The Break-Up Album

by Lauren Blakely

  “By the way, I knew it was you.” She’s back to her mom voice, and I can picture her perfectly at our home in Maine, a big white house at the end of a long gravel driveway, overlooking a sapphire-blue lake. “I wanted to hear you sing anyway, so I let you try out.”

  “Darn. And I thought I had fooled you all along.”

  “You can never fool a mother. But I did enjoy your interview. You were wonderful.”

  “You’re a sweetie to say that, and thank you for listening. What are you doing for the spring musical?”

  “We’re doing Tommy.”

  “No way! I can’t believe you’re doing a rock opera. You’re so Rodgers and Hammerstein, Mom. How did this happen?”

  “I have a very extensive repertoire of interests, young lady,” she chides playfully as a truck driver bleats his horn at the intersection. I stop to wait for the flashing green walk sign. “Do you want to come see it in April? It might even be during Ethan’s spring break.”

  “Hell yeah! I haven’t seen one of your shows in ages.” I glide into the lyrics from “Pinball Wizard” as I cross the street and walk past a construction crew jackhammering a piece of the street. She joins me, line for line, warbling in her perfect soprano, singing about a deaf, dumb, and blind kid playing a mean pinball.

  “I’ll bring Ethan,” I say when we finish. “He loves visiting you guys, and that’s not only because you have dogs.”

  “If the dogs help me see my grandson more often, so be it. See you soon, love.”

  “’Bye, Mom.”

  When I return home fifteen minutes later, I peel off my boots and toss them into the middle of the living room. They land on my crimson-colored rug with a double thud, before a knock sounds on the door. It’s Quon from Hunan China. I called in my regular order on the way home—scallion pancakes and cold noodles.

  “I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” Quon says when I open the door. “Are you seeing another delivery man?”

  “Never! You know I am one hundred percent loyal to you. I was in Los Angeles for a couple days.” I invite him in. “Do you want some noodles with me today, Quon?”

  “No, no, I am super busy today.”

  “Super busy, not regular busy, but super busy?”

  “Super busy, super busy. Like my six-year-old niece says.”

  “My son says that, too. You have a hot date tonight?”

  “Ha-ha. You’re very funny, Jane.”

  Quon is still recovering from a wounded heart when his girlfriend left him six months ago. “Hot date for you?” he fires back.

  “I wish,” I say as an answer. I wish I had a hot date with Matthew. But the sooner I get to writing and to recording and to cutting an album, the sooner I can explore all the possibilities of that man. Damn, the prospect of getting to know him—in every way—is all I need to write my ass off this afternoon.

  I place the cartons on the kitchen counter.

  As I pay Quon, adding in a fifty-dollar tip today as a thank-you from the Grammy, my phone rings. Quon mouths, “Thank you” several times as he steps backward out of the door.

  “You were fantastic.” It’s Matthew, and I beam even though he can’t see me.

  “You listened?”

  I walk across the living room to my sliding glass door, pushing it open, enjoying both the crisp, cool air and the midday sunshine.

  “Of course I listened,” he says as I sit down in the lone chair, and a thrill races through me that he tuned in. Sure, it’s his job. But I hope he listened for other reasons, too. “What are you doing right now?”

  “I’m sitting on my deck.”

  “Lucky deck.”

  Lucky deck. Lucky deck. I turn those two words over in my head. I like the sound of them together. They fit. “You think my deck is lucky, do you?”

  “I’d like to be on that deck getting lucky with you.”

  I laugh instantly, loving the boldness in the statement. “Maybe someday.”

  “You let me know when I can put that someday on my calendar,” he tosses back. Then he clears his throat. “So did Cohain hit on you?”

  There’s a jealous note to his voice that doesn’t go unnoticed. Or un-enjoyed, and I can’t resist toying. “As a matter of fact, he asked me out. He wanted to show me his vinyl collection.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no. Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Completely. Though I’m thrilled you declined, and not merely because I don’t want you talking to other reporters,” he says, and if he’s going to flirt like this the whole time we work on the article, I might go insane with pent-up longing. But then, I’d likely welcome that kind of crazy right now. “How are those gift cards doing?” he asks, shifting gears.

