The Book of Love

by Lynn Weingarten

  “Oh, trust me,” said Gil. “That is the very last thing that would ever happen.” Gil slipped her arm through Lucy’s again. “Good luck with the guy, by the way. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  Vicky stared wide-eyed as Gil led Lucy away.

  “What was that about?” Lucy whispered. “What did you put in your ear?”

  “A Listen Between the Lines Plug,” Gil whispered back. “Turns down the volume on what doesn’t matter, turns up what does. And it turns out our new buddy Vicky over there thought she was going to run off with the guy from Monster Hands and . . .” Gil stopped. “Lucy, LOOK.”

  Without another word, Gil pulled Lucy toward the jam tent, and as they got closer, Lucy realized someone she recognized was standing outside. She’d last seen his face in a puff of smoke. And before that, in a million ads for his album. Standing right there, talking on the phone, was Beacon Drew. Gil pulled Lucy forward. Her stomach tightened.

  “Shouldn’t we go get Liza?”

  Gil shook her head. “By the time she gets here, he could be gone. And she doesn’t have a bracelet. Besides, look. . . .” Gil motioned to two girls approaching from fifty feet away, surrounded by the Heartbreaker glow. “Magic or no, when a moment presents itself, you grab it and you hang the hell on.” Gil smiled, but there was something fierce in her eyes.

  She started toward the tent again. Lucy followed. An enormous mountain of man stood in front of the tent flap, blocking their way.

  “Bracelet, girly,” said Mountain.

  “Oh, sorry, of course.” Gil pointed to hers and then moved like she was about to enter.

  Lucy glanced to the side. Beacon was still on the phone.

  “No,” Mountain said. He held up his laser scanner like a gun. “I need to scan it.” And he held up his scanner gun like he was getting ready to shoot. Gil glanced at Lucy and shrugged. She held out her wrist, and Mountain flashed a red line of light across the band.

  Then he gazed in the back of the scanner and shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Deruth, but I believe you’re already right over there enjoying our delicious selection of microbrews.” He pulled back the curtain and pointed toward a short round man draped in gold chains, drinking a beer.

  “Oh, oops,” Gil said. “We must have gotten the wrong bracelets or something.” She smiled.

  Mountain leaned down and lowered his voice to a soft growl.

  “Listen, groupie, if you belonged inside, I’d recognize you. I don’t know how you got those,” he said, “but it’s time for you to move along.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Gil smiled again. “My friend is a performer. So I’m sure there is some mistake. . . .” As she spoke, Gil reached into her purse.

  Mountain stood back up and crossed his arms. “The only mistake here is the mistake you’re making in not getting out of my sight before I stop feeling so generous and get you kicked out of the damn festival.”

  Lucy felt herself blush and her heart began to pound. Beacon was off the phone now, and he was walking toward them. If Gil was going to do anything, she was going to have to do it damn fast because five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

  “Gil,” Lucy whispered.

  But it was too late. There he was, Beacon Drew, beautiful and cocky in a brown leather jacket. “Hey, Steve.” He patted Mountain on the back. “What’s going on over here?”

  “Just a couple of groupies trying to sneak in, Mr. Drew—don’t worry, I’ve taken care of it.”

  “Groupies, you say.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “I love me some groupies.” He turned. “It’s cool, I’ve got this, man.” And with a final irritated glance at Lucy and Gil, Mountain Steve backed inside.

  “So, groupies,” Beacon said. He crossed his arms. “Who are you here to groupie for?”

  “No one,” Gil said. “Lucy’s a singer. She’s singing in the New Voices tent tomorrow.”

  “Oh, is she?” Beacon raised an eyebrow. “So . . .” He faced Lucy. “Sing something, then.” It sounded like a challenge. He leaned back, waiting for her to begin.

  “Right now?” said Lucy. Her voice cracked.

  “Well, you could sing two minutes from now instead, but I won’t still be standing here. . . .”

  Lucy’s throat was so tight. It was one thing to sing in front of a bunch of friends at Pete’s. But this . . . this was an entirely different thing. She looked at Gil, who was nodding. Gil mouthed, Go. But Lucy couldn’t make any sound come out.

