Misadventures on the Night Shift

by Lauren Rowe

  I peek impatiently at Lucas’s album as it continues to download and my stomach flips over with anticipation. The album is called From A…to Me, and it features songs that are all one-word titles starting with the letter A.

  Of course, the first A song on the album is the already-released single, “Abandoned,” which I’ve now heard at least ten thousand times in three months, despite my best efforts to avoid it like the plague.

  Oh, lord, how I’ve tried not to hear “Abandoned” since that first time in the taxi on my way to interview Brandon three months ago. But not hearing that beautiful, heart-wrenching song everywhere was literally impossible. Why? Because I live on planet Earth and “Abandoned” is a smash hit, the kind of song you can’t help hearing everywhere you go, every hour on the hour—on the radio, in TV commercials, in cabs and banks and restaurants and grocery stores and from passing cars. At this point, the song is simply part of the air we humans breathe. An accepted part of the atmosphere.

  But, of course, “Abandoned” isn’t the only A song on Lucas’s new album. There are twelve more. “Ass-kicker,” “Assassin,” “Ambushed,” “Angel,” “Ashamed,” “Aberration,” “Addicted,” “Aroma,” “Alive,” “Ache,” “Adore,” and…“Abby.”

  Oh, God, these song titles!

  Even without hearing the actual songs, I know they’re going to decimate me.

  Finally, the full album is downloaded.

  I close my eyes and gather myself for a moment before pressing play. I don’t know why, but after a full year and four published articles for Maxim—including my rather feisty interview of Brandon—I thought I’d have heard from Lucas by now. If I’m being perfectly honest, I kind of thought Lucas would have sent me an early copy of the album with a little note, or would have shown up at Maxim’s headquarters with a signed copy, saying, “Hey, Abby! One day is finally here, baby!” But nope. Not a word from Mr. Rock Star in a full year. Apparently, Lucas intends to do all his talking to me through his songs.

  I lean back into the cushy leather seat of the sedan, push my earbuds firmly into my ears, and press play on my first song selection. It’s not the first track listed on the album, of course. It’s actually the last. But it’s the first song I want to hear. “Abby.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I settle onto my couch in front of my TV in my flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks, a glass of wine and Lucas’s handwritten note to me from a year and a half ago in my hands. It’s Grammy time and the red carpet entrances at Madison Square Garden are just getting underway.

  Holy fuckballs, my stomach’s in knots. Please, God, let Lucas win a truckload of Grammys tonight like everyone keeps predicting he will.

  Oh, there’s Justin Timberlake! So handsome and talented and funny. Gah. Love him.

  And there’s Adele! Oh my gosh, I adore her. She’s perfect.

  I clutch my handwritten note from Lucas as a good luck charm and chomp some popcorn from a bowl on the coffee table, watching artist after artist getting interviewed by a virtual army of journalists on the red carpet. Damn. I’m suddenly second-guessing my decision to turn down working the red carpet tonight. Why did I do that again? Oh, yeah, because the thought of seeing Lucas again for the first time in a year and a half—for no more than thirty seconds amid flashing bulbs and people screaming to get his attention—made me feel physically ill. If ever I’m going to see that beautiful man again—please, God, yes—I want to be able to converse with him in a meaningful way. I owe my new amazing life to him, after all. Everything that I am, everything I’ve become, every time I lay my head on my pillow, smiling from ear to ear, I owe it all to him. If ever I get to see Lucas again, I want to be able to pour my heart out to him and thank him from the bottom of my soul, and not ask him a rote question while standing in line with fifty other journalists on a red carpet.

  I take a long sip of my wine, my stomach tight with anticipation. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see Lucas again in a meaningful way. Even if only for fifteen minutes. Just to hug him and tell him his unbelievable gift saved my life.

  The red carpet portion of the evening is almost over now. Where the heck is he? Is he making a grand entrance at the last possible moment…or skipping the red carpet altogether?

