I shook my head and placed my hand on the doorknob. “You can’t.”
Now, here in the hall, the pain slices through me again. I’m reminded once more of Kelly’s advice—maybe I can help someone else. Maybe this pain will be useful to some other woman experiencing the same awful kind of self-doubt.
“Fine. E-mail me the details,” I tell him, then say good-bye, and the pain is instantly chased by anger.
I stare daggers at my phone and fight very hard the urge to throw it at the wall. Instead, I march right back into the studio, past Owen, sitting at the soundboard with Ethan in his lap. I push hard on the door to the live room and grab the nearest guitar. I strap it over my shoulder and push my hands through my hair, pulling it away from my face, reaching for a ponytail holder in my back pocket to get it out of the way.
Without even looking through the window into the control room, I can feel two sets of eyes on me. I can tell my brother and my son are both watching me, quizzical, wondering what is going on as I begin playing.
But I don’t care who is watching. I just focus on the walls, the floors, the microphone so close to my face, and listen to the beats already forming, the chords coming together, the melody of my anger—anger at myself—falling into place, as I play the guitar.
Ten minutes later, I layer the words on top, raw like the notes, raw like my emotions.
Don’t ask me
To be your friend
Don’t ask me to be your figurehead
I don’t want to be your spokesman
So don’t, just don’t, please don’t ask me
I’ll be shaking my head, turning you down
But the words don’t come out that way
So please don’t ask me, oh don’t ask, oh don’t ask, oh don’t ask
…
Later that night, I’m sitting on my deck—my lucky deck—listening to my second album on my iPod. Back when I thought I was happy with my husband. Back when I thought I knew what love was. But I was a fool, and these stupid songs sound so foolish now.
I yank the earbuds from my ears, turn off the music, wishing I didn’t feel so many damn mixed emotions at once—the start of something with Matthew, and the aftereffects of the end of Aidan. The trouble is, only one of those feelings comes with music. I’ve finally managed a decent song, but it came from Aidan, from the scab of my marriage that I keep picking. Not a single, solitary note has come from pleasure. Even the one song I wrote about Matthew wasn’t about happiness—it stemmed from confusion.
I want to move on musically, and I want to be happy personally. But those good, floaty, buzzy feelings for Matthew don’t come with any notes; they aren’t paired with music; they don’t elicit melodies. Maybe it’s only the broken part of my heart that can produce a song, not the part that might be finally healing.
And if that’s true, I’m pretty much screwed.
Chapter Fifteen
I call Matthew in the morning when I wake up. I’m still in bed, my voice a little froggy from sleep.
“Are you back in town?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I wrote a song this weekend,” I tell him.
“Excellent. When do I get a sneak preview?”
“You don’t really beat around the bush, do you?”
“How about tomorrow morning in Central Park?”
“What’s going on in Central Park tomorrow morning?”
“Goos Mom,” he declares, referring to the caretaker of the Central Park geese.
“Is she back? I love Goos Mom! I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Word is she was in California for a while, but she’s back and she’s has her wagon. Meet me on the corner of Seventy-Ninth and Central Park West at eight thirty. I’ll be there with my dog.”
“I get to meet The Doctor. So exciting. I’ll be there.”
“And Jane,” he says, and then pauses. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Same here,” I say, then fumble into the kitchen to make tea, wishing this wanting, this longing, would lead to a song.
…
I scan up and down Central Park West for Matthew. But he’s not here. I park my butt on the closest bench and listen to Arcade Fire on my iPod. I close my eyes during the slow part of one of the songs, then feel the unmistakable sensation of dog breath on my legs. I open my eyes and pull the earphones out of my ears.
Matthew’s in front of me, and I grin instantly at the sight of him. It’s been a week since I’ve seen him, and he’s so damn handsome, those blue eyes drawing me back to him with the way they sparkle playfully. “Matthew Harrigan is late. Or so Jane Black thinks. But what she doesn’t know is the clever Mr. Harrigan told Jane to be here at eight thirty to ensure she’d be here at the proper time. Nine.”
I can’t help but let a small smile form across my mouth. “You tricked me.”
He reaches out a hand to me and I willingly accept, standing up from the bench. “I had no choice. Goos Mom excels in punctuality and I needed you here on time.”
I gesture to the big blond dog. “I like your dog.”
“I’ve told her all about you.”
That makes me smile and want to smother him in kisses too. Instead, I bend down to pet his dog on the head. She’s a big dog, probably eighty pounds or so, and appears as if a little bit of hound, a little bit of husky, and a little bit of Labrador were dropped in the mixing bowl to make her. She has a thick husky coat, hound haunches, soft ears, and the proverbial big brown eyes. “She’s adorable,” I say.