Andy glared. “Thanks, but no thanks. The last time I went out with you two I ran into that weirdo from the Irony and Wine bar. A night at home with Netflix and a bath sounds far more relaxing. Thank you, thank you, thank you for attending my meeting, though. Be awake and not hung-over by eleven, please!”
Lacy returned the glare, but Andy was right. The strangest people hung out at the coolest bars, and the Iron and Wine guy, or Eeyore, as Andy called him, had developed a fascination with the older Dawson sister. He was a recovering alcoholic who dropped trou after a single Jäger shot. It was weird.
Also, Andy and Kat were hard to bear when they got together. Kat got all cable show about wedding ideas, and Andy liked it. Maybe even loved it. It disgusted Lacy. Weddings should be reflections of the couple. So why all the hassle? Andy and Blake were Type A workaholics. They should have a courthouse ceremony followed by a formal sushi dinner and something fancy, like—port. Ob. Vi. Us. Weddings were overdone.
The doorbell rang, and Lacy was so grateful to stop the holy matrimony talk that she almost jumped into Kat’s hippie-reeking arms.
“Hey, let’s go!” she yelped. She blew a kiss to her sister and off they went.
Chapter Three
An hour later, and Lacy was actually really happy she’d gone. Folx still hadn’t responded to her message—she’d checked her phone several times—but, as she’d hoped, the music had eased her anxiety. This band was phenomenal. They had the folky sound of Mumford & Sons but the symphonic composition of Bastille. It was fresh and traditional at once. Lacy was entranced.
“Where did you hear about these guys?” she yelled in Kat’s ear.
“I screwed the drummer!” Kat screamed back, through neon orange lips.
Dear God. I did not miss the single life. Lacy mimed getting a refill on her drink, and headed toward the back bar.
“G and T,” she told the bartender, who seemed like a normal guy. It was a relief these days to find one who was clean-shaven. The last bar she’d played at, mustachioed patrons could actually order drinks in glasses with guards to keep their facial hair from getting damp. At that point, she thought that hipster bars had either jumped the shark … or she was too old. As Lacy had only just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday, she hoped it was the former.
When her drink came sans any accoutrement but a lime wedge, she relaxed. Good music, good drinks. If Darrin and Andy were here, she might be having A Best Day Ever.
That was something Lance had taught her. Calling any one particular day your favorite was silly. There were a ton of tiny moments that added up to a great day, if you paid attention. Probably once a month you could find enough moments in a day to call it A Best Day Ever. Not The. But A. That made it possible to have them more often.
Lance had always been an optimist. Or at least he’d done a good job of pretending he was. It was the one thing she’d tried, on her grief counselor’s suggestion, since his death. Lacy tried to honor him by having at least one great day per month. Most days she faked it, pretending to find joy in a BLT and a new Neil Gaiman book when all she really saw was the jarring absence of the one person she wanted to read aloud to over lunch. Sometimes, though, it actually worked.
This band, for example. She really meant it tonight. Their sound was new and fresh and very soothing at the same time.
“Aren’t they totes amaze?” Lacy jumped when Kat’s familiar shrill voice pierced her right ear. “Let’s do shots.”
Lacy considered. She wouldn’t mind hanging out longer for the music, but she’d promised Andy she’d come home soon and sober. “Actually, I’ve got an appointment pretty early. I should probably go.” Plus, even though Folx hadn’t responded yet, she knew he would any minute, and she wanted to be able to talk to him freely. “Thanks for the offer, though. And for showing me this band. What are they called?”
“The Blue Hills! Just one shot? Come on. You never wanna have any fun.” The other girl pouted.
“I really shouldn’t.” She stood up to leave.
Onstage the song finished and immediately launched into something else. Something somber and emotional that made Lacy look back at the stage. Then the lead singer began the verse, and the timbre of his voice drew her in. It was tortured and raw. Honest. But it was the lyrics that caught her up entirely, forcing her to sit back down and listen.
Flying out of Boston
December in mid-morning
Watching the world disappear below me
As I leave
Flying into background
In the air, an incomplete
The sun is rising right behind me
As I go
And so I journey from this place
Creating one more space
Leaving this galaxy for a new one
Hoping to find harmony
God, they hit home. From the haunting melody and arrangement of the words against the background instruments, it was obvious the song was a metaphor. It wasn’t really about a flight but about someone feeling her whole life changing, her whole existence fading away below as she is jetted into a new state of being. A new journey. A new galaxy. She loved the dual meaning in some of the lines. Mid-morning, for example, also could mean mid-mourning.
It felt like a song that had been written about her. It was the mark of a truly exceptional lyric—capturing a universal emotion so adeptly that everyone could relate. This band wasn’t just good. They were really good.
She studied the lead singer. He was enchanting with blond hair that had probably been highlighted, styled forward and up, à la James Dean. His face was scruffy, like all the alternative folk male musicians these days, and his deep-set blue eyes were wildly expressive. Yeah. He was hot. Rumpled in all the right ways. His pants were a little tight for her taste, but they still did the job of putting her hormones in overdrive.