  On a sudden impulse, I open Lucas’s notecard to me and touch his angular script, overcome with the need to connect with him tonight of all nights in any way I can, even if only by touching something that proves I didn’t imagine our magical time together. I hope our paths cross again one day in NYC, I truly do, he wrote to me. But only if you’re a writer, making your dreams come true. I wish you the best, always and forever. Luke.

  Why the heck did he write those words if he was never going to contact me again? I mean, shit, if one day hasn’t arrived by now, I’m pretty sure it never will. Thanks to Lucas and his staggering generosity, I’ve now lived in New York for almost a year and a half, a full year of that as a professional writer. My blog is more popular than ever and I’ve published a whole bunch of articles. Not just in Maxim, but in some of its sister publications, too. Wouldn’t Lucas know about all of that? I mean, I have no delusions he’s been stalking me online, but at the very least, I’d have thought he’d have checked in on me once or twice to see what I was up to, if only to follow up on his two hundred fifty thousand bucks.

  And when I let myself get really carried away with my fantasies, I must admit I imagine Lucas showing up at Maxim’s offices in Manhattan to declare his love for me. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t have any means of contacting him, after all. I’m sure it’d be easier to get the Pope’s personal cell phone number than Lucas Ford’s. Clearly, if one day is ever going to arrive, it’s up to him to make it happen. He did write in his note he truly hopes our paths cross again, after all. So why hasn’t he tracked me down?

  I’ve no sooner asked myself that question than Lucas appears on the red carpet to implicitly answer it for me. Well, gosh, Abby, it seems I’ve been too busy making Grammy-nominated music and fucking the German supermodel who’s currently hanging on my arm to spend even a half second thinking about some hotel clerk from Miami… oh, sorry, Denver… whom I briefly role-played with a lifetime ago. But, hey, I wish you the best, always and forever! Luke.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I board my new train—the Q train from Brooklyn to Manhattan—and settle in for my hour-and-a-half commute. It’s a fairly long commute every day, true, but it’s a small price to pay to get to live in the greatest city in the world and work at my dream job. And, on my writer’s salary, living in Manhattan is simply out of the question. Plus, my long commute every day gives me time to write on my laptop or read a book or listen to music, all of which I love to do.

  This morning, especially, I don’t mind the train ride. Despite the rough start to the Grammys telecast last night—fuck you, German supermodel—I couldn’t help but feel nothing but euphoria once the show got underway and Lucas started racking up win after win. Among his other awards, Lucas took top honors for song of the year, record of the year, and album of the year. And, God, he looked so happy accepting all of them!

  So, in celebration of Lucas’s well-deserved night of triumph, I’ve decided to sit back during this entire train ride and listen to From A…to Me all the way through, again and again, and savor every single glorious sound. Hell, I’m even going to listen to “Abandoned,” though I’ve previously sworn never to purposefully hear that excruciating song ever again.

  I feel high today, honestly. So happy for Lucas, I can barely function. For some reason, watching him win all those awards gave me more than a thrill. It gave me peace. Above anything else I might feel about Lucas, I truly want him to be happy. Period.

  And, as I saw last night, he is.

  But, of course, I also want myself to be happy, too. And that’s why I’ve decided to let go of my dream of ever seeing Lucas again. I realized last night, maintaining hope is holding me back from finding true love with someone else. And, crazy as it sounds, I suddenly fee
l like my heart is genuinely ready to find true love. Healthy, true love. Not fun with a fuck buddy. Not a fling or illicit tryst. Not some bad boy who’s going to throw me away. Not a movie star who swoops into town out of nowhere or sends a private plane for me to meet him in Jamaica. I want love with a genuinely kind person who adores me for who I am and treats me well, no tropical destinations required. And, by God, that’s what I’m going to find for myself. And, sadly, that means I need to move on from fantasizing about one day with Lucas Ford.

  Do I wish things might have worked out differently for Lucas and me, like in a fairytale? Yes, I do. Of course. But after what he said to me in his first of many acceptance speeches last night, I finally felt like I had the closure I’ve needed for so long in order to move on. Bottom line—when Lucas spoke to me through my TV last night, he set me free. And I’m grateful for it.

