Love Struck (Miss Match #2) (3 page)

Oh, shit.
She’d thought the word “penetrating” just as he looked up from his fingerpicking. Now she was thinking about penetration. And his fingers. She was certain her face gave away her inappropriate thoughts, but his eyes locked with hers and she couldn’t look away, no matter what he saw. A shiver rippled down her spine at the intensity in his gaze. It was more than simply reading the lust on her face. It was like he was looking right into her mind. Into her soul. Like he was seeing something in her that she’d been certain didn’t exist anymore.

It was unnerving and strangely intimate. It stirred her. Made her feel … things.

She shook her head, forcing herself to look away. She wasn’t ready for an onslaught of emotion. She was just getting used to being numb.

It was definitely past time to go.

In front of her was a shot Kat had slipped over, despite the refusal. Lacy stared at it. If she took that, another would follow, and next thing she’d be trying to pick up one of the sexy men onstage. Not a good plan, even if she didn’t have the wedding thing in the morning. She caught the eye of another girl sitting nearby and nodded to the small glass of dark liquid. “Cheers.” The girl grinned her thanks and grabbed it.

“Good night, Kat.” Lacy grabbed her purse and tossed a few bills on the bar. “See you at work Monday.”

“Night, Anti-fun!”

Lacy rolled her eyes as she stood to leave. On her way toward the door, she threw one last glance over at the band. The singer was on his knees with the mike like he’d been practicing in front of a mirror. But the banjo player was still staring at her, with his dimpled half smile. She turned away quickly, before she started having capital-E emotions again.

Anti-fun.
That wasn’t what she was. Anti-
feel
, was more like it. God, she used to be so different. She had been the girl who loved to sit around getting wasted in a bar with a coworker, hitting on delicious, talented musicians.

But now she didn’t know how to flirt without crying, how to talk without depressing people. Didn’t know how to engage or relate or connect. So she’d simply stopped trying.

Now her career was number one on her priority list. It was much easier to deal with than people, and it needed her since it had hit a devastating standstill. Any moment she could spare was devoted to getting her dream back on track and, except for participating in a handful of support groups, with as little social interaction as possible.

At home, Lacy sank into her desk chair and opened her Internet browser. The SoWriAn site was her startup page. Song Writers Anonymous. Her favorite support group. Her home. Her family. The only people she could really talk to because they didn’t know what she had been through. They knew only what she told them. They didn’t talk to her with pitying consolation. It was refreshing and exactly what she’d needed.

She’d stumbled upon the site accidentally in the wake of Lance’s death, seeking a less traditional outlet to grieve. It wasn’t that Lacy was anti-therapy. She’d even gone to that grief counselor a few times. No, it was that she’d been taught by the great masters since she was small: Joplin, Plath, Beethoven, Cobain, Poe, Winehouse. They didn’t sit on a couch and talk about their struggles. They put them into their music, and she related to that. Music got her through everything.

She didn’t plan to follow any of them into an early grave. Really, she didn’t. But all of them produced their best works when they were at their worst. So she planned to follow suit, to channel the—“heartbreak” was such a tiny word to describe the yawning emptiness in her life. But she
wanted
to channel the heartbreak, as it were, to turn it into a masterwork that would now and forever pay tribute to the love that she and her fiancé had shared.

She didn’t want the rawness of her loss to leave her until she’d wrung every last drop out of it, made it not worth it—nothing could ever be worth it—but worthy, and hopefully healing as well.

The competing emotions in her brain left tracers of songs she could write. The desolation, confusion, loneliness, and if she were honest, anger, had all the makings of beautiful music. Yes, all the pieces were there.

If only she could access them …

She scrolled through a couple of message boards. One of her favorites was called
SadCore
, and she found it perversely hilarious. Songwriters posted links to news stories about people who died the night before their wedding, to disaster videos, to articles about the homeless. The idea was that it was a place people could come if they were too upbeat to write a “real” song. A few doses of depression later they’d presumably wander off to write something sad—and saleable.

