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  And that’s when my brain exploded.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  That One Time I Became a Songwriter

  Carter and I started working on music day and night. Mostly we were just playing around, but every few tries we’d come across something we liked. The melodies he’d weave were fucking enchanting; he was honestly and truly talented, and that was good because most people didn’t have a lot of faith in his “comeback.” It’s hard enough to get famous once, let alone do it again just as successfully.

  I’d come in with a lot of the lyrics. I’d written a lot of poetry in high school creative writing classes, and I’d have to remember to send my teacher a muffin basket or something. Cause this shit rocked. I got to write about how much I hated men (Isaac) and how much I loved men (Isaac) and all the blood and guts in between the two extremes. Then I got to hear Carter Coleman sing it. And I got to sing it with him. I should send my chorus teacher a muffin basket too.

  Even though it was harder for Carter to write, I could tell he vibed with my words. He’d been through shit too; and that made it easier to feel it all. Made it bearable.

  “I just can’t fucking believe this is your life,” Molly’s beautiful, pixilated face yelled at me through my computer screen one night on Skype.

  “At this point, I can’t believe this is my life either, Molls,” I told her and I wasn’t even laughing. “Maybe you should move to California, shit just seems to happen here. I don’t deserve any of it.”

  “You deserve all of it. You’re killing it. Even though I want you to come home every day, I wouldn’t blame you if you never did.” My best friend was buttering me up for something. I knew her well enough to sense when she was trying to soften a blow.

  And she knew me well enough to see in my eyes that I had her figured out.

  “Okay, okay,” Molly started, just as I butted in.

  “What’s going on…what is it.” No question mark. There was something, no doubt about it.

  “It’s nothing really. It shouldn’t affect you at all seeing as how you’re living the life out there. I didn’t even really want to tell you, but Ellie thought we probably should, since you might find out anyway.” I could sense where this was going now, and I felt sick.

  “What about him, Molly? What is it?”

  “Isaac’s dating someone.”

  A fucking knife through my hand would’ve been less painful. I’d been doing okay. Writing about the whole thing had eased me out of a lot of the pain, had been really therapeutic. But I just wasn’t prepared for this. I wasn’t prepared to have to know that Isaac was going to kiss some other girl that way he had kissed me. Touch some other girl that way he had touched me. Slide some other girl across his sheets in the morning so she could wake up feeling as good as she had the night before – like they hadn’t been interrupted by sleep.

  “You okay?” Molly asked. She was so close to her screen, studying my face and wanting to hug me, like it was just this thin sheet of glass that separated us and not 3,000 miles.

  “Do we know her?” No, I was not okay, but the answer to this question could directly affect my level of suicidal-ness.

  “No.”

  Thank God. “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Christy. She’s…cute-i’sh. I guess. Heavy on the ish.” Molly’s words came quickly, now. “She’s no you, obviously. Actually she kind of looks like you, creepily, but she has a more pig-ish nose. A squarer face. And Christy? That’s, like, as basic a name as you can get.” Molly rambled on, but I stopped listening to her talk about this girl who was going to be sleeping in my spot.

  ***

  The next afternoon, I was at Carter’s. We were trying to figure out the chorus to a song we’d been working on all week, but I couldn’t focus. I kept seeing Isaac kissing the pig-nosed version of me, forgetting all about me.

  “What’s up with you?” Carter called me out. “You look miserable.”

  “It’s nothing. It’s stupid and something I shouldn’t care about. Something I hate myself for caring about.”

  “The same guy?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The guy. The one you were drinking about when we first met. The one the songs are about.” He strummed carelessly on his guitar as he spoke. I think he was trying to casually pry without me catching on. I knew he probably wondered where all my material came from, but it seemed now like he kind of thought about it more than I realized.

  “Oh. Uh, yeah. My friend just told me he started dating someone. I thought I was getting over it…doing pretty fucking well, you know? It’s so fucking lame, I don’t even know why I care. It’s not like he ever did that much for me.”