  I nestle into my seat on the train and press play on the first song on Lucas’s album, letting his guitar playing and beautiful, soulful voice flood me. And as Lucas serenades me, I close my eyes and think about Lucas’s first acceptance speech last night. The one during which he looked right into the camera, like he was talking directly to me, and said, “I’d especially like to thank the woman who inspired every song on this album. Abby, I couldn’t have written these songs without you and our time together in Penthouse A. Without the piece of your heart you so generously gave me. And for that, I’ll always love you, Abby. Thank you so much for being my muse. And for so much more than that. For telling me the truth when I needed to hear it most. Thank you for everything.”

  Yeah, I pretty much died.

  And, I admit it, a large piece of me felt wickedly happy to think his supermodel girlfriend was sitting in the front row, listening to him say those unbelievable words to some mystery chick named Abby who did God knows what with him in Penthouse A. But, of course, on the downside, I also knew by the way Lucas had phrased his remarks, he was telling me he loved me as his muse and nothing more. The artist inside him loves me and always will. But the man? Not so much.

  And, for some reason, in that moment, that was enough for me. Slightly sad, yes. Not ideal, true… But enough. Hey, I’ve got to figure there are worse things in the world than being the woman Lucas Ford will “always love” for inspiring one of the greatest and most decorated albums in the history of music.

  Of course, I was glued to the entire broadcast for the rest of the night, hoping Lucas might mention me again. Or maybe declare his undying love to me in words even bolder than those he’d used in his first speech. But Lucas never spoke to me again. Instead, he used every other speech of the night to effusively thank his “awesome” fans and tell them how “grateful” he is for their “never-ending love and support.”

  And, strangely, by the end of the show, I felt so at peace. Ready to move on and find a man willing to commit to me today—and not just some possible-but-not-guaranteed one day. I called my on-again-off-again movie star boyfriend and told him it had been a super fun ride and he’d been truly lovely to me and always ridiculously generous, but that I was ready to move on to something healthy. To start looking for a serious commitment from someone roughly my own age. He handled the break up remarkably well.

  And, now, as I sit on my train, headed into work, I feel light as a feather. Inexplicably free of every demon that’s ever haunted me my whole life—not to mention hopeful and excited about my future. I can’t wait to see whatever or whoever awaits me in this big, beautiful world. And I truly believe I have Lucas Ford to thank for that.

  About five minutes from my stop, I indulge myself and press play on “Abby” for a third time this train ride. This will be the last time I listen to this song, I decide. Because listening to it over and over again and dreaming about what might have been one day for Lucas and me simply isn’t healthy for my soul. And so, with a wistful sigh, I push my earbuds firmly into my ears, close my eyes, and lose myself in Lucas singing “Abby” to me for the very last time.

  * * *

  Maybe we weren’t meant to be

  In this lifetime or the next two or three

  But I still believe we’re meant to be

  In the fourth or fifth or in a dream

  Maybe up in heaven where the angels sing?

  Maybe

  Abby

  One day

  I’ll wrap my arms around your wings

  And stroke your feathers and tell you things

  About how much you mean to me

  And how you showed me A to me

  Maybe

  Abby

  One day

  Oh, Abby, I’m just a broken slave

  Chained to the muse with debts to pay

  A mountain of IOUs, my cage

  So many dragons left to slay

  But maybe

  Abby

  One day

  I’ll live and learn my way to you

  And won’t be scared to tell the truth

  I’ll hunt you down, unveil my plan

  And stroke your wings and be your man

  Maybe

  Abby

  One day

  But truth be told I’m afraid, my dear

  You’ll say I wasn’t worth the pain

  Not worthy of the heart I gave

  An endless pit that takes and takes

  Maybe

  Abby

  One day

  I’m afraid that’s what you’ll say to me

  And, worse, you’ll say it honestly

  Same way you say everything

  Jolt me with reality

  Maybe

  Abby

  One day

  I hate to say it ’cause it’s cliché

  Hate to say what causes pain

  ‘It’s not you, it’s me, my dear,’