  “So is this supposed to be some kind of avant-garde silent singing thing?” Beacon smirked. “I don’t know if the SoundWave crowd is evolved enough to appreciate it.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Gil stick her hand in her bag again, and when she took it out, the tip of one finger was covered in red powder. She popped her finger in her mouth, took it back out, clean, and then she leaned in toward Lucy. Very quietly she hummed a few notes, then blew a stream of cinnamon-scented air between her pursed lips. Lucy felt it curling up her nose. “Sing, Lu,” Gil said. And then, without thinking about it, Lucy opened her mouth and a song came out.

  If you’d give me one chance

  To show you my love, baby

  It was some silly pop song that played constantly on the radio—they’d even heard it on the way there. The original version was fast and dance-y, made for being blasted at some cheesy club.

  I’d give you a chance

  To dance into my heart

  But Lucy slowed it way down and amped up the rasp in her voice.

  I said, dance, dance, dance right into my heaaaart

  She closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else.

  That’s where you belong, girl.

  She finished on a high note.

  Beacon did a slow clap. “Pretty big balls you got there, kid.” He smirked.

  “Sorry?” said Lucy.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Takes some rather mighty testicles, your singing that song to me. I’m impressed you fit them into that tiny skirt.”

  Lucy felt her face grow hot. She had obviously failed his coolness test with that stupid song. She hadn’t even meant to sing it, really. It was like it had just wanted to come out of her mouth, and so it did. Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know why I sang that. I think it was playing in the car on the way here or something.” She stared down at her boots.

  Gil was nodding. “Yeah, isn’t that the song you said sounded like it was written by a crappy songwriting robot? Like it had no soul at all?”

  Lucy stared at Gil. She actually hadn’t said that, or anything like it. What was Gil doing? “Um,” Lucy said. “Maybe?”

  Gil looked Beacon right in the eye. “Oh, no, wait,” she said, tipping her head to the side. “It was me who said that.”

  And all at once, Lucy realized something terrible: He hadn’t called her ballsy because the song wasn’t cool—he’d called her ballsy because this was his song.

  “Is that right, girly?” Beacon wasn’t looking at Lucy anymore. “That’s a new one. Eight Track called it a ‘horrible parasitic ear-worm that will possibly eat your brain.’”

  “Aw,” said Gil. She reached out and put her hand on Beacon’s arm. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  What was Gil doing? Lucy had to stop her!

  “Gil,” Lucy leaned in. “That’s his . . .” But before Lucy could say anything else, Beacon opened his mouth and closed his eyes, and this great big laugh was rolling right out of him. For a moment, watching him laugh, Lucy understood exactly why it was that he was famous. It wasn’t just his looks or his music, not really anyway. It’s that there was something magical about him. It was different than Heartbreaker magic. But still somehow intoxicating. “When my manager first played it for me, I was like, ‘Desmond, this is shit!!’ But he somehow managed to convince me to record it anyway. According to my accountant, it paid for both the beach houses I bought this summer. Which makes it lucrative shit, I guess, but still shitty.”

  “Sor
ry,” Gil said. Her eyes were twinkling.

  Beacon shook his head. “Don’t ever apologize for telling the truth. Even if you’re the only person around that’s doing it.” He paused. “Hey, listen, what are you guys up to later? Because I’m having a little party at my trailer. Starts at midnight, so if you’re not busy . . .” He was staring straight at Gil. “I could use a couple of truth tellers at this thing.”

  Gil smiled. “I think we could probably find time to swing by.”

  Fifteen

  Tent City bloomed after the sun set. Bonfires rose up out of the ground like glowing desert flowers, and guitars and drums and portable speakers appeared from nowhere as if dropped from the sky. All around Lucy and her sisters, people were flirting, mingling, bumping into old friends, and making brand-new ones. A bicycle-powered blender was carried in, and a girl in a belted picnic dress and a skinny guy with a Mohawk took turns pedaling it to blend fruity spiked slushies. Gil made friends with the guy riding the slushie-cycle, who brought them round after round of brightly colored concoctions, most of which disappeared down Liza’s throat. “Are you sure?” Gil said after her third. “Want me to ask for a virgin one next time?”

