The Lonely Hearts Club Read online

  “That’s silly,” Amber says. “She threw a great party. High-energy crowd. Amazing bands. Everyone had a blast! In fact, I think lots of folks found love that night. There were lots of people looking very cozy.”

  Not getting what he wants from her, the reporter ends the interview.

  I flip off the TV. At least one person still likes me. Unfortunately, it’s the person I hate most in the world, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

  I pick up my guitar and play a few chords. This is what I should have been doing the whole time. This is what I should be focusing on. When did I lose track of that? I lost sight of the one thing that was important, the one thing that always got me through every tough time in my life. My music.

  I think about what Jesse said to me right before we broke up—that I haven’t written in two years, that I hadn’t played in as long. I’ve been stalled for the last two years. I’m living in the past. He may be an asshole, but he may just be an asshole with a point.

  The gift certificate Andrew gave me for my birthday has been burning a hole in my pocket, so I grab it and go.

  I sit in the studio for hours, but nothing comes. I have rage coursing through my veins, but I can’t seem to channel it. I take out my notepad and try to write an entry for the Lonely Hearts Club blog—I can still write it, even if no one’s reading it—but I can’t think of anything to say. Nothing that I want to put out there, for all the world to see, anyway. I can’t shake the ache of sadness I feel. A constant, nagging ache. I miss having something to work on each day. I miss Chloe. I miss Max.

  My eyes start to tear up, but I do what I always do—I stop the tears. Stop the crying. I am not the sort of girl who cries. Crying is weakness, and I need to be strong now. My sound engineer sees me blotting my eyes and asks me if I need a minute.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and continue to play.

  A few hours later, the gift certificate’s all used up, and I have nothing to show for it besides a recording of me riffing on chords, doing cover song after cover song. None of it’s usable. I’ve wasted an entire afternoon—the entire gift certificate of expensive studio time—on nothing. That’s never happened to me before. I’ve never gone into the studio and come out empty-handed.

  I walk home from the studio, letting the fresh air clear my head. I’m hoping that the exercise will free my mind a little, inspire me to write again, but all I can think about is Max. All I can think about is Chloe. I wonder if Chloe will be there when I get home. I consider texting her to see if she’s working late, but then realize if I tell her that I’m on my way home, she’ll stay late at the office just to miss me. My only chance of seeing her is by accident.

  My thoughts float back to Max. Max. Always Max. I delude myself into this little fantasy that I indulge every evening as I get home to Chloe’s apartment—that Max will be waiting for me in the lobby, dozens of roses firmly in hand, ready to tell me that he forgives me, that he knows I truly love him and that he’s made a mistake. When the truth is, all I really do night after night is order in Caesar salad and chicken parmesan for myself, sit in front of the TV, and feel guilty for not writing music.

  And it’s silly to think such a thing would happen. It’s a breakup. They call it that because it’s broken. No amount of wishing is going to magically put it back together. That’s not how it works. And I should know. I wrote the book on it. Well, the blog, anyway.

  And now it’s all over.

  39 - Enjoy the Silence

  I show up at the supergood offices a little shy of noon. I figure if Max won’t let me come up, I can catch him when he comes down to pick up lunch. He hasn’t answered my calls, texts, or e-mails. I try to look like I fit in, like I’m not the stalker that I truly am as I skulk around the lobby. At a little after 1 P.M., it seems clear that Max is not leaving his office for lunch today.

  So much for my plan.

  I approach the security desk and ask for Max. He picks up the phone and calls the IT department.

  “He’s not there,” the security guard tells me.

  “Can you try again?” I plead.

  “He’s not there,” the security guard repeats. Then he looks over my shoulder, his way of saying that he’s done with me and he’s ready to help the next person waiting in line.

  I ask for Chloe. She may be angry, but I know she’ll at least let me come up. The security guard begrudgingly makes the call.

  “Max won’t buzz you up?” she asks, as she picks me up from the security desk moments later.

