“Go take a stroll around Manhattan, wander through your old ’hood in the East Village where you wrote Crushed, visit an art museum, watch the tide roll in, read a novel, rock out at a club late at night. Whatever it takes to find some brilliant ideas for songs. Maybe even go on a date. Fall in love. There must be inspiration in that,” Jeremy suggests, as if I can simply go out and do it because he deems it a good idea.
“Yeah!” Owen shouts, like he’s a football coach. “Let’s get you back in the saddle. Nothing like a new man to get the song ideas going.”
I shoot my brother an annoyed stare. “Seriously? You think it’s that simple?”
Jeremy stands up, walks over to me, and pats me on the back. He’s trying to return to his friendly papa-bear routine. “Look, we’re just starting to work with this hipster band Retractable Eyes. I could set you up with the lead singer,” he offers.
I run my hands through my hair, twisting it. “Guys. I’ll figure something out. You don’t have to hook me up with another musician, and you don’t have to worry about pathetic little old dateless me whose ex didn’t even want her, okay?” Then, simply to extract myself from this conversation, I toss them a bone. I need to get them off the scent of my own lack of music. “So Beat wants to do a big feature on me.”
Jeremy practically falls over when I mention Beat. He quickly grabs the edge of his desk, so his chair is now firmly rooted to the floor. “Beat magazine!”
“What, you got a woodie for Beat?” Owen asks.
Jeremy’s hyperventilating. “What’s the story about?”
“The creative process, what’s next, my follow-up,” I say, then instantly want to clamp my hand over my mouth, because those three things are all my musical struggles right now.
“You’re saying yes,” Jeremy instructs. “You’re doing the interview, and you’re making an album, and I f**king believe in you, and you are going to go shake some songs out of a tree if you have to. Because it’s Beat magazine! Harrigan doesn’t even take swag. He returns all the CDs every label sends him after he reviews them. Feature stories in Beat don’t come around often. This is going to be huge for launching your next album.”
“Jeremy,” I say, pushing back. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, you know, given everything with the press these days. It’s not as if I want my whole life to become public. I have a kid, and I want to raise him as normally as possible.”
Jeremy eases up. “Hey, I know you’re a little gun-shy. And understandably so. But what can it hurt to hear the man out? Let Matthew make his pitch.”
Owen chimes in. “Take him to Café Cluny, sis. I hear it’s romantic.”
I roll my eyes at my brother, as Jeremy hands me the receiver to his office line. “Call him now,” Jeremy commands. “Set up a time to talk.”
“Fine,” I say, but I have to admit there’s a part of me that’s secretly glad. Because it means I have a reason to see Matthew. And even though I absolutely, positively won’t let myself feel a thing for him, I wouldn’t mind having dinner with a man who’s so easy on the eyes and so delightful to talk to.
It’s been far too long since I’ve had that, and I’m glad when he says he’s free tonight.
Chapter Seven
When I return home I settle into my couch with my acoustic guitar, determined to knock out the beginnings of my next album. I have to show Jeremy, Owen, Matthew, and everyone else that I have it in me to be a real musician, not a one-hit wonder fueled by a high-octane heartbreak. I play around with the three songs I’ve written, but they don’t grab me, so I move onto something new, grateful that Ethan is with his dad tonight so I can focus on music and then dinner.
Two hours later I have cobbled together a smidgen of a little melody that could turn into a full-blown song with a bit more coaxing. Lyrics will come in time, I tell myself. At least, I hope they will because my heart is starting to beat faster, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement. Maybe it’s both, because I’m scared as hell about meeting my deadline, and I’m more excited than I should be about dinner.
I put my guitar away in the closet and take a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at my bed, littered with outfits I have tried on and rejected. This is just a dinner with a reporter. It’s not a big deal, and it’s definitely not a date with an insanely hot man. Whichever outfit I choose next will be the winning one. I reach for my favorite jeans, my black leather boots, and a vintage sky-blue sweater, with the V-neck made out of a secondhand men’s tie. It’s very retro and very hip and with just a quick swish of powder, blush, and mascara I’m ready to go. I grab my coat and shoulder bag, head downstairs, and take a cab to the West Village.
When I arrive, I pay the cabbie and head into the little bistro, painted emerald green and tucked into the corner of a brick building on West Fourth Street and West Twelfth. Matthew and I agreed to meet at eight o’clock and I am only ten minutes late, so it feels like on time.
“The other party is already here,” says the host, who sports a totally shaved head and is clad in a black button-down shirt and jeans.
Damn. I arrive nearly on time and I’m still the last one to the table. Then again, Matthew’s probably the type to always be on time, to hold doors, to rise when a woman sits down at a table. The host leads me to Matthew, who closes the book he’s reading and stands to give me a nearly there kiss on the cheek. My eyelids flutter closed for the briefest of moments at the feel of his soft lips so near to me. The notion crosses my mind that I can turn my head and learn exactly how soft those lips are. Discover how he kisses, if he’s the type who devours you, or if he starts out slowly and teases with kisses that leave you wanting.