  “When have I ever wanted a virgin anything?” Liza said. Her voice sounded playful, but she shot Gil a hard look.

  Time passed and the air got cooler. Lucy and her sisters moved off to the side. For a while it was just the four of them, wrapped up in fuzzy sweaters, sipping coffees now, people watching. Midnight was approaching, and the later it got, the harder it was for Lucy to sit still.

  “Check them out.” Liza motioned toward three girls teetering in tall heels and short dresses. One stumbled in the grass, and her two friends caught her by the elbows. “If you can’t walk in them, you don’t deserve to wear ’em,” Liza said, her voice just a little too loud. One of the girls gave Liza the finger. Liza shrugged, then took her flask out of her boot and topped off her coffee.

  “Liza,” Olivia said. There was a warning in her voice. Liza pretended not to notice.

  Lucy looked at her phone. It was 11:22. She stood up. “I’m going to find the bathroom,” she said.

  “Make sure you’re back in half an hour,” Liza said. “Because you can bet your ass we’re not the only Heartbreakers who’ll be there.” She took another long sip of coffee and then upended her flask over the cup.

  Lucy made her way forward in the dark. The truth was, she just needed to walk. In less than an hour they were going to see him again. And then they would find out if this was going to work . . . or wasn’t.

  Lucy started strolling, no real direction in mind. She passed a dark-haired guy in a blue plaid shirt who was watching her walk. When their eyes met, he gave her a shy smile. Lucy smiled back out of habit.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  “Hi,” she said. And she kept walking. She could feel him staring at her as she went.

  Embarrassing as it was to remember, Lucy knew there was a time, back before she met Alex, when this tiny connection would have filled her belly with a sizzle of excitement and she would have spent the rest of her night thinking about that guy, wondering if she should have stopped. But now she felt nothing. She knew how easy it would be to go back if she wanted to. She could talk to him, flirt with him, and make him want her. Even make him love her, eventually. But what would be the point? Half the fun of flirting was the unpredictability, the fact that you didn’t know if it was going to work out. Now she knew it always would. But at the same time, it never could. Not really.

  Lucy took a deep breath and shook her head. Why was she even thinking like this?

  There was music coming from somewhere nearby, something bluesy and rhythmic. She wanted to hear more. She wove her way between tents and lawn chairs, over bodies, until she found a small group sitting around a campfire, their faces lit by its warm glow. As she got closer, she could pick apart the individual threads making that fabric of sound—the guitars, the hands clapping, and the thunk of a drum, and above it all a familiar wail. The curving, bending notes of a harmonica played by someone who knew just what to do.

  Lucy stood there outside the circle looking for the source of that wail.

  And then she found it.

  Tristan?

  There he was, harmonica held to his lips, hands cupped over it, eyes half-closed. The other instruments dropped out one by one, and then it was just Tristan playing a blues riff while a long-haired girl hit a wide flat drum. All around the circle, people were bopping to the beat and cheering along. When Tristan and the girl finally finished, everyone broke into shouts and claps.

  “Damn, kid,” someone said. “You can really play that thing.”

  “Hey, thank you,” said Tristan. “Your fingerpicking is pretty unreal.”

  The short-haired girl to Tristan’s right whispered something in his ear, and he laughed, then stood up. “All right, I’m grabbing drinks,” he said. “Anyone want?” And he pointed to the people in the circle. “Beer, lemonade, water, beer, beer, soda, and a marshmallow.” One by one the heads nodded and Tristan started walking toward the big blue cooler right next to Lucy.

  Lucy was struck with the odd feeling that what she needed to do was to turn, and to run, that he shouldn’t see her there just now. But it was too late, because there he was standing right in front of her, taking in her new hair, her makeup, her outfit.

  “Hey, lady.” Tristan put his hands in the pocket of his dark red hoodie and grinned, mock casual. “Do you happen to have a cousin who goes to Van Buren, because you look a lot like someone I know.”