  “Nope,” I say, and we ride the rest of the elevator trip in silence.

  “This is his floor,” she says, and lets me off on the eleventh floor. She doesn’t come out onto the eleventh floor with me. She simply gives me a limp wave good-bye and sends me off, out of the elevator by myself. It’s only when the elevator doors slam shut that I realize I don’t even know where the IT offices are.

  For a split second, I rethink my plan to confront Max at his office and turn around to hit the button for the elevator. I hit the DOWN button over and over again, in a vain attempt to get the elevator doors to open a bit faster. But then I stop. After all, the longer I wait, the angrier he’s going to get. I need to quash this now, talk to him now. If I can just explain, I know he’ll understand.

  I walk the hallways of the eleventh floor, trying to look as if I know where I’m going. I pass a string of offices and then the restrooms and then finally at the end of the floor, I see what I’m looking for.

  “Max?” I ask to a sea of cubicles, as I enter an enormous open room marked IT DEPARTMENT.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, getting up from his cubicle and rushing me out to the hallway. “I didn’t buzz you up.”

  “Chloe did,” I say. “I need to talk to you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he says. “And now’s not exactly the right time, when I’m supposed to be working.”

  “You won’t answer my calls,” I plead. “You won’t write back to my texts or e-mails. I even posted a message for you on the Lonely Hearts Club Web site. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Accept that I don’t want to see you anymore, Jo,” Max says. He places his hand below my elbow and guides me toward the door. “It’s over. We’re over.”

  “Give me another chance,” I say, turning back to face him. “I’ll do anything.”

  “You’re not ready for the sort of relationship that I want,” Max says. “I knew it from the beginning, but I let you convince me otherwise. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I let myself believe that things would change.”

  “They will.”

  “They won’t,” Max says. “When it really mattered, you couldn’t tell the world the truth. Have you even told your family about us yet?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Of course I have.”

  “You’re still caught up in being a sellout and hanging on to an old Web site that could have made you a lot of money,” he says. “You’re not ready to be an adult yet. But I am. So it’s best we just go our separate ways.”

  “I’m ready,” I say. “Things are different now.”

  “Things don’t change overnight,” Max says. “Which, I guess, is why you couldn’t stand up for me when I needed you to. But what I’ve realized is that I’m looking for a real relationship, a whole relationship. Not something I have to hide. The sneaking around might have been fun at first, but at some point you need to stop. You have to see if the relationship can exist in the real world. And I don’t think that ours can. I don’t think you even want a real relationship.”

  “I want a relationship,” I say. I can feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes, but I take a deep breath to force them to subside. “I do.”

  “I think we want different things.”

  “I want to be with you,” I plead. “Don’t you want to be with me?”

  “No, Jo,” Max says. “Not anymore. Not like this.”

  40 - You’ve Lost That Lovin
’ Feeling

  “Say that again?” I ask my mother.

  “I was saying Dominick’s at seven,” my mother says. “Too early for you? Can you make a six P.M. train?”

  “No, not that part,” I say carefully. “The part about Barbie not coming because Andrew called off the wedding.” Surely my mother knows that’s the part that bears repeating.

  “Oh yes, that,” my mother says, as if she’s casually mentioning something inconsequential, like how she broke a nail. “Barbie’s not coming. Andrew called off the wedding.”

  I don’t respond for a second. “And?”

  “And what?” my mother says. There’s a slight edge to her voice, a tiny annoyance. As if she’s getting bothered by having to relay this information over and over again. How many people has she told already before she thought to mention this to me? “It’s off. Over. And your dad is going to fire her this week.”

  “What happened?” I ask. “What did she do?”

  “Nothing in particular, dear,” my mother says. “Sometimes these things just don’t work out.”

