The Break-Up Album

by Lauren Blakely

  To me, Jeremy says, “Enjoy some nice meals out, maybe find a nice boy to take to dinner.”

  I snort at that idea.

  “What?” Jeremy asks. “Is that such a crazy idea?”

  I snort twice to prove my point.

  “You can’t mourn him forever,” Owen says.

  “I’m not in mourning. Anyway, this is a lovely gift, Jeremy. And I will be delighted to eat at Manhattan’s finest.”

  “We can’t have our Grammy winner be seen dining at some dive, right?” He uses his teasing voice. Then shifts to a gruff one. “What’s the story, Black? You made any progress on some new tunes?”

  Gulp.

  Jeremy doesn’t mince words. Not anymore at least. Before the Grammy Awards, he was lighthearted when he’d ask what I was working on. And the fact that he wants another album makes me giddy as all hell, because this is what I’ve wanted my whole life over—to make music. But what if my next album sucks? I love music like it’s air, and I desperately don’t want to be a one-hit wonder.

  “I’ve been toying with some possibilities.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What sort of possibilities?”

  “You know. Songs. Lyrics,” I say evasively. God, where the hell is my Muse? Maybe she’s under my bed hiding. Maybe she’s hanging out in Central Park feeding the ducks. I need to go hunt that bitch down.

  With a sharp-eyed stare, Jeremy holds his hands out wide. “Can we hear some of these songs and lyrics? Because I’m kinda eager”—he stops to hold up his thumb and index finger to show a sliver of space—“for my first Grammy winner and most successful artist ever, who set an indie record, to make another album.”

  “Soon,” I mutter, fidgeting with the zipper on my purse. I know I’m the luckiest person in the world to have a label that wants me to cut another album, but I’m terrified I won’t live up to all these new expectations. And I’m embarrassed that I’m not meeting them. Sure, I’ve been toying around with some tunes. I’ve written two or three so-so songs, but I’ve been so crazy busy the last few months with Crushed and its tour, not to mention being a mom, that I haven’t had a ton of free time to write. And truth be told, those three songs aren’t really wowing me. They just don’t pack the same punch as the songs on Crushed, and I’m not sure why.

  Jeremy sighs heavily. “Black, you know I love you. But we need to strike while the iron is hot. You have momentum. Your name is out there. We want you to do another album soon.” He pauses to stare hard at me. “Very soon. Now that all this excitement is behind you, maybe you can just put on those songwriting blinders and focus, focus, focus.” He bangs his hand on his desk for emphasis.

  My shoulders tighten. Jeremy has given me an amazing opportunity, and yet, I’m staring at a blank canvas with no idea what to paint. “I will absolutely focus. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to do another breakup album,” I say, trying to sound jokey, but the truth is I don’t want to revisit those feelings again in song.

  “Go take a stroll around Manhattan, wander through your old ’hood in the East Village where you wrote Crushed, visit an art museum, watch the tide roll in, read a novel, rock out at a club late at night. Whatever it takes to find some brilliant ideas for songs. Maybe even go on a date. Fall in love. There must be inspiration in that,” Jeremy suggests, as if I can simply go out and do it because he deems it a good idea.

  “Yeah!” Owen shouts, like he’s a football coach. “Let’s get you back in the saddle. Nothing like a new man to get the song ideas going.”

  I shoot my brother an annoyed stare. “Seriously? You think it’s that simple?”

  Jeremy stands up, walks over to me, and pats me on the back. He’s trying to return to his friendly papa-bear routine. “Look, we’re just starting to work with this hipster band Retractable Eyes. I could set you up with the lead singer.”

  I run my hands through my hair, twisting it. “Guys. I’ll figure something out. You don’t have to hook me up with another musician, and you don’t have to worry about pathetic little old dateless me whose ex didn’t even want her, okay?” Then, simply to extract myself from this conversation, I toss them a bone. I need to get them off the scent of my own lack of music. “Beat wants to do a big feature on me.”