  “Hi!” she said. She felt suddenly embarrassed, like a kid playing dress-up or a poser who’d been caught by the one person she couldn’t fool.

  “You look like a whole other person!” Tristan said.

  Lucy’s face was getting hot. She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I came with Olivia and them. And they decided to go shopping along the way, so . . .” Lucy exhaled. “Anyway, nice harmonica playing.” She felt like she was talking to someone she’d just met. “Who are you here with? How did you get tickets?”

  Tristan turned back to the circle. “Phee!” he called. The short-haired girl looked up. “C’mere for a second?” She stood and started making her way over. The long-haired girl with the drum was watching them.

  “Phee, this is Lucy,” Tristan said. “Lucy, this is Phee.” Phee was small and wiry, with dark hair and olive skin. When she smiled, dimples appeared in both cheeks.

  “I’ve heard a million things about you,” Phee said.

  “Don’t worry,” Tristan said in a mock whisper. “I didn’t tell her about the jewel heist or the secret meth lab.”

  Phee laughed.

  Tristan continued, “Phee’s a musician too. An amazing cello player. You heard her in that song I played for you the other day.”

  Lucy closed her eyes. She could still practically feel that music in her belly. “That was really beautiful,” she said.

  “Pssssh.” Phee shook her head. “Thank you, that’s nice of you to say, but”—she turned to Tristan—“you weren’t supposed to play that for anyone, bud.” Phee punched him in the shoulder. Then she turned back to Lucy. “I’m an okay cello player. Tristan is very generous.”

  “I’m not generous at all!” Tristan said.

  “Well, not when it comes to pancakes, you’re not.” And they both laughed.

  Lucy forced a smile. Her face felt like plastic.

  “And she’s a big ol’ dork too,” Tristan said. “You know how I’ve been trying to get tickets for years but never could, because it’s pretty much impossible?” He turned to Phee. “Tell her how you got the tickets.” Then he turned back to Lucy. “This is nuts.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal. I found out that the ticket sale section of the site actually goes live six seconds before it shows up on the page, so I wrote a little program that would grab tickets as soon as they were technically available and then ran it on three computers so there was no chance of my missing
them.”

  “She is a crazy genius.” Tristan nodded.

  Phee shook her head. “It’s just one of those things that sounds way harder to do than it actually was.” She looked back up at Lucy. “So, Tristan told me you’re a singer? We’re just playing around over here—want to sit in with us?” Phee motioned to the fire, to the half dozen people around it. The girl with the long dark hair and the flat drum was watching them still, staring at Lucy so intently. And then Lucy realized why—the girl had a mark on her chest. A tattoo. Right over her heart.

  “Did you come here with all these people?” Lucy asked.

  “Nah, they just heard Trist playing harmonica while we were walking by and invited us to trade music for marshmallows. They’re homemade ones from a sweet shop where some of them work. And they are amazing.” She slung one arm around Tristan’s shoulder, then held her other hand up next to her mouth and whispered loudly, “He uses me for my tickets, and I use him for his access to treats.”

  “This girl may be an even bigger sugar fiend than I am,” Tristan said.

  Lucy forced a smile, but her stomach twisted.

  The Heartbreaker girl was still watching. She caught Lucy’s eye and smiled a funny little smile. It made Lucy uneasy. All of this was making Lucy uneasy.

  “I should probably get back . . .” Lucy said.

  Someone threw another log on the fire, and the flame flared brighter.

  “Well, if you’re around tomorrow, we’ll be at the New Voices—” Phee started to say.

  “What time is the guy you wanted to hear on at?” Tristan said.

  Phee took a phone out of her pocket. “They just updated the lineup. . . .” She poked at her screen. “Red Rover are playing at four, and I definitely want to see them, and then Jamie & Jamie are right after, and then Karl Black and . . .” Phee looked up. “Wait. Isn’t your last name Wrenn?” She turned toward Tristan. “Did you say her last name was Wrenn or am I completely making that up?”

  Lucy bit her lip. She realized what was happening, and there was no way to stop it.

  “Well, if you’re making it up, then you’re psychic,” said Tristan.