Whoa. That was new. She hadn’t been attracted to a man in … well, since Lance. Maybe it was time she thought about getting back out there.
Or maybe this guy just knew how to play to the women.
She continued to watch him, and when his gaze circled the audience, it landed on her and he winked. It startled her, but she gave him a half smile and looked away, not sure she was ready to give him the wrong impression.
And that’s when she saw the musician playing the banjo.
Her mouth felt dry, and she was suddenly aware of every breath that entered and left her lungs. He was different than the lead singer. Just as eye-catching, but not as enigmatic. He was easier to look at, somehow. Softer. More real. His hands danced over his instrument, and the intent expression on his face conveyed his total love for what he was doing. While the lead singer was giving a performance, this guy was playing for himself. And in a way, it made for a more interesting show.
Now that she’d discovered him, in fact, she found her attention stayed on him nearly as much as the lead. Both of them were incredibly attractive, but unlike the singer, the banjo player was more cute than hot. He had that artsy look going on—dark disheveled hair, dimples visible even beneath his closely trimmed goatee, and penetrating brown eyes.
Oh, shit. She’d thought the word “penetrating” just as he looked up from his fingerpicking. Now she was thinking about penetration. And his fingers. She was certain her face gave away her inappropriate thoughts, but his eyes locked with hers and she couldn’t look away, no matter what he saw. A shiver rippled down her spine at the intensity in his gaze. It was more than simply reading the lust on her face. It was like he was looking right into her mind. Into her soul. Like he was seeing something in her that she’d been certain didn’t exist anymore.
It was unnerving and strangely intimate. It stirred her. Made her feel … things.
She shook her head, forcing herself to look away. She wasn’t ready for an onslaught of emotion. She was just getting used to being numb.
It was definitely past time to go.
In front of her was a shot Kat had slipped over, despite the refusal. Lacy s
tared at it. If she took that, another would follow, and next thing she’d be trying to pick up one of the sexy men onstage. Not a good plan, even if she didn’t have the wedding thing in the morning. She caught the eye of another girl sitting nearby and nodded to the small glass of dark liquid. “Cheers.” The girl grinned her thanks and grabbed it.
“Good night, Kat.” Lacy grabbed her purse and tossed a few bills on the bar. “See you at work Monday.”
“Night, Anti-fun!”
Lacy rolled her eyes as she stood to leave. On her way toward the door, she threw one last glance over at the band. The singer was on his knees with the mike like he’d been practicing in front of a mirror. But the banjo player was still staring at her, with his dimpled half smile. She turned away quickly, before she started having capital-E emotions again.
Anti-fun. That wasn’t what she was. Anti-feel, was more like it. God, she used to be so different. She had been the girl who loved to sit around getting wasted in a bar with a coworker, hitting on delicious, talented musicians.
But now she didn’t know how to flirt without crying, how to talk without depressing people. Didn’t know how to engage or relate or connect. So she’d simply stopped trying.
Now her career was number one on her priority list. It was much easier to deal with than people, and it needed her since it had hit a devastating standstill. Any moment she could spare was devoted to getting her dream back on track and, except for participating in a handful of support groups, with as little social interaction as possible.
At home, Lacy sank into her desk chair and opened her Internet browser. The SoWriAn site was her startup page. Song Writers Anonymous. Her favorite support group. Her home. Her family. The only people she could really talk to because they didn’t know what she had been through. They knew only what she told them. They didn’t talk to her with pitying consolation. It was refreshing and exactly what she’d needed.
She’d stumbled upon the site accidentally in the wake of Lance’s death, seeking a less traditional outlet to grieve. It wasn’t that Lacy was anti-therapy. She’d even gone to that grief counselor a few times. No, it was that she’d been taught by the great masters since she was small: Joplin, Plath, Beethoven, Cobain, Poe, Winehouse. They didn’t sit on a couch and talk about their struggles. They put them into their music, and she related to that. Music got her through everything.
She didn’t plan to follow any of them into an early grave. Really, she didn’t. But all of them produced their best works when they were at their worst. So she planned to follow suit, to channel the—“heartbreak” was such a tiny word to describe the yawning emptiness in her life. But she wanted to channel the heartbreak, as it were, to turn it into a masterwork that would now and forever pay tribute to the love that she and her fiancé had shared.
She didn’t want the rawness of her loss to leave her until she’d wrung every last drop out of it, made it not worth it—nothing could ever be worth it—but worthy, and hopefully healing as well.
The competing emotions in her brain left tracers of songs she could write. The desolation, confusion, loneliness, and if she were honest, anger, had all the makings of beautiful music. Yes, all the pieces were there.
If only she could access them …
She scrolled through a couple of message boards. One of her favorites was called SadCore, and she found it perversely hilarious. Songwriters posted links to news stories about people who died the night before their wedding, to disaster videos, to articles about the homeless. The idea was that it was a place people could come if they were too upbeat to write a “real” song. A few doses of depression later they’d presumably wander off to write something sad—and saleable.
It was perverse because she’d lived through the horror of finding her fiancé’s lifeless body, and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It was hilarious because she completely understood the creative impulse.
Maybe she did need therapy.
