Love Struck (Miss Match #2) (7 page)

He smiled to see the little line turn into dots, indicating she was writing back. The dots disappeared then reappeared a bunch of times. So that struck a chord. Figuratively. Or literally. Who could tell the difference these days between those words?

Crybaby.

Ah, another music movie.
Point to Love. That one was amazing.

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.

He gave himself a point. The Carrie Nations was his favorite fictional band. Plus that movie was so bizarre, every time he watched it he was startled all over again.

Her next response came quickly.
Spiceworld.

What is wrong with you?
He didn’t really mean it, but kind of he did.

No one has answered that question yet.

And he hoped no one ever would. This chick was into John Waters, Glen Hansard,
and
the Spice Girls? She was probably the biggest genius he’d never met.

The Punk Singer.

Her dotted line was absent for five minutes after that. Had he said the wrong thing? That documentary was the most glorious celebration of women in music he had ever seen. He assumed Love would feel the same? Maybe he should have typed
Searching for Sugar Man
, another brilliant doc, less edgy.

This time when he picked up his mando, it was for comfort. Something had gone wrong somewhere in the conversation. Then the dots picked up again.

You’re hot.

He laughed out loud. So it
was
the right answer.
You are.

He thrilled a little bit. Or a lot. They were nearly flirting. It was … nice.

Not for the first time, or fifteenth, he wondered what she looked like. There was an image in his head, but who could say if it was accurate? When he imagined LoveCoda, he pictured someone beautiful and capable. Tall-ish. Intense. Her eyes would be captivating. Beyond that, though, things got fuzzy. Blonde or brunette? Redhead, even? No idea.

He hummed a few bars of the song he’d just written for her. Wow. Of all the songs he’d worked on in their partnership, this was the first one directly inspired by her. It was also one of his best.

This was so stupid, this charade they were keeping up. He wanted to play her this song. His fingers hovered over the keys, trying to figure out how to ask her—what, exactly? He let his fingers drop. He didn’t even know what he wanted, except that she be involved in whatever it was.

But then she was writing back:
Folx? I know I’m not supposed to ask …

His heart rate quickened. Could she really be so in tune with him that she was thinking the same thing?
Go ahead …

He hit return and tried not to be hopeful. She probably just wanted to find out the name of his band, or something like that.

Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend? It’s the twenty-first century, I shouldn’t assume.

He felt like pumping his fist in the air, but, even though they were in different spaces, he was afraid the movement would shatter the fragile moment that he so wanted to cling to. So instead, he scooted his chair closer to his desk, zoning everything out but the screen and her words and his answer.
I don’t have either. And if I did, it would be a girlfriend.

He paused long enough to get the courage to ask the inevitable return question.
How about you?

Time stood still as he waited.

Neither. And if I did, it would be a boyfriend.

Eli let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and he grinned. Ear-to-ear grinned.
That makes me happier than it probably should.

Same here. Can we be totally honest? All cards on the table and all that?

Yes.
Hell, yes. He’d tell her anything. Confess anything. Commit to anything. Just as long as the conversation kept going in this direction.

I think about you.

Eli read that line again. Then once more before going on to the rest.

I know, it’s crazy because I’ve never met you in real life. I don’t even know how old you are or if you’re interested in that kind of relationship with someone you met online.

He’d never even thought about her age. What if she were fifty? Or worse, sixteen? Probably not, though, because no sixteen-year-old he knew was into the Spice Girls.

Never mind that he didn’t know any sixteen-year-olds. It was just an educated guess.

When it came down to it, though, he didn’t care how old she was. He didn’t even care what she looked like. Okay, he cared, but he didn’t think her looks mattered as much as they might have had he not already learned how kickass she was.

He liked what he had with LoveCoda. He liked it enough to want more. He showed his cards.
I’m thirty-one. And I’m interested
.

In case he hadn’t been clear enough he added,
I’m interested in you.

He imagined her breath catching. Even though he didn’t know her in real life, didn’t know her gestures or her mannerisms, he imagined her breath catching because that was the response he hoped she had. If he were not so intent on holding on to his manhood, his breath would have caught. Many times over at this point.

So now what?

He wasn’t ready for that. He wanted to hear her say it back—see her type it back.
Well, first, I think, you should clarify if you feel the same. If you have the same interest.

I do. Of course, I do. I’m the one who brought it up.

Had she been the one? He’d forgotten already, feeling as though he’d been the one. It had been his intention. He just hadn’t figured out how to ask.

Also, I’m twenty-six.

You’re a baby.
He was teasing. He had no problems with her age. Not one.

Also, holy hell, he hoped the moderators weren’t watching this. He could live with being kicked off the forum—as long as he got LoveCoda’s info first—but he didn’t want a lawsuit on his hands. He’d just tossed all the rules out the window.

Shut up.
The dots of typing appeared and stopped. Appeared and stopped. Appeared again. She was trying to decide what to say next. Finally, she repeated her last question.
So now what?

Good question.

He didn’t even know where she lived. She could be across the country. Outside the country, even. Honestly, it didn’t matter. He’d go wherever she was just to be able to meet her.

Only, he couldn’t right now. He had the damn tour. Trying not to regret his obligations, he answered.
We should meet. But I have commitments right now. And so do you—you have that album.

If I met you in person, maybe I could find my inspiration.
She added both a smiley face and a heart at the end of her sentence. It was all he could do not to kiss the screen.

I wish.
God, did he wish.
But I’m booked. How about this—we set a date for the future. And we meet.

Several seconds passed, and Eli wondered if he’d misread her. Or if the admins of the site had found them out and cut their communication. Maybe that was overly paranoid. But then why wasn’t she saying anything?