  Jeremy practically falls over when I mention Beat. He quickly grabs the edge of his desk, so his chair is now firmly rooted to the floor. “Beat magazine!”

  “What, you got a woodie for Beat?” Owen asks.

  Jeremy’s hyperventilating. “What’s the story about?”

  “The creative process, what’s next, my follow-up,” I say, then instantly want to clamp my hand over my mouth, because those three things are all my musical struggles right now.

  “You’re saying yes,” Jeremy instructs. “You’re doing the interview, and you’re making an album, and I fucking believe in you, and you are going to go shake some songs out of a tree if you have to. Because it’s Beat magazine! Feature stories in Beat don’t come around often. This is going to be huge for launching your next album.”

  “Jeremy,” I say, pushing back. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, you know, given everything with the press these days. It’s not as if I want my whole life to become public. I have a kid, and I want to raise him as normally as possible.”

  Jeremy eases up. “Hey, I know you’re a little gun-shy. And understandably so. But what can it hurt to hear the man out? Let Matthew make his pitch.”

  Owen chimes in. “Take him to Café Cluny, sis. I hear it’s romantic.”

  I roll my eyes at my brother, as Jeremy hands me the receiver to his office line. “Call him now. Set up a time to talk.”

  “Fine.” But I have to admit there’s a part of me that’s secretly glad. Because it means I have a reason to see Matthew. And even though I absolutely, positively won’t let myself feel a thing for him, I wouldn’t mind having dinner with a man who’s so easy on the eyes and so delightful to talk to.

  It’s been far too long since I’ve had that, and I’m a little excited when he says he’s free tonight.

  Okay, a lot.

  Chapter Seven

  Jane

  When I return home I settle into my couch with my acoustic guitar, determined to knock out the beginnings of my next album. I have to show Jeremy, Owen, Matthew, and everyone else that I have it in me to be a real musician, not a one-hit wonder fueled by a high-octane heartbreak. I play around with the three songs I’ve written, but they don’t grab me, so I move onto something new, grateful that Ethan is with his dad tonight so I can focus on music and then dinner.

  Two hours later I have cobbled together a smidgen of a little melody that could turn into a full-blown song with a bit more coaxing. Lyrics will come in time, I tell myself. At least, I hope they will because my heart is starting to beat faster, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement. Maybe it’s both, because I’m scared as hell about meeting my deadline, and I’m more excited than I should be about dinner.

  I put my guitar away in the closet and take a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at my bed, littered with outfits I have tried on and rejected. This is just a dinner with a reporter. It’s not a big deal, and it’s definitely not a date with an insanely hot man. Whichever outfit I choose next will be the winning one. I reach for my favorite jeans, my black leather boots, and a vintage sky-blue sweater, with the V-neck made out of a secondhand men’s tie. It’s very retro and very hip and with just a quick swish of powder, blush, and mascara I’m ready to go. I grab my coat and shoulder bag, head downstairs, and take a cab to the West Village.

  When I arrive, I pay the cabbie and head into the little bistro, painted emerald green and tucked into the corner of a brick building on West Fourth Street and West Twelfth. Matthew and I agreed to meet at eight o’clock and I am only ten minutes late, so it feels like on time.

  “The other party is already here,” says the host, who sports a shaved head and is clad in a black button-down shirt and jeans.

  Damn. I a
rrive nearly on time and I’m still the last one to the table. Then again, Matthew’s probably the type to always be on time, to hold doors, to rise when a woman sits down at a table. The host leads me to Matthew, who closes the book he’s reading and stands to give me a nearly there kiss on the cheek. My eyelids flutter closed for the briefest of moments at the feel of his soft lips so near to me. The notion crosses my mind that I can turn my head and learn exactly how soft those lips are. Discover how he kisses, if he’s the type who devours you, or if he starts out slowly and teases with kisses that leave you wanting.

  But I restrain myself, instead enjoying the flip my belly executes at his touch. I’ll take what I can get, and even that sensation feels good to me. It’s been so damn long.

  “Do you want me to take your coat?”