  “Burning a hole in my pocket. I have nineteen more. Wait. Make that twenty. You didn’t let me use that one at all.”

  “I would be delighted to not let you use another one. Sometime soon, I hope,” he says, stripping his voice of all the teasing, and speaking only with what I hope is sincerity. “You know, I like to cook, too, though.”

  “I hate cooking. What do you cook? Lamb, sausages, bread pudding?”

  “Actually, my orders from the Queen are relaxed at home. I’ll have you know I make a wonderful pasta primavera. I usually go to the farmer’s market on Wednesdays in Union Square to get vegetables. It’s near my office.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “No, I really do.”

  I quickly explain my exuberance. “My sister runs the market. I usually go there, too. Not to buy food, of course. I go for the jewelry.”

  “We should have a cup of coffee there Wednesday. We could get started on the story right away. Do our first official interview and discuss a time frame for the rest, schedule it, you know.”

  “Sure, I’ll probably head over around ten. That work?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s meet by the Waffle Guy. Do you know where he is?”

  “Of course.Don’t you work on Wednesdays?”

  “Yeah, I do. As a matter of fact, this Wednesday I have an interview scheduled with this year’s Grammy winner for best album.”

  “Duh,” I say, laughing at my own faux pas.

  “So it’s a date then.”

  “Is it?” I ask, wanting to know what he’ll say.

  “Probably the most painful one I’ll ever go on since I’ll have to pretend I’m not dying to kiss you again. And, you know, do a hell of a lot more than that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  On that note, I head back inside, dig into my cold noodles, and bust my butt to write a song about a hell of a lot more.

  The problem is I can’t focus on the music. My naughty imagination is far too busy occupying every inch of real estate in my brain, and a hell of a lot more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jane

  I performed at the farmer’s market once. I brought the old acoustic and sat cross-legged on a blanket by the entrance to the market while Aidan made animal balloons for the kids and Ethan handed them out, always the helpful “assistant” as he liked to say. Young kids clapped along to “This Land is my Land” as I sang my heart out for the preschool set of Manhattan.

  Every time I come back, I can’t help but picture the little fledgling indie rock singer who strummed for the five-and-under crowd, even though my little one isn’t with me today. It’s a school day for Ethan, but I’m just here today as a civilian anyway. I’m wearing a soft black sweater, jeans, boots, and a warm coat. I find Matthew leaning against the Waffle Guy’s truck, his eyes fixed down on the pages of his book. I feel a little sneaky, like I’m spying on him, watching him from a distance, but the view is worth it. I make note of the cut of his jeans, well-worn but trim, his jacket, the same black leather, and his shoes, black combat boots this time. He doesn’t look dashing or proper. He looks the part, like a rock critic.

  He looks cool.

  “Lost in a good book?” I ask as I reach him.

  “A very good book,” he says, tapping the
cover. He’s moved on to Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.

  “You finished L.A. Confidential?”

  “Just last night. Started this one this morning. I find that with a thirty-minute subway ride to our offices in Gramercy Park I can get a lot of reading in.”

  “The Big Sleep is in Los Angeles, too. What’s this Los Angeles fascination of yours all about?”

  He tucks the book into his backpack. “I enjoy the fascination with superficiality, the obsession with stars, the rampant sunshine. We don’t have much of that, of course, back home. And the whole city was really a big fight over water rights, and the rise and fall of the water company was the foundation of the city. The history of L.A. is fascinating and the city is teeming with stories. Plus, my little brother lives there, and I’m determined to know more about L.A. than him. We have to constantly find ways to compete.”

  “I’ve never really been a big L.A. person.”

  “I should probably go now. You don’t like to cook and you don’t like L.A. I’m not sure what else we’ll talk about.”