Then she typed. And her response appeared.
Like Sleepless in Seattle? Meet on New Year’s on top of the Empire State Building? But not on the Empire cuz I’m afraid of heights.

Sleepless in Seattle. No band reference, but a great soundtrack. And I know about the heights.
See? This wasn’t ridiculous. They’d already shared enough details for him to know these random things about her.
And not New Year’s—that’s too far away.
His tour lasted only two months, but he didn’t want to get in the way of her recording. When had she said that was happening?
Ten weeks.
He’d add a month to his own commitment to cover hers.
Christmas Eve. Three months from now.

I have a thing on Christmas Eve.
There was a pause in her typing.
But if you would want to come as my date.… It’s formal and would require a tux so I’d understand if that doesn’t work.

I’ll rent a tux.
A formal first date would give him extra points with her, and he wanted all the points he could get. Besides, it would be easier to get away from his mom and her sisters and their total holiday extravaganza if he had an official type of place to be.

Cool. It’s a date. I’ll give you more details when we’re closer. In the meantime?

In the meantime he’d keep holding onto her like he had been. How long had it been since he’d looked at another woman? How long since he’d shared a meaningful glance? Except for the chick in the crowd at the show the other night, it had been a while. Because he already thought of himself as weirdly “with” LoveCoda.

He couldn’t quite say,
I think of you as my kind-of girlfriend
. He didn’t want to scare her off, after all.

He thought carefully before entering his response.
We meet here online. Like we do. No commitment. Just friends with the promise of a possible more.

Ha. A possible more. There’s a song in that …

WRITE IT.

So Love might be blocked, but she still saw music in her surroundings. Saw music in their relationship. As if she were meant for him, sight unseen.

His screen was quiet for long moments. Eli began to wonder if Love really had gone off to spin a lyric. Or maybe she’d gone to the bathroom or to get a snack. Or the moderators had cut her account, which was unlikely since her icon was still lit up.

Or, maybe things were going to be awkward between them now. God, please don’t let that be the case. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He poised his hands above the keys to say something—
anything
—to reestablish their natural repartee.

But before he could think of something witty yet light, he saw the dots indicating she was typing.

How did we not even include Spinal Tap? We have failed.

And his worrying was over.

Chapter Seven

Lacy side-eyed the calendar as she signed off on her time card and didn’t know whether to frown or smile. Each day that passed was one day closer to Andy’s wedding, which meant one day closer to her date with Folx. Perhaps it had been an odd day to choose to meet him, but he’d chosen Christmas Eve first. When he’d said it—typed it—it felt right. She had a feeling she’d prefer having a date among all the Andy/Blake love, so why not with Folx?

Of course she hadn’t explained to him that it was a wedding. She didn’t want the mods to see, for one, but also, she was afraid the word might sound scary. Weddings as dates were for serious relationships. Somehow, though, she didn’t think he would be scared by it so much as she was scared to say it. Anyway, he’d find out soon enough.

But also, each day that passed was another day closer to her studio session. Another day without a song written. She had only nine weeks left to pull this record out of thin air. At what point should she admit it to Darrin so he could book the studio time with another, paying, customer?

Not yet
, she told herself. But really the words were Folx’s. She knew it was what he’d tell her.
Not yet. Don’t give up yet.

For that matter, Lance would have said the same thing. He’d never failed to be supportive and not in the “little gestures” way, but in the big ways. He was the guy who lugged all her equipment from gig to gig and hand-sold copies of her first CD to everyone he knew. He knew when she had a good song before she did, and he’d make sure she finished it. His faith in her was endless.

God, Lance … I feel like I’m cheating on you. But you left. You left me.

Sometimes she missed him so
so
much.

But now there was Folx, singing the same sentiments Lance would have. He made her truly believe he wouldn’t give up on her either.

Still, it was with a heavy heart that she hefted the strap of her guitar case on her shoulder and turned to leave the studio.

“Oh, my God, Lacy! You’re still here!”

Kat’s shrill voice cut into Lacy’s backside from down the hall. She closed her eyes momentarily, praying for the strength to turn around and face her sometimes friend with a smile. Her prayers were half answered—she found the energy to turn around, but she couldn’t manage anything more than a tight line of her lips. At least she wasn’t scowling.

Lacy didn’t even have to say anything. Kat closed the distance between them in five bouncy steps, sort of like a real-life Tigger, and threw her arms around Lacy.

Crap,
Lacy thought through an inhale of patchouli.
Now what?

Kat leaned back, her hands still on Lacy’s shoulders. “Guess what. You’ll never guess though, so I’m just telling you. OMG you won’t believe it. And you’re going to love me so hard. Ah! I can’t believe this is happening!”

“What, Kat? Just spit it out.” She was not in the mood for exuberance. Did her coworker just land another gig she’d wanted?

“Remember the Blue Hills? Remember Wes, the drummer?”

Lacy could honestly say she didn’t remember the drummer, but she certainly remembered the Blue Hills. “Of course. They were hot. I mean, their music was hot.”

“Well, they just left on a two-month tour of the Northeast, and their opening act had to cancel because he had a twerking incident. That look you’re giving me is exactly the expression I had too. But we’ve all seen those YouTube vids, and this guy is apparently almost sixty but wanted to be cool and tried it at a show, which is weirdest because his music is ultra folk and doesn’t lend itself to twerking at all, but anyway he injured his back. Both his disc—and his pants—slipped, ensuring the end of his music career for the time being at least, and hopefully the end of his twerking career forever.

“Anyway, again. That means no opening act and they’re looking for someone last minute, and a few weeks ago I gave Wes your CD that you burned last year and he gave it to his manager and Wes just called me and they want you and that’s so amazing that I can hardly contain myself so congratulations and you’re welcome!”