And Matthew. I’m thinking about Matthew. The man I want in more ways than one.
…
I spend the rest of the day blotting out Matthew and music and the madness in my heart. Instead, I focus on my son, because he is the only constant in my life. We visit our favorite diner for French fries and chocolate milkshakes for an after-school snack, and I ignore my phone and all my messages and I silence the thoughts in my head for a while as Ethan shows me a drawing he made in art class of a dog wearing a wizard’s cape.
“Let’s go find a book about a dog wizard,” I propose.
His eyes light up, as if I just revealed I possess a map to buried treasure. “They have books about dog wizards?”
“I don’t know. But there’s a big, beautiful place called the library and I bet we can find out there.”
A helpful librarian tracks one down, and I read it to Ethan before he falls asleep that night, doing my darndest not to worry about my stupid deadline that I’m not even close to making unless I can knock out a song tonight about magical dogs.
Once he’s in The Land of Nod, I grab my acoustic and my notebook, and I try and I try and I try to fashion a song from that stupid kiss. But nothing works, and I feel more spent than after a long run with my sister. I am wrung dry, and all my muscles ache. But it’s a pointless sort of ache because I didn’t exercise them. I accomplished absolutely zilch in the music department and I’d really like to kick myself in the face right now. Knock some musical sense into me. Something. Anything.
Writing is my heart’s desire, and I can’t get my arms around it anymore. And this ache—it’s a constant reminder that I’ve misplaced something important.
Something vital for my very survival, like air, like breath. Because writing songs is my oxygen.
Maybe I need to borrow someone else’s oxygen mask for a bit. Maybe I need a song to get my muscles moving for this workout. I reach for my phone and call up one of my favorite playlists, popping in earbuds to listen to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” Queen’s “We Are the Champions,” and The Beatles’s “Here Comes the Sun” as I straighten up for the day. They remind me to believe in myself, that if I made it through the breakup of my marriage thanks to music, that surely I can celebrate what’s on the other side with a handful of songs too.
I’ll try again tomorrow. Today is fading away, and I need to let it go. I flop down on my couch as “Here Comes the Sun” ends, and finally check my e-mail. The first message I see arrived minutes after I left Matthew’s office this afternoon.
from: [email protected]
time: 2:14 PM
subject: Are you okay?
Dear Jane,
You left so quickly that I wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed frustrated when I asked about your deadline. I hope you know I have to ask these questions. I want to do the story justice. I want to do you justice. Sometimes my questions might irritate you. As a journalist, I am completely fine with irritating someone I interview every now and then. It’s the nature of the beast. But taking off my reporter hat, and speaking only as a man now, I am sorry if I upset you. Perhaps you think it’s easy for me to turn it off for you. I assure you, it’s not. I’m still berating myself for kissing you in the elevator when I am desperately trying to focus solely on writing and reporting in the only way I know how—fairly. But I’m not going to pretend I want to erase that kiss in the elevator. Or the time I spent with you in the kitchen. Or hearing your stories about getting on the radio. Even if I weren’t reporting about you, I’d want to hear them. The more I know you, the more I want to get to know you. I am fascinated by everything about you, and you have to know it takes all my resistance to stop at kissing you.
Matthew
Suddenly, I don’t feel so sore. I don’t feel so hollow, either, and though the part of my heart that is owned by music is gasping for air, there’s this other part that is starting to fill. I lie back on the couch, my mind drifting to how I want to know him more, how I want to hear his stories too.
Then, to all the ways I want to break down his resistance.
Chapter Fourteen
One week later it’s snowing, a bitter, bone-gnawing kind of cold that the wicked month of March is known for.
To top it off, it’s frosty inside Ethan’s karate studio where I’m watching my son finish up his class before Owen joins us. I have a notebook in hand, ready for any song ideas that might strike.
Like lightning hitting me. Because the odds feel about the same. Especially since stupid kiss turned into a stupid mess.
I suck.
Plus, Matthew’s been out of town on another assignment, so I haven’t seen him in several days. He’s in Los Angeles, and he’s also visiting his younger brother, who goes to college there. Technically, his absence is a good thing.
But only technically.
Because I miss him.
Owen walks in. “I know there is brilliance stirring in there. I can just feel it.” He places a hand on my head and is gently digging his fingers into my scalp.
“You’re gonna have to dig pretty deep,” I say with a heavy sigh.
He pulls up a white plastic chair and removes his baseball hat, shaking the snow from it. “I don’t believe that for a second.” He runs his hand through his golden-brown hair to get rid of his temporary hat head.