  “I get it. As much as anyone can, I guess, because it’s like explaining sweetness to someone who’s never tasted sugar. You can understand the concept without really understanding the feeling. But it’s kinda as if the ‘missing’ is a backdrop to every day. Like, it becomes part of your norm, so you don’t even realize it’s there until something comes up that makes you remember that you still feel it?” Carter mused.

  That was exactly what it was like. Missing him was just part of me now, whether or not I was conscious of it all the time.

  “It sucks,” was all I could manage. Now, I was wondering what had happened to him to make him get it the way he did. “You feel that way, too?”

  “Well, no,” Carter said bashfully. “I mean, there’ve been lots of girls, but no one who really did that for me. I’ve just listened to enough music to know it’s out there.”

  “Right. Well you’re probably luckier for not knowing.”

  “Look at it this way. It was almost effortless for you to write a song about this guy. While I do think some of that is just good, ole-fashioned God given talent, it’s also because he’s just a character. He played a part that you fell for so easily because he designed it that way. That’s not real. Never could be. Characters belong in stories, not in your life.” Carter patted my knee out of kindness. I didn’t exhale for a full minute, just letting his wisdom settle in my skin.

  “Still, though,” he continued. “I’d like to meet someone who could…” He trailed off, being a guy, in that he didn’t want to sound too mushy about relationships.

  “Help you taste sugar for the first time?”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “But it’s all pretty hopeless anyway, right?” He was still smiling as he said it, like he had relaxed into his hopelessness. Or was trying to hide how much that bothered him. “You want a beer or something?”

  “Can we…can I do that? I mean, I’m still working for you.” I laughed. Carter shrugged and walked out of the room, coming back with two bottles.

  “It’s important to remember what it’s like to taste the sugar,” he said as he handed one to me. “Dude, let’s write a song about that.”

  I took a sip, mulled it over. “Try and explain sweetness?”

  “Exactly.” He nodded.

  ***

  Four hours and six beers later, Carter and I sang our latest song back. It was faster and snarkier than our other stuff. A little like we were trying to keep the beat quick so we could ride it to the part where you’re over your heartbreak. One of my favorite lines from it was “you took away all the sweet and left me with the bitter/but at least I had the sugar for a while/now I just have to forget how you made my heart flitter/forget I know what sweetness tastes like and stay in my denial.”

  Carter squeezed my hand when we finished singing it through, like we both knew something might have just happened. Then I ruined it by letting out a little beer burp that made us laugh. We were for sure buzzed and feeling good about the whole direction of this new adventure. It had been a while since I was unapologetically excited about something. Moving to California was, of course, exhilarating, but it came with the baggage of saying goodbye to everything and everyone I knew, and it came with inevitable sadness. This – the singing and writing – it gave me everything without asking me for payment.

 
“Let’s go get a real drink somewhere.” Carter stood up.

  “I still feel like that’s maybe not okay,” I said, though I really wanted to. I had this, like, flirty, buzzy vibe going on in my head. I just wanted him to tell me he wanted me to go out with him.

  “You’re officially off the clock, homie. I know a couple people having a thing over at The Crib. Let’s go.” Carter pulled my hand to help me stand. The “homie” had thrown me off…but whatever, he was still my boss. And I was just getting drunk anyway, that’s when the fake feelings always rise like little soap bubbles. Good thing those are the most fragile and easily pop-able, like they were never there at all.

  Which were the only type of feelings I wanted these days.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That Night

  “Carter! What’s up, man?” Variations of this greeting were shouted across the bar as we walked past the line of girls wearing too little clothing (even for California), and boys with too much hair product (even for California). The spot itself looked like it was torn from the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog with animal heads on the walls, casual couches that probably cost more than my mother’s car, white pickets, and trendy light bulbs that were blurring my vision even more than it already was. I’d had a couple of road sodas on the way over.

  “How’s it going, dude?” Carter asked without expecting an answer as we moved to the front entrance. “Yeah, hi, I’m sorry –” The girl stared down at her oh-so-important clipboard with eyes that said she was ready to turn us away before she’d even glanced up. Those flat, brown eyes brightened right up, though, when she saw who it was.