  “Sure.” I shrug out of my coat, letting the sleeves fall to his waiting arms. He folds it once, then hands the coat to the host. Matthew waits for me to sit down, then returns to his chair.

  Manners rule. I like them.

  “Jane Black is late,” I start. “She rushes to the table and issues a standard-order apology, muttering something or other about how hard it is to find a cab in this town. I push aside my copy of James Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential and insist it’s no big deal. I love being delayed by people who have no respect for someone else’s time.”

  A nascent smirk forms on his face.

  “I just figured that’s how the story would start,” I say playfully. “And then lead into the typical, ‘she orders the veal parmigiana and then asks how many calories are in it’ or something.”

  “Wait. So you’re saying I’d write a typical story?”

  I laugh. “Funny, how that’s the one part you key in on.”

  “And are you saying yes, that there is a story?”

  I laugh again. “Nice try. But we’re not there yet.”

  “One, you don’t have to apologize as I’m rather caught up with Ellroy’s book at the moment. I’m fascinated with tales of Los Angeles. And two, I can’t stand those celebrity feature stories that all start the same—so-and-so sat down and wore a white T-shirt and ordered the Perrier. They’re all the same rehashed banality, aren’t they?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He takes a beat. “Thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule and with dinner no less. I’ve never been here before, but I hear it’s great.”

  “Me, too. Never been here that is. And truthfully, that may be because some of these West Village places are so hard to find.”

  “I have to confess,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he reaches into a pocket to take out his smartphone. “I actually had to use Waze on my phone, which is completely embarrassing. The last time I came to the Village—I live on the Upper West Side—I was all turned around trying to figure out how the hell to find West Twelfth or West Thirteenth or Little West Twelfth.”

  “Right? Would someone please explain how West Fourth and West Twelfth can intersect here?”

  “I’m not entirely sure it’s possible,” he answers as if I asked a serious question, and I find it completely endearing that he’s playing along so ably. “I suspect it’s a time warp or a black hole of geography or mapmaking.”

  “And then there are those crazy streets like Gansevoort and Horatio. Who even knows where they go?”

  “As if anyone can find those bloody streets,” he says, closing out the Waze app on his phone with gusto. If I were rating our opening remarks, I’d give us an A for chemistry.

  Except this isn’t a date, and he’s not a suitor. He’s a reporter, and I’m getting carried away. “Oh God, you’re going to report this, aren’t you? Jane Black doesn’t even know where Horatio Street is,” I say in mock terror.

  “I could so take down your career in one second if that story leaked. But I shall restrain myself and I promise not to let our readers know about your little cartographic challenges.”

  There it is. The reminder that I need to be cautious. “Wait, this is off the record, right?”

  “Ah, the fear everyone has when sitting down with a journalist. But, please don’t worry.” He reaches across the table to clasp my hand in his, and my breath catches. He squeezes my hand reassuringly, and the barest touch from him is dizzying. Maybe because it’s been so long, maybe because it’s him, maybe because I don’t have a clue if he’s gently clasping my hand as a reporter or as the man sitting across from me at an intimate, low-lit restaurant.

  But his touch sends shivers up my spine. Good shivers. I ask the universe for him to leave his hand on mine. The universe listens for ten more seconds, and these seconds are the closest contact I’ve had with a straight man in years. “I’m very much looking forward to having dinner and chatting off the record. I should let you know, though, that if I were to report a story in such a hackneyed fashion, I would know immediately if you ordered veal parmigiana that I was dining with an impostor.”

  He places his hands in his lap, and I miss them instantly.

  “How would you know that?”

  “You’re a vegetarian.”

  “Yes, but it’s not like I’m wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘Meat is Murder.’”

  “That is true. That is very true. But you gave a quote to Vegetarian Times for a story called ‘Nothing with a Face’ that was like a who’s who of all the vegetarians in the arts.” My heart beats faster at the admission that he knows all these little details about me, that he remembers them and can recall them. But then, he’s simply good at his job. That’s all.