  “You’re right. This was silly. I’ll just go home.” I pretend I’m about to walk off.

  “Wait.” He reaches for my arm. My eyes are immediately drawn to his hand on me. Even through my coat and sweater, I can feel my skin calling out for his touch. “I have an idea, and I bet the vegetarian in you will be powerless to resist.”

  “Try me.”

  “Do you want to come over to my offices for lunch? I could make you that pasta primavera and we could chat there.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Does Beat have a lot of pasta-primavera-making reporters to support a kitchen? Or is it just you whipping up the veggies?”

  He laughs. “It’s a prerequisite of working there. Everyone is required to have a signature dish to cook once a week. Or, it might be that we happen to share office space with a sister magazine owned by the same company. Tastes Delicious and they have a full and proper kitchen.”

  Too bad he’s not taking me back to his apartment. Because then it wouldn’t be the vegetarian in me that’s powerless to resist. It would be the woman.

  But vegetables will have to do for now.

  “Let’s see what sort of secrets you can wheedle out of me using pasta as a hook,” I say as I flash him a challenging stare.

  “Oh, just you wait until you try my pasta primavera. I’ll have you eating out of the palm of my—” He stops himself and holds up a hand. “See, I find it very challenging not to turn everything into an innuendo with you, especially when it involves things like hands and eating,” he says, emphasizing the last word as he raises his eyebrows, then turns on his heel to head for a stall stuffed with ten thousand varieties of mushrooms.

  “Mushrooms will distract me from how gorgeous you look today,” he says in a low voice as he checks out the mushrooms. I grin privately, thrilled with his compliments.

  He heads for a food stall with asparagus and another with carrots. He makes what he swears will be his final purchase—green peas—then tips his forehead between two stalls that ring the edge of the market.

  “It’s a shame it’s not June,” Matthew says, and we both stop to look up at the wintry sky, the color of slate. Gloom-filled clouds have claimed the once-blue real estate.

  “Because it would be warm and wonderful and we could wear shorts and tank tops?”

  He rakes me over with his blue eyes, then shakes his head. “No, because of summer fruit.”

  He says it seductively, and I wait impatiently to find out more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Matthew

  It’s colder than brass monkeys. But being near this woman is heating me up.

  It’s dangerous, the way I want her.

  But evidently, I like flirting with danger, and flirting with her.

  “I love coming here in June and July. They have the most amazing peaches. Honey-kissed peaches,” I say, enjoying the way those words take shape on my tongue as I stare at her. She bites her lip absently, perhaps barely aware she’s doing it. But I pick up on it, leaning closer. I bring my mouth to her ear, my lips near her skin, “Isn’t that a great description for peaches?”

  She sways slightly, and I steady her with a hand on her elbow, loving the effect this has on her.

  “You need to stop talking to me about fruit as if it’s foreplay,” she says breathily.

  “I do?” I ask far too innocently.

  “Yes. You do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she says in a jagged whisper.

  “Because why?”

  “Because it makes me want more.” She says it like an admission, one she’s terrified to give voice to.

  She’s not the only one who’s battling wanting and resisting, and for now, fruit is the resistance. Or perhaps, the sublimation. “They’re incredible peaches, though, and I want them so very much,” I say, never taking my eyes off her. “Juicy and sweet. And they have cherries. Summer cherries. I’ll buy a carton and stand by my sink and eat them all. I can’t help myself. They taste delicious. And sun-ripened apricots.” I sigh dreamily, as if savoring the memory of the taste on my tongue. “I’ll have one, then another, then more please…” I let the last words linger between us, deliberately burning me up, burning her up too I hope.

  She tugs at her sweater, as if it’s summer and it’s sticking to her skin. And suddenly, it’s no longer cold outside. It’s hot and the sun is beating down on us and I want to strip away her layers of clothes. I inhale the smell of ripe, tantalizing fruit. Press my lips to the back of her neck, wrap my arms around her waist, my body tangled up in hers.