  “Carter! Mr. Coleman, sorry…what party are you here for?” Miss Clipboard batted her stubby, clumped lashes at him. All the mascara in the world won’t make them grow, honey-pot-emoji. “Is your…guest…on the list, too?

  “And to think that for a second I had almost felt bad about the eyelash thought.

  “We’re meeting Jake,” Carter said. “I’m sure he’ll be cool with an extra.” He nudged me with his hip, smiling at the girl, which wiped her smile right off. She stepped to the side, letting us through and brushing my shoulder slightly. Just enough for me to know she hated me. That’s fine, doe, I would hate me, too.

  We moved through the crowd of people, and Carter grabbed my hand. Loosely enough for me to know it was just so we wouldn’t get separated, but still. I made a mental note to catalog this detail (because we all know certain key points of an evening can get lost in the drunk shuffle), so I could tell Molly and Ellie in the morning. Would it ever get old, that I was hanging out with one of our preteen dreams? Probably not. We have obsessive personalities.

  “Jake…like Jake Maron?” I asked it as casually as I could.

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  Did I know him? As well as any other girl on planet earth who hadn’t been living in a hut made from mud. I’d seen paparazzi pictures of Carter with Hollywood’s new “it” guy, but I’d never heard Carter mention him. Jake Maron had been the charming lead in pretty much every teen-demo rom-com in the last five years. I’ve cried my way through his movies more times than I’d care to admit, and I’d fantasized about him way more times than even that.

  But I just said, “I’ve seen him in a few things, sure.”

  Carter laughed like he knew I was lying. He walked me right up to a table full of faces I’d seen in countless films, commercials, TV shows, and magazines. WHERE THE FUCK WAS I? WHAT WAS I DOING HERE? Catalog, catalog, catalog for the morning FaceTime sesh that I now knew had to happen or I would be disowned by my friends.

  He introduced me around. “This is Josie, everyone. Josie, this is Lena.” She was in my favorite summer trash show. “This is Trey.” He was on a billboard, wearing only his underwear three blocks from my place. “And Charlie, Tiff, Derek, Chet…” Watched him on Ellen two weeks ago, Quentin Tarantino’s new muse, has his own sketch TV show, cast in the new Jennifer Lawrence movie. My mind was reeling, but as far as I can recall, I kept it cool. Just plastered a small smile on my face and nodded, shaking hands and acting like I had no clue who these people were. “And this is my boy, Jake.”

  Jake Maron. Once, at a girl’s movie night in with Molly and Ells when we were sixteen, I’d paused his movie Another Day With You while he was talking, while his lips were pursed, just so I could kiss the screen. There was a picture of it on Instagram. I’d better remember to remember to delete that.

  “What’s up, Josie? You’re Carter’s new assistant, yeah?” I’m not sure how long I stared at Jake before Carter stepped in. I was having a hard time playing it cool.

  “She was…she is. But she’s also writing and singing with me on some of my new stuff so…the lines are getting a little blurred,” Carter said.

  “Wow, you hit the jackpot, huh?” Tiff, Tarantino’s girl, said.

  “I did. I really did,” I answered.

  “I think she meant Carter.” Jake smiled at me. Smiled at me. “Let’s get a drink?” He stepped towards me, his body kind of pushing me to walk with him to the bar.

  “Definitely.” Carter moved with us. Jake gave him a strange look, but maybe I just imagined that because just as quickly as it appeared he fell in step with us, and we all went to the bar together.

  “What do you want?” Both Carter and Jake asked me in unison. “Uhhh.” I glanced from one face to the other. “I’m gonna get a jalapeno margarita, but I can get it. My boss pays me very well.” I laughed. But when the bartender handed me my drink, Jake gave him money before I had the chance.