  “Do you have a dossier on me or something?”

  “Yes, it’s ten inches thick. Every story about you ever written, every story you’re ever referenced in.”

  Two years ago he probably wouldn’t have cared about that article, nor would any other critic. But now it’s part of his prep work, as my backstory is being assembled. Just like other parts of my backstory are coming to light, much more scintillating things than “She doesn’t eat animals.”

  “Did you really look up every story ever written? And does that mean you know my given name, too?” I ask, because Black is my stage name. My given name is a bit too Mellencamp for me.

  “Jane Stanchcomb,” he whispers in a conspiratorial voice. “But that’s not a secret, since that’s your brother’s last name.”

  As he laughs I notice how his blue eyes sparkle a bit. When I was younger, I wanted blue eyes like Natalie, who landed the All-American looks from my mom’s side of the family. Instead, I inherited my dad’s coloring, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes. I am dominant B all over—nothing recessive at work here. Then there’s Matthew, and his eyes are a sort of a pure shade, a dark blue with barely any other color in them—no speckles of green, no flecks of gray, no hints of hazel. They’re just blue and they’re almost impossible to miss because they stand out all the more against his very dark hair with the slightest wave to it. His cheekbones are chiseled, his lips are full, his face is so damn handsome that sometimes I feel as if I have to look away. But I don’t want to look away. I want to look at him. It’s almost unfair.

  “Though I’d still love to know how you chose Black as your stage name,” he adds, and he seems genuinely intrigued. But is he only intrigued because I’m the singer of the moment?

  “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

  “I make you a little nervous, don’t I?” he asks softly.

  More like wary, but it’s not just because of Matthew’s previous bad reviews, or even because of Jonas and his Grammy ambush. I’m wary because, on the one hand, I’m having a fantastic time so far with Matthew and he’s actually quite funny, on top of all the other assets he brings to the table. But on the other hand, I wonder if it’s an act, if it’s part of his effort to land a story, part of his sales pitch. I want to trust my instincts to like him, but my instincts have been wrong before. Besides, Matthew has an agenda, and I should focus on whether I want to be on it, not whether I’d enjoy running a hand through that hair. Because of course, I’d enjoy touching him.
That’s a no-brainer. The harder decision is the business one.

  I wave a hand in the air, trying to act casual. “No, no. Of course not.”

  “Please don’t worry. I looked up a few articles before I left the office. I wanted to be prepared,” he says in a soothing voice that shows he has a caring side. And there he goes again, racking up more points in his favor.

  “It’s nothing,” I say, flustered now.

  “I’ll have you know I completely admire your discipline in being a vegetarian,” he says in a highly serious tone. “I would love to be one myself and think it’s quite the right decision, moralistically and health-wise. But I’m actually forbidden from being one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He leans across the table to whisper, and the nearness makes my skin tingle. “When I left England for the States four years ago, I had to sign a letter that I would uphold the image of Britain’s fine dining standards.”

  I laugh loudly, loving how he can shift from genuine concern to teasing in a heartbeat. “And what are those standards?”

  “We’re only allowed to eat lamb, sausages, and fish and chips in front of you Yanks.”

  “By order of the Queen, I’m sure.”

  “Speaking of, we should probably look at the menu,” he says, looking away when I say Queen.

  I can’t resist. “Do you know the Queen?”

  He keeps staring at his menu, but a faint blush creeps to his cheeks. “No. Of course not. Why would I?”

  Wow, I’ve caught him off guard now, and I kind of like this feeling. Of control. I go fishing for more. “I would imagine she’d be particularly concerned about how you represented her country when out of it.”

  His lips quirk up. “I’m quite sure she doesn’t care what I do.”

  “Hmmm. Right. I’m sure she doesn’t care a bit about certain peers.” I tease out the last word, doing everything I can to elicit a reaction.

  He looks up at me, trying to deny the smile on his face. “Surely, I am nothing.”

  I nod in an exaggerated fashion, narrowing my eyes, as I repeat back one word. “Surely.”