  “You like torturing me,” she murmurs.

  “No. I don’t like it. I love it.”

  Perhaps too much for my own good. I’m the one who drew the lines in the sand. I need to stick to them. Or at least, to try.

  I place my hand on her back, and guide us out of the market and onto the crowded sidewalk, a deterrent for the moment. “But do you want me to stop?”

  “No. I want you not to stop. That’s the problem.”

  “Does it make you feel any better if I tell you it’s torture for me, too?”

  “Sure,” she laughs. “That makes everything better.”

  We reach my office building and head through the lobby to the banks of elevators. We wait in silence, and then once we step inside the lift, the doors close, and it’s just us, I turn to her, my eyes roaming her body, her lovely, inviting body that I should keep my hands far away from.

  But all that fruit talk.

  It truly is torture.

  So is being this close to her.

  Maybe just one bite.

  “I want more, too,” I say. “And I swear this will be the last time for a while, but I can’t resist doing this right now.”

  I drop the bags from the farmer’s market on the floor of the elevator, back her against the wall, and cup her face. Her breath catches as I move closer, then press my pelvis against her, in a way that makes it clear how much more I want her, too. I deliver a scorching kiss, deep and hungry and desperate, exactly how I feel for her.

  She moves against me like a song, and the kiss reverberates across every inch of my skin, inside every cell in my body.

  My right hand drops away from her face, making its way to the waistband of her jeans. I trace a quick line across her belly with my index finger, loving the feel of her soft skin. Loving more when she arches into me. Lust jolts through me, as I picture undoing the zipper, then sliding my hand inside her panties. I groan as I imagine easing the ache between her legs.

  But the elevator slows, a stark reminder that we don’t have time for those explorations. Nor should we permit them.

  I linger on her lips, in an exquisitely cruel letting go.

  The moment ends all too soon. Seconds later the doors open, and we exit the elevator, in some sort of amped-up, turned-on state that I wish could be taken to the next level.

  But it can’t.

  Not now. Not
yet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jane

  I stop by the ladies’ room to splash cold water on my face. Yes, I’ve become this person. This crazily turned-on woman who hasn’t been touched in years. Now, give her a few choice words said in a swoon-worthy voice, a hot kiss in an elevator, and she needs to be doused in cold water in order to function.

  I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment, wondering if I can wipe the stupid lust from my eyes. Or if I even need to. Then I turn those words around in my head. Stupid lust. Stupid kiss. Stupid heart.

  I grab my phone from my back pocket and send those words to myself in an email. Who knows? Maybe they’ll spur a song. Because the more songs I write, the better off we all are. But for now, I excise the kiss from my head to focus on the story.

  I leave the bathroom and join Matthew in the gourmet kitchen in his office building. It’s all white, with stainless-steel appliances, and unbearably tiny by the rest of the world standard, but it’s massive for Manhattan. Massive meaning a few square feet. “I would offer to help, but I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Can I wash something or set the table?”

  Matthew shakes his head as he deftly wields a glinting steel knife, chopping the asparagus and the mushrooms. “Tell me about your deep-seated hatred of kitchens, food, cooking. Where does it stem from, Jane Black?”

  “I’m sure it goes back to my childhood. I remember as a young girl, having a terrible fear of pots and pans,” I say, quickly going along with the playful banter. It helps keep my brain clean of naughty thoughts. Besides, he’s already moved on to this other side, so I might as well go with it.

  “I’ve heard of that.” He moves onto the carrots. “It can scar you for life, rendering you completely dependent on Chinese takeaway.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what’s happened. I had a bat line to China Hunan set up in my apartment. My relationship with the delivery guy has been my closest with a man in the last year and I’m thinking of having an IV drip installed for Chinese food.”

  He puts down the knife, takes a step closer, and lays his hand against my forehead, as if taking my temperature. He nods sagely. “Your condition is much more serious than I thought.”