without your tuning money.”

A chord strikes inside me: guilt, stress, exhaustion. I shut my eyes. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” I say, quieter. I set the dolly beside the Kawai and rock the box little by little onto the platform. I try to lighten the mood. “Worry about avocado prices. I mean, a dollar a’cado? It’s straight criminal.”

“You don’t eat avocados,” Mom answers wearily.

“Well, I eat guacochips. Occasionally.”

She ignores this. “Oh,” she says. “Mr. Jolla was asking after you. His piano needs a string replacement. I told him you could swing by this week and take a look.”

A knot tangles in my chest. “Momma… he lives two hours away.”

“I know. I thought you could come on your day off. Is that a problem? You travel all over the place for your tuning clients.”

Not if the commute is four hours, I think. One tuning or repair appointment could take anywhere from forty-five minutes to three hours, plus travel. Between my part-time employment at the Piano Depot and my upwards of fifteen appointments per week, leisure time had grown far and few between. I guard my day off like a dragon protects her treasure: fiery, unyielding.

That’s a lie, actually—I’m a chronic people-pleaser, and I bend easier than a piece of yarn.

“Sure,” I croak. “Tell him I’ll swing by Sunday morning.”

“Thanks, Ash,” Mom says. “While you’re in town, why don’t you stop by for lunch? I’ll make wings.”

“Ok.” I start wheeling the Kawai out of the storeroom. “Sorry, Momma, gotta go. Say hi to the boys for me.”

“Love you, Ash,” she replies. “Thank you. We couldn’t do this without you.”

The knot in my chest tightens. “Yeah. Love you,” I say, and the call ends. 

I tuck my phone into the thigh pocket of my cargo jeans and spin my dolly around, backing out the door and into the storefront. Pianos line the room: grands and baby-grands, uprights and electrics, all in black, brown, burgundy, and white. Gray chevron carpet stretches to a wall of windows. Outside, the sky is sunny, and the trees are monsoon-and-late-summer green, a view only somewhat marred by the adjacent Pépé’s billboard featuring a slice of pepperoni pizza dripping rivulets of cheesy grease. It’s revolting, and I have an odd craving for guacochips.

The storeroom door swings shut with a clap. I grin and wave at the middle-aged couple by the front counter. “Found it!” I call, knocking on the cardboard and wheeling their direction. “I knew we had one more in the back—”

Someone swears. The voice is bass and directly beside me. I whirl and see him—the man whose toes I just bulldozed under my heavy-laden dolly wheel. He hops backward, face tight, favoring his left Oxford shoe.

I flush. I’m pale and 1/64th Irish, so when I say flush, I really mean metamorphose into Clifford the Big Red Dog. It’s the type of transformation that causes its own embarrassment. A vicious, unending cycle.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” I blurt, setting the dolly down (clear from his shoes). “I one-thousand percent didn’t see you, which is so unprofessional, I know. I mean, what idiot drives dollies distracted?” I chuckle nervously. “Are you ok? Did I murder your toes?”

The man shoots me a dark look and runs his hands down his tieless, collared button-down. He stomps his injured foot twice, similar to how I rid my legs of post-toilet pins and needles. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear, half hidden in his wig of chocolate curls. The curls are thick. I worry he’ll lose his pen in the jungle.

“Watch where you’re walking, maybe?” he suggests. Which is funny, because I could say the same thing.

“Yes, sorry, you’re right,” I say instead. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was in.” This is true. Shop traffic had been slow today. I’d been alone with the Kawai couple for nearly an hour before slipping into the storeroom.

“Well, I am,” he replies. A Superman curl dangles on his forehead. I want to reach out and tug on it, see if it’s real.

“Sorry,” I repeat.

“Yes, fine,” he says. “Look, you work here, right? I need a piano.”

I smile crookedly. “Really? Most people come for the turtle exhibit.”

He looks at me blankly.

“Joke,” I say. “I’m joking.” I grip my dolly, recline it thirty degrees. “I’ll be right with you. I just need to check out my customers over here.”

His brow furrows, eyes swooping over me: loose cargo pants, black tee, utilitarian ponytail. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he says. “Where’s the salesman? Can you send him over?”

“Salesman?” I say.

“Yes. The man who sells the pianos?”

I feel a twinge of annoyance. “It’s me,” I say. “I’m the saleswoman.”

His brow furrows more; he’s surprised. “There’s no one else? Maybe… older?”

Considering he looks my age—late twenties, early thirties maybe—I take this with mild offense. I flash him my cheesiest I’ll pretend you’re not an a-hole smile. “Nope. Just me,” I say. “I’ll be right with you. Feel free to test the pianos while you wait.”

He hums in the back of his throat. I take it as his royal dismissal.