It was perverse because she’d lived through the horror of finding her fiancé’s lifeless body, and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It was hilarious because she completely understood the creative impulse.

Maybe she did need therapy.

The other board she tended to lurk around on was far more straightforward,
Write or Die
. If that were an actual option, Lacy was certain she’d fall into the wrong category. But it did sum up how she felt about music in general.

Ping.
A private message came through.
Finally!
She tried to suppress the thrill that ran through her. It was the ping she’d been waiting for all night. She flushed as she took in the message.

Hey, you. Just got your message. What’s up?

FolxNotDead27. Her online bestie.

Screw that, calling it an online friendship cheapened it. Folx and Lacy, or LoveCoda as she was known on the boards, were real friends. Real friends in a false environment. There was probably a song in there, too.

Hey, yourself. Did you have band stuff?
Now that she had him online, she didn’t want to rush to her drama. She enjoyed the easy banter too much. There wasn’t anything she looked forward to more each day than their nightly conversations.

It was logical that Lacy had formed such a tight bond with a fellow musician, especially one as talented as this one. She’d read his words and tabs and given feedback on a number of them. Each one was better than the last, simple lyrics underscoring complex emotional stories. It was natural she’d enjoy talking to him. Natural for her to crush on his words.

What wasn’t natural, not even a little, was the rush she got when they were messaging.

Yeah. Getting ready for tour. But you’re avoiding the topic. What’s going on?

Not natural at all, considering she didn’t know his name, or what he looked like, or whether or not he chewed with his mouth open.

You’re going on tour?

Here was where things started to get tricky. SoWri
An
.
An
, for “Anonymous.” It was that component of the group that made it so successful, and the moderators enforced it above all. Designed to be a safe space, the forum attempted to eliminate all the hierarchies of fame and power and who-banged-whose-girlfriend by keeping the members identities sheltered. There were supposedly famous people on the site, as well as people on their way to being famous, and those hoping they were on their way. Complete privacy was a necessity. Personal details not allowed. To even join the boards, musicians were required to sign a legal disclaimer agreeing not to share or request personal information in order to prevent lawsuits and slander as well as petty jealousies and gossip. Writers helping writers—that was all the forum allowed.

So FolxNotDead27 knew LoveCoda worked a full-time day job and that she was in the industry, but nothing more. Questions like the one she’d asked about his tour, genuine among friends, were also somewhat charged. Even though she was sure they wouldn’t do it often, the moderators could read the PMs if they wanted. And who knew what sort of information exchange they’d consider crossing the line? Those decisions were made completely at their discretion.

Stop dodging. Tell me your news, Love!

Of everyone she knew, this was the only person she wanted to talk to about the studio session. The only one who would understand, so even though it was delving into the area of “not anonymous,” she plunged in.
The recording session I had booked for January got bumped up due to a cancellation.

What?! That’s fabulous!
This was the intended beauty of the forum. Shared celebration of successes was exactly the sort of thing the founders had hoped for.

This, however, was not what Lacy would call a success.

How can you say that? Think I can get away with doing an album of American Standards?
You know I have nothing to record.

He was the only one who knew that, actually.

And this was why the anonymity factor had drawn Lacy to the forum in the first place. Only here, where she wouldn’t be judged or pitied or encouraged to start taking an anti-depressant, could she admit her big secret. Could admit that, since Lance’s death, she’d been blocked. More than blocked—she’d been paralyzed.

Every single morning since The Worst Day Ever (this one was an absolute, not a category), she’d picked up her favorite beat-up guitar, the one she’d named Lucky when she was fifteen and considered it to be. Lucky and Lacy had sat on the window seat overlooking Tremont Street and strummed and waited for the words to come, the words that would unlock the pain she carried inside. Every day she somehow lived while her love did not, the words dried up in her throat, becoming a knotted tangle of unrealized lyrics that grew until she set the guitar aside, gasping for air.

