Love Struck (Miss Match #2) (2 page)

“You don’t have to thank me. I just can’t wait to hear what you’ve been working on. It’s been a shit year for you, Lace, but I know your music is going to be amazing. I’m so proud of you. Get the heck out of here before I get emotional.” He waved his hand toward the door. “And stop pretending to fine-tune. Go grab a drink or something. Have a good weekend. Tell your sister I said what’s up!” He was practically shouting as she ran from the office.

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
Lacy darted into the bathroom and leaned over the sink. What the hell was she going to do now? There was no way she’d have an album ready to record in ten weeks. She was doubtful she’d have one ready in four months. Dammit, she should just own up and tell Darrin the truth—none of the songs he’d heard her playing the last few months were anywhere near complete. And definitely nowhere near recording ready. Hard to record with no lyrics.

But after his speech about being proud and all that, she couldn’t bear to see his disappointment. Couldn’t bear to admit to total fraudhood.

No, better not make any rash decisions. She’d talk to Folx about it first. Right now she had to get through her panic attack. Deep breaths and a splash of cold water usually helped. That, and unloading on her writing group. She dug out her phone and used the group’s app to send an urgent message to Folx.
Need to talk. Message me when you can?

Lacy felt a little better already. Maybe even better enough to get through the rest of her shift.

Wait—Darrin said she could leave early. That helped her stomach subside. She’d wait for Folx’s reply in the comfort of her own home. She’d probably be dragged into helping her sister, Andy, with wedding plans. Which was fine. As challenging as it was to hear endless conversations about linens and venue options, living with a bride-to-be was fantastic for keeping her mind busy—even though it did make her think of the wedding
she
was supposed to have with Lance. At least it was great for keeping her troubles to herself. Engaged women, especially ones engaged to prominent billionaires, were too busy to pry. Andy’s preoccupation with her upcoming nuptials was the only reason she hadn’t noticed that her precious baby sister was keeping secrets.

One more deep breath. Lacy peered in the mirror. She was a little paler than normal, but otherwise looked fine. She fluffed her long blonde curls and practiced a fake smile. The trick was squinting. If you squinted just slightly when you smiled, people thought you meant it. The things learned while hiding from the world. One day she’d write a book. When she got her words back, that was.

Opening the bathroom door, she almost walked smack into Kat.

“Um, oh my God!” Kat pursed her lips at Lacy and stared meaningfully.

“‘Um, oh my God’ what?” Of course this chick was waiting outside the bathroom. Thank the lord she hadn’t actually thrown up.

“Darrin told me you’re taking Bitchy Ether’s recording time! I’m so stoked for you! I’m going to do your drums. It’s my gift to you. Of course, Darrin said he’d pay me my normal rate, but I’m really doing it for you. Oh honey, come here!” She threw her arms wide, inviting Lacy to walk into her embrace.

Lacy did, but took another deep breath first, not because of her nerves this time, but because of her nose. It was her experience that Kat usually smelled like more patchouli than she was comfortable with. Some of the scent always clung to her post-hug, which was tolerable, but it was best not to do an inhale during the actual act. Inhalation led to choking fits.

And this hug was going on too long. She needed to breathe again. “I was supposed to call you?” she asked as she pushed away, using the question as a reason to extricate herself.

“Yeah! There’s this band playing tonight that is like soooo good, I swear to God you will love them so much, so we have to go. Right?”

And that was another thing that sometimes bugged Lacy about Kat. She talked like a preteen. That was annoying as hell. Kat’s taste in music was impeccable, and the fact that she was able to keep tabs on all that went on in the Boston music scene was even more annoying. Yet another area where Kat had it going on, and Lacy no longer did.

Lacy was torn on the invitation. She really needed to talk to Folx, but if he wasn’t online, she’d just be sitting around home fretting and nodding at centerpiece options. Good music also might help resolve the tight knot in her belly. At the very least, it might be inspiring. And, man, did she need inspiration. “Fine. What’s the club?”

“Tigerstripes.”

Lacy sighed heavily. She’d have to change first, then. Tigerstripes was an über-trendy place, a total “see and be seen” for local musicians. Her yoga pants and tank top might be comfortable and fine for solo studio days, but she couldn’t wear them somewhere cool, somewhere people might know her. It was her least favorite part of being a musician—she really couldn’t go out in public without being “in character.” Her sister usually wore pantsuits to work and then got herself casual and comfy when they went out, but Lacy didn’t have that luxury.

When Lacy Dawson saw a band, she saw them as Up-and-Coming-Indie-Sensation Lacy Dawson. Which meant she needed to be in her uniform—full hair and makeup, plus trendy jeans and stylish shirt. In other words, clothes that didn’t double as pajamas.

Chapter Two

Twenty minutes later, Lacy was at home applying copious amounts of black eyeliner and fending off her sister.

“This wedding guest list is impossible!” Andy was yelling from her bedroom.

Lacy ignored her, and started filling in her brows, but not without first glancing at her phone to see if she’d missed any notifications from the songwriter forum app. She hadn’t. She tried not to be too disheartened.

“This process has made me realize—and don’t be shocked—but I don’t have a ton of close friends. Do coworkers count? Can I ignore them and elope?”

Lacy dabbed white sparkles on to her brow bone. She studied the effect, and added some more to the corners of her eyes. She told herself Andy wasn’t looking for an answer, she just wanted to hear herself talk. That way she didn’t have to feel guilty about not weighing in.

“Are roses or lilies hotter right now? We’re bound to get covered in
Boston
mag. If I pick wrong, will I be lame, or trendsetting?” It was getting harder to pretend Andy didn’t really want answers when she kept pestering for them like that.

“Look,” Lacy yelled over her shoulder, “I’ll go to your meeting tomorrow with the planner. Just stop stressing tonight, okay?” She wanted to be there for Andy, but she couldn’t deal with the recording studio anxiety
and
her petty bridal jealousy. It took more energy than she had.

She left the mirror and stuck her head into her sister’s room. “Do you want to come listen to a new band with me and Kat? It’ll calm you down.” Though Andy didn’t live and breathe music like Lacy, they always enjoyed each other’s company. Even when Andy was being a bit wedding-crazy, she was still Lacy’s sister and best friend.

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.