  “Hey! You don’t have to -”

  Jake just shook his head and smiled, ignoring my opposition. So I just sipped my drink. I mean, I’m always going to be the girl who says “Oh, no, you don’t have to, I can buy my own drink,” but thinks, Is this dude really gonna let me pay for my own drink?’ when I want it to be a date. And any girl who tells you she isn’t like that is lying or a lesbian (whose rules of dating are simply unknown to me). Cause how are you supposed to gauge what a guy is feeling unless he makes it clear by buying your coffee or dinner or whatever.

  Y’all are fickle fucks, and I need a concrete sign.

  Otherwise I end up spending months thinking you like me when, really, you could care less. I’m all for feminism and gender equality, and I believe we should get equal pay in the workplace, but a man should always foot the bill the first couple times around. It’s not a double standard. It’s really more about giving us a sign that you’re into us as more than a friend than it is about who pays. Kinda, anyway.

  I swear I’m a feminist.

  Really.

  “I would’ve gotten that, man, you didn’t have to,” Carter was saying.

  “No, now that I never would’ve allowed. You already pay all my bills, I can’t have you supporting my alcoholism too. Sends mixed signals.” I giggled between sips. Jake laughed, too, but Carter just smirked a little and looked away.

  I hung my head and took a long slurp off my drink, like that might make it less awkward instead of more? Great thinking, Jos.

  “You wanna dance?”

  I looked up, embarrassed, because I didn’t know who had asked me. I hadn’t been paying attention, tequila had become the mayor of my brain, and the bar was loud. Both Carter and Jake were staring at me expectantly, which made it really hard to tell.

  “Come on.” Jake grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards the dance floor.

  Okay, problem solved. I mean I should’ve guessed that, right?

  ***

  Two margaritas and countless songs later, Jake was still twirling me around the floor. I felt like falling rain, weightless but with the power to wash away all the dirt of the world and make everything fresh for everyone. I looked up past the hanging string lights and could still see the stars, and I felt like counting each and every one. As if, in this moment, I could. It felt as if all of forever stretched out in front of me. I wasn’t saddled with the heaviness of missing anymore. I was dizzy from tequila or
from laughing too much—I couldn’t tell which.

  Later on—it must’ve been basically last call, but I don’t really know—Jake pulled me in close. “Let’s get out of here,” he slurred into my ear, kissing my lobe a little before he backed away. He didn’t make it a question or wait for an answer. By the time I realized I should look for Carter we were already in the parking lot, and the air was freckled with lights and shrieks and before I could even take in what was going on, Jake swooped me up into the backseat of a car that was waiting for him.

  “Where are we going?” I slid far down in the seat, tucking my chin into my chest it was a bony pillow.

  “My place? Unless you want to go to yours. Do you have roommates?”

  I nodded, my eyes shutting. I felt Jake’s hand slide behind my back, tugging me into the nook of his shoulder. Then the drunk horniness kicked in, as it always does. His driver could’ve been the one holding me, and I probably would’ve felt like boning him. But even in my faded state I knew this was Jake fucking Maron who clearly wanted to hook up with me.

  This was going to be legenfuckingdary.

  ***

  You know how you can work something up so much in your mind that, honestly, any reality is going to let you down? Or better yet—you know how it feels right before you kiss someone? Their lips hover just a centimeter from yours, and it could be your first kiss from the love of your life or the person who will shred your heart into tinier pieces than you thought possible—you don’t know how these lips, this kiss is going to change you. This moment of possibility is almost always better than the kiss because more often than not that kiss is not the moment. You know, the moment. But the possibility is there that it could be—and possibility is what we wake up for, isn’t it?

  I’d seen Jake Maron have sex with countless girls in his movies—lifting them up, pulling them in through rainstorms, holding their faces the way I hold peanut butter when I get the last jar at the grocery store. Obviously, I was ready to be swept away. In reality, Jake thrust four times (after spending a measly two minutes downtown) before he flipped me over on top of him to do the rest of the work. Normally I’m okay taking control of these situations, but he kept saying weird, unsexy things like, “I’m so hot right now. You’re so hot right now.”