The other board she tended to lurk around on was far more straightforward, Write or Die. If that were an actual option, Lacy was certain she’d fall into the wrong category. But it did sum up how she felt about music in general.
Ping. A private message came through. Finally! She tried to suppress the thrill that ran through her. It was the ping she’d been waiting for all night. She flushed as she took in the message.
Hey, you. Just got your message. What’s up?
FolxNotDead27. Her online bestie.
Screw that, calling it an online friendship cheapened it. Folx and Lacy, or LoveCoda as she was known on the boards, were real friends. Real friends in a false environment. There was probably a song in there, too.
Hey, yourself. Did you have band stuff? Now that she had him online, she didn’t want to rush to her drama. She enjoyed the easy banter too much. There wasn’t anything she looked forward to more each day than their nightly conversations.
It was logical that Lacy had formed such a tight bond with a fellow musician, especially one as talented as this one. She’d read his words and tabs and given feedback on a number of them. Each one was better than the last, simple lyrics underscoring complex emotional stories. It was natural she’d enjoy talking to him. Natural for her to crush on his words.
What wasn’t natural, not even a little, was the rush she got when they were messaging.
Yeah. Getting ready for tour. But you’re avoiding the topic. What’s going on?
Not natural at all, considering she didn’t know his name, or what he looked like, or whether or not he chewed with his mouth open.
You’re going on tour?
Here was where things started to get tricky. SoWriAn. An, for “Anonymous.” It was that component of the group that made it so successful, and the moderators enforced it above all. Designed to be a safe space, the forum attempted to eliminate all the hierarchies of fame and power and who-banged-whose-girlfriend by keeping the members identities sheltered. There were supposedly famous people on the site, as well as people on their way to being famous, and those hoping they were on their way. Complete privacy was a necessity. Personal details not allowed. To even join the boards, musicians were required to sign a legal disclaimer agreeing not to share or request personal information in order to prevent lawsuits and slander as well as petty jealousies and gossip. Writers helping writers—that was all the forum allowed.
So FolxNotDead27 knew LoveCoda worked a full-time day job and that she was in the industry, but nothing more. Questions like the one she’d asked about his tour, genuine among friends, were also somewhat charged. Even though she was sure they wouldn’t do it often, the moderators could read the PMs if they wanted. And who knew what sort of information exchange they’d consider crossing the line? Those decisions were made completely at their discretion.
Stop dodging. Tell me your news, Love!
Of everyone she knew, this was the only person she wanted to talk to about the studio session. The only one who would understand, so even though it was delving into the area of “not anonymous,” she plunged in. The recording session I had booked for January got bumped up due to a cancellation.
What?! That’s fabulous! This was the intended beauty of the forum. Shared celebration of successes was exactly the sort of thing the founders had hoped for.
This, however, was not what Lacy would call a success.
How can you say that? Think I can get away with doing an album of American Standards? You know I have nothing to record.
He was the only one who knew that, actually.
And this was why the anonymity factor had drawn Lacy to the forum in the first place. Only here, where she wouldn’t be judged or pitied or encouraged to start taking an anti-depressant, could she admit her big secret. Could admit that, since Lance’s death, she’d been blocked. More than blocked—she’d been paralyzed.
Every single morning since The Worst Day Ever (this one was an absolute, not a category), she’d picked up her favorite beat-up guitar, the one she’d named Lucky when she was fifteen an
d considered it to be. Lucky and Lacy had sat on the window seat overlooking Tremont Street and strummed and waited for the words to come, the words that would unlock the pain she carried inside. Every day she somehow lived while her love did not, the words dried up in her throat, becoming a knotted tangle of unrealized lyrics that grew until she set the guitar aside, gasping for air.
I won’t let you do that. What kind of timeframe are we looking at?
This, this was exactly why she felt such an intense bond with this faceless man on the other side of the screen. He cared, enough to reach out a hand to her. Again. And again. It seemed like every time she’d lost it this year, wondering if she’d ever write again, or if her career was over before it began, he’d been there to pull her back up.
Her hands were sweaty as she typed. Ten weeks.
Easy. We got this.
We do? She loved how he attached himself to her problem with his “we.” It gave her comfort, misguided as it was.
Yeah, we do. We just have to change our tactics. We were waiting for your block to disappear on its own. Now we’ll have to be more aggressive with our approach to break through.
More aggressive. As if she hadn’t already tried with every ounce of her being. Folx was well aware of her attempts. He wasn’t trying to belittle her situation—she knew that. He was being supportive. It didn’t change the truth, though, and she confessed her worst fears now. I’m scared, Folx. What if I’m dry forever? What if inspiration never strikes again?
It will. And I know you’re scared, but we’ll get through this. I’ll make sure of it.
What are you going to do, exactly? She smiled at the monitor, waiting.
Anything it takes.
That night, she fell asleep with those words dancing across the backs of her lids, her soul a little more hopeful as the strains of the Blue Hills beat a soundtrack through her memory in time with her heartbeat.
Chapter Four
“Okay, I should warn you. My wedding planner is kind of terrifying.” Andy glanced over at Lacy from her plastic Charlie seat.
Love Struck Page 2