I won’t let you do that. What kind of timeframe are we looking at?

This, this was exactly why she felt such an intense bond with this faceless man on the other side of the screen. He cared, enough to reach out a hand to her. Again. And again. It seemed like every time she’d lost it this year, wondering if she’d ever write again, or if her career was over before it began, he’d been there to pull her back up.

Her hands were sweaty as she typed.
Ten weeks.

Easy. We got this.

We do
?
She loved how he attached himself to her problem with his “we.” It gave her comfort, misguided as it was.

Yeah, we do. We just have to change our tactics. We were waiting for your block to disappear on its own. Now we’ll have to be more aggressive with our approach to break through.

More aggressive
. As if she hadn’t already tried with every ounce of her being. Folx was well aware of her attempts. He wasn’t trying to belittle her situation—she knew that. He was being supportive. It didn’t change the truth, though, and she confessed her worst fears now.
I’m scared, Folx. What if I’m dry forever? What if inspiration never strikes again?

It will. And I know you’re scared, but we’ll get through this. I’ll make sure of it.

What are you going to do, exactly?
She smiled at the monitor, waiting.

Anything it takes.

That night, she fell asleep with those words dancing across the backs of her lids, her soul a little more hopeful as the strains of the Blue Hills beat a soundtrack through her memory in time with her heartbeat.

Chapter Four

“Okay, I should warn you. My wedding planner is kind of terrifying.” Andy glanced over at Lacy from her plastic Charlie seat.

“Right. Terrifying.” Lacy was already wary about the outing. Only a little more than a year ago she was planning her own wedding. Though she’d been “fine” through the months since, was it really a good idea to spend the day reminiscing about her own choices? The group of singer-songwriter friends she’d chosen as her musicians, the daisies—the first flower Lance had ever given her—the old theater that she’d picked as her venue. They constantly sat at the edge of her conscience, haunting her. Though she was hopeful they’d one day pour out of her in song, she was also terrified that instead they’d explode when she least expected it. Like while sitting through her sister’s planning meeting.

But wait—why was Andy scared? “Terrifying like how, exactly?”

Andy offered a hesitant frown.

“Hey, I’ve seen every wedding planner movie, including the JLo one. And I’ve been to lots of weddings. Hell, I’ve played enough weddings to have the drill down pat. So I can say with authority that planners are just there to make sure your shit goes smoothly. No reason to be scared. If you’re freaked, it’s probably because you’re freaked about the whole shebang. Which is natural.”

Lacy hoped she sounded comforting, though she really wanted to say,
Sheesh, Andy, get it together.
The planner she’d hired was obviously good. Lacy had double-checked on all the online bridal boards and found he was by far the planner most recommended. It wasn’t really fair for Andy to blame her insecurity on the poor guy just because her wedding was going to be widely reported. Which was what happened when you married one of the city’s richest businessmen.

Luckily, bridezillas were almost Lacy’s specialty at this point. She knew how to handle them. She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she’d sung at enough weddings to know what they were like. At last count, there were almost thirty. It didn’t mean she thought Andy would turn into a nightmare bride, exactly. Just that, if she did, Lacy was prepared.

“I wasn’t freaked about the wedding until I met Tim. I know he’s well meaning. But he’s also terrifying.”

Lacy doubted that. He wouldn’t be the best in the city if he were honestly terrifying. But she didn’t want to argue, so she closed her eyes for the remainder of the ride to avoid discussing it further. A sharp elbow to the ribs told her where they were at the stop, unnecessary since she wasn’t actually asleep. She swallowed her irritation and held her sister’s hand as they walked up the tiled path outside Boston Brides as she remembered another thing from her own wedding planning—getting married was the scariest shit ever.

She’d almost forgotten that. The little doubt-spiders that had crept up her spine constantly. Forever?
Creep, bite.
With one person?
Bite, bite.
Putting the whole event together?
Bite, venom, coma.