  Me, me, me, me, me

  Couldn’t love the way you did, Abby

  ’Cause I was your teenage fantasy

  But none of it was real, you see

  Nothing but a dream

  But maybe

  Abby

  One day

  When my soul is finally free

  Not a barter or commodity

  When I don’t bleed so damned easily

  Then brave is what I’ll be

  Maybe

  Abby

  One day

  And if not

  My dearest Abby

  Maybe

  One day

  One day

  One day

  Maybe you’ll forgive me.

  The song ends just as my train pulls to my stop.

  I wipe my eyes and cheeks. “I forgive you, Lucas,” I whisper, my words swallowed by the commotion in the train and the hustle and bustle of commuters around me. “Be happy.”

  I stand, put my phone in my pocket, bundle up in my scarf, gloves, and thick wool coat, wipe my eyes and cheeks again, and start walking the four blocks to my office building.

  As I enter the lobby of my building, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull off my gloves and grab my phone. It’s a text from my boss that makes my heart stop.

  Come to my office the minute you get in! You hit the motherlode, Abby! LUCAS FORD!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “He called me, Abby, not the other way around!” my boss shouts as I enter his office. “And it was Lucas Ford calling me personally, not his publicist!”

  I clutch my heart, feeling like I’m about to pass out. “What’d he say?”

  “He offered an exclusive interview about his Grammy wins and anything else we want to ask him about. He said no topic is off limits. Nothing. His only condition? None other than Penelope Pleasure has to conduct the interview and it has to be done today at his hotel because he’s heading back to LA tomorrow morning. He said he read your interview of Brandon Hanover and he wants ‘the exact same treatment’!”

  My brain is short-circuiting. Lucas wants to see me? Today? And he read my interview of Mr. Movie Star and “wants the exact same treatment”? Gah! My mind
is racing. Does that mean Lucas knows about my so-called relationship with Brandon? And if so, was his choice of words his way of telling me our one day has finally arrived? Or did he call my boss simply because he wants to help my career again, and nothing more?

  “Do you know him?” my boss asks as we settle into seats on opposite sides of his large desk.

  I shake my head like a little kid accused of stealing a cookie.

  My boss smirks. “No? Huh. I thought maybe, just maybe, you were the ‘Abby’ from the song.”

  I try to chuckle breezily but, surely, I sound more like a llama with bronchitis. “Nope. I wish.”

  “Hey, it’s not ridiculous to think the song might be about you. You snagged Brandon Hanover, so why not Lucas Ford, too?” He winks.

  “Aw, don’t believe those pesky rumors about Brandon Hanover and me,” I say coyly, but we both know I’m full of it. It’s become a bit of a running gag between us that I won’t cop to any manner of personal relationship with Mr. Movie Star. Not because Brandon would care, by the way. But because, one, I don’t want to be known as yet another one of Brandon Hanover’s many playthings, and, two, I’d always figured the less people knew about my so-called relationship with him, the less chance paparazzi would’ve kept me in the frame if he happened to be leaving a restaurant with me.

  My boss looks at me sideways. “Are you sure you’ve never met Lucas Ford?”

  “I’m sure,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to meet him, though. He’s my idea of the perfect man.”

  “Mine, too,” my boss says.

  “I had a massive crush on him as a teenager,” I say.

  “Me, too. But as an adult.”

  We both laugh.

  “Did you watch the Grammys last night?” my boss asks.

  “Of course. He deserved every award he won.”

  “Yeah, I noticed he thanked a girl named Abby and mentioned time they spent together in Penthouse A.”

  My face suddenly feels hot. “Oh, yeah. I saw that, too.”

  My boss beams an adorable smile at me. “Wasn’t it Denver where you worked at a hotel before coming to New York?”