I check out Kawai couple, chatting lightly, but my mood has soured. My gaze keeps drifting to Dolly Man, who soon leaves the vicinity of the storeroom door and stands sentinel beside a Yamaha keyboard. He treats it like the black plague, scratching at C4 with the tip of his pinky nail, and a part of me (fine, most of me) hopes he’ll deem it unsanitary and leave. But alas, as the Kawai couple departs, he remains.

I take a breath and walk to him. The truth is, I need every commission. So, as prejudiced and insufferable as Dolly Man may be, I’m going to grin and bear it. I’ll do more than that, actually—I’ll be his best mate. We’ll crack jokes, share traumas, laugh, and maybe cry a little. He’ll buy a piano. Then, God willing, I’ll never set eyes on him again.

I round the plague keyboard. “Hi,” I say, and extend my hand. “I’m Ashlyn.”

He looks at my hand the way I imagine the devil looks at Communion. He takes it, shakes once. “Christopher.”

I step back. “Sorry for the wait. And the dolly thing,” I say, and fall back on company sales lines. “Thanks for choosing the Piano Depot. What are we looking for today?”

Christopher straightens. “I need a baby grand,” he says. “Something with a brighter tone, Yamaha or Steinway, with a Sitka soundboard. New or pre-owned for less than five years. The action and pin block need to be hard rock maple.”

I blink. The typical response to this question is something along the lines of not sure or just browsing. This guy is clearly educated and a professional. Of all the customers to bulldoze, I bemoan. “Tall order,” I say. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I’d prefer the piano in black, if you have it.”

“I’d prefer my piano did my taxes, too,” I joke.

He’s unamused. “Is black a problem?”

My smile wavers. I clear my throat. “No. What’s your budget?”

Christopher unfolds a document from his slack pocket and hands it to me. It’s an insurance claim—catastrophic loss, the paper reads, followed by a piano’s five-digit insured value. It’s a lot of money.

“Catastrophic loss?” I ask. “What happened to your poor piano? Jumped off the balcony?”

I’m hoping for a lip twitch, a chuckle, anything to prove he isn’t a humorless slab of marble. Instead, he levels his (disarmingly vibrant blue) eyes on me and says, “Yes.”

I lower the paper and stare. He’s serious. “Your piano jumped off the balcony?”

“Fell,” he corrects.

I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. No, duh. “How? Earthquake?”

Christopher sighs, rubs his forehead. The Superman curl tousles and falls perfectly back into place. “Movers,” he grumbles. “Piano didn’t fit in the elevator. It’s a long story.”

It did not, in fact, sound like a long story. “Oh. Well, condolences,” I say, and pass back his insurance claim. “We have a few baby grands that match your preferences. No Steinways, sorry. But we do have a pre-owned Bösendorfer, if that interests you.”

He nods. “Show me.”

I take him across the carpet to the piano in question, black with brass-wheeled feet. The lid is propped at full stick, revealing a gleaming cast-iron plate lined with 230 carbon-steel strings. She’s one of my favorites, and I’d be sad to see her go, but she’s long overdue for a new owner.

“Here you are,” I say. “1998 model, shipped from Vienna. She’s had two prior owners, but both kept her in great shape. Wanna give her a go?”

Christopher steps up to the checkerboard keys and performs a smooth and rapid major D scale with his right hand. The notes ring vibrantly through the store, and stop. “Tone’s too dark,” he says. “What else do you have?”

“That’s—really?” I say, taken aback. “She’s not that warm. Maybe play a little longer?”

I have a feeling he won’t, so I step in to show him myself. I play Maple Leaf Rag because it’s bouncy and fun and usually pulls a smile from my stoniest of customers.

Christopher doesn’t smile. In fact, his expression is so flat, it’s borderline homicidal.

I stop playing. “The next one’s over here.”

En route, I switch tactics; humor and ragtime are obviously not the way to Chrissy’s granite heart. “You’re new to town, then?” I ask, recalling his mover’s story. “Where are you coming from?”

“Chicago,” he answers.

A long way from our little Indiana village. “What made you choose Bloomington?”

“I didn’t.”

He doesn’t expound, and I don’t have a follow-up. I feel like taking an aspirin. This whole conversation might be our shared trauma.

I show him the next baby grand: Yamaha, stained wood with silver pedals. Christopher fingers an arpeggio and seems impressed. He sits on the bench and proceeds to play possibly the most complicated sonata I’ve heard in my life. It’s poignant and heartbreaking, layered with staggering chord progressions and sweeping dynamics. It blows my ragtime out of the water and into space. My Irish blush returns; fortunately, he’s too busy solving proverbial rocket science to notice.

He stops abruptly, mid-movement. “No, this won’t work.”

This time, I don’t try to change his mind. I take him to the next instrument.

“Where did you learn to play?” I ask as we reach it. “You’re really good.” Absurdly good.

“Practice,” he replies dryly.

“Are you a concert pianist? Accompanist?”

Christopher rubs an off-color replacement key and doesn’t answer.

I try to remember if he gave me a last name, and if I know of any visiting performers. “You’re not a concert pianist,” I realize. “They don’t need to bring their pianos on tour. But you really are incredible. What do you do? It’s got to be in music, I can’t imagine—”

“Look,” he interrupts, “Can we skip this? I’m not in the mood for the whole salesman yak. How about you just point out the pianos that meet my requirements, and I’ll come to you when I find something. If I find something,” he mutters. “Ok, Anna Banana?”

Icy silence.

I press my lips together. “It’s Ashlyn,” I say. Then I point out the pianos, because I (unlike some), possess tact.

Best mates my ass, I think as I walk away. Where’s that aspirin?

I find the microfiber duster and take out my frustration on the electric keyboards. I’ve worked in this business for ten years and dealt with my fair share of entitled customers—many worse than this. But for whatever reason, Christopher is wedging himself under my skin like a cheese grater.

It might just be me, I think. Today had certainly been long: the audiologist appointment, my hearing loss, the strained call with mom…

Behind me, another sonata begins, singing perfection from every vexing note. I throw a glare at his back. Nah, it’s him, I decide. Him and that pretty face. I mean, seriously—the curly hair? Blue eyes? Symmetrical symmetry? It’s criminal. Pretty assholes are a waste of good genetics.

I’m dusting a Casio keyboard seven minutes later when Christopher returns to me. “I’ll take the Bösendorfer,” he says.

Though it physically pains me, I suppress my sarcasm. “Great,” I say, tossing my fiber cloth over the Casio music desk. “If she ever sounds too dark, you can always give Maple Leaf Rag a go.”

(Ok, maybe not all the sarcasm.)

He doesn’t seem to be listening. “How soon can I transport it home? This afternoon?”

“Why the rush?”

“That’s not really your business,” he says, then tells me anyway. “I start lecturing at the university on Monday. The first couple of weeks are always hell. I won’t have time to deal with a piano delivery.”

The piece clicks. “You’re a professor?”

“Assistant.” He spits the word like it’s acid. I (very briefly) wonder about the job he’s left, and why he’s accepted a position he hates.

I head to the checkout counter, eager to be rid of him. “This afternoon should work fine,” I say over my shoulder. “You’ll need to schedule your own movers, though.”

“That’s not a problem.”

I nod. “Then I just need your handwriting on some paperwork.”

I print the documents: warranties, condition reports, financing doodahs. Christopher skims them with hawk eyes, but nothing alarms him.

He turns a page. “I assume that with purchase, you offer a discounted service plan for piano tuning and repair,” he says.

I hate you. “That’s right,” I answer, evasive.

He takes the pen from his jungle ear and signs the bottom line, jagged and sharp. “I’ll opt in,” he says. “Give me your technician’s contact info. I want the piano appraised as soon as possible.”

“What,” I semi-joke, “You don’t trust our in-house technician?”

He glances at me. The humor, per usual, is lost to him.

“It’s me,” I explain. “I’m the technician.”

He squints. “The in-house technician? Or the private tech?”

“Both.” My smile is joyless.

Christopher pulls a face identical to the grimace he made when I—mistakenly—didn’t break his toes. “Of course you are,” he mutters. “When are you next available?”

Not for ages, thank God, I think. I’ll need three weeks (minimum) to recover from this fifteen-minute purgatory. “I’ll have to check,” I say. “I’m pretty booked. Unless I get a cancellation, it might be a month or so before—”

“I’ll pay double if you make time this week,” he says. “I need my tuning and appraisal completed before the semester starts.”

“—I can definitely make time,” I finish. “Yes. Yup. I can come by in the evening, after seven. Thursday.”

“Great. Give me your number.”

I fish a sticky note from the counter drawer and jot down the digits. He takes it without acknowledgement.

I prep another sticky note. “What’s your address?”

“444 East Gordon Lane,” he says. “Apartment 204.”

My pen lurches on the paper, leaving a thick, blunt mark. “W-what?”

Christopher repeats the address. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change.

I close my eyes and swear.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

This, I think, is my new hell. “You just moved there?”

“Yesterday.”

But I have to be sure. “Your apartment,” I ask, “Is the bathroom doorknob different from the others—silver instead of gold? And is the guest room a hideous shade of green, like algae?”

Christopher hesitates. His eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

Resignation settles in my gut. “I’m 203.”

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t hear, or doesn’t understand.

“We’re neighbors,” I rephrase.

Christopher stares at me, processing this. The realization—the nightmare—possesses him like the ghost of his dead piano.

He draws out his exhale. “Of course you are,” he grumbles.

---

What did you think? Would this meet-cute inspire you to keep reading? Where do you envision Ash and Christopher’s romance going from here?

If you have suggestions for future Mckenna Meet-Cutes, please leave them in the comments; I’m looking to expand my setting and twist lists. If you’re curious about the behind-the-scenes of this meet-cute, along with my personal thoughts on how this story would unfold, check out this post.