  “Don’t work out?” I ask, laughing even though I think this conversation is the complete opposite of funny. “Sometimes these things just don’t work out” applies to trivial things, like when my mother tries to get a last-minute appointment at the hair salon but they’re already booked. “Sometimes these things just don’t work out” does not apply to the planning of a wedding. Even I know that. “The invitations are supposed to go out next month.”

  “Well,” my mother explains, “now they’re not going to.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I figured that part out.”

  “Did we decide on seven P.M.?” she asks, casually, as if this were the end of the conversation. “I can pick you up at the train at a quarter to.”

  “I get it,” I say. “You’re happy. Barbie’s mom left you out of the wedding planning, so now you think this whole mess is funny.”

  “I think nothing of the sort,” she says. “My son is in pain, and that’s not funny. Not funny at all.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me what happened,” I say.

  “Nothing happened,” she says, exasperated. “Nothing that I know of, anyway. I never really thought Barbie was right for your brother. I guess he finally realized it, too.”

  “Shouldn’t he at least give her another chance?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice. Whatever happened to giving second chances?

  “Sometimes when it’s over,” my mother says, “it’s just over. No sense in going back to try to save something that’s not worth saving.”

  “Oh,” I say. I can’t process a thought—can’t think of much else to say. All I can think is that Max is probably thinking the same thing: Sometimes when it’s over, it’s just over. That we are not worth saving.

  “Sometimes it’s just best to move on,” my mother says. “Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” I say, and she confirms the timing of the trains for the evening. But I can’t shake the feeling that we were having two different conversations. She was telling me that Andrew has moved on from Barbie, and that I should just move on from my band, and from the Web site.

  I was talking about Max.

  But maybe my mother is right. Moving on is good, it’s healthy. Fresh starts and all that. And I do want to move on. From the band, from Jesse, even from the Web site. But here’s the thing: I don’t want to move on from Max.

  41 - The One I Love

  Blog post from JoWaldman on Lonely Hearts Club Web site:

  Dear Max,

  I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Can’t you see that? If you would just answer my calls, I could explain it all to you. This is where everything began, and I’m hoping that it’s here we can resolve things.

  I know I let you down, but I won’t do that again. I want you back. I want what we had back. I love you, and I know you love me, too. Can we try again?

  Love,

  Jo

  Blog comment from Stantheman:

  I’m looking for someone, too. Someone I lost. John, if you’re out there reading this, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Give me another chance?

  Blog comment from Bluebird97:

  Met a girl on the Lower East Side last night. You said you loved the Sex Pistols. I said I did, too. You were wearing a gray motorcycle jacket and jeans. I was wearing a camo jacket. If you’re reading this, meet me tonight at The Bitter End at 10.

  Tweet from @alecsax:

  Looking for a lost love? Trying to reconcile with someone you wish were still in your life? Check out the #LonelyHeartsClub

  42 - Personal Jesus

  When I wake up at 8 A.M., Chloe’s already left the apartment again in a mad rush. As much as I apologize, Chloe’s still angry, still avoiding me as much as she can.

  It’s time for me to get off her couch. I open my laptop and start searching for apartments before I even make a cup of coffee. Things move fast in New York—I could be out of Chloe’s hair by next week. And then we can work on getting our friendship back to where it was before. I know she’s angry, but there’s something about the friends who have known you since you were five years old. You don’t let friends like that go.

  Everything’s out of my price range. To put it more accurately, I don’t really have a price range, since I have no money coming in. The money from the ads stopped the week after the Lonely Hearts Club Ball.

  What’s a musician in need of money to do? I know what Max would say to that—sell a song. I then run the whole dialogue in my head:

  But I don’t want to sell out.

  It’s not selling out.

  It is the definition of selling out—selling one of my songs to an artist who’s going to tear it apart. Who’s going to ruin it.

  She might not ruin it.

  She will.

  You’ll be a homeless musician who doesn’t sell out. Sell the song.

  I don’t want to be homeless, but I also don’t want my relationship with Chloe to disintegrate any further than it has because I can’t leave her couch. I pick up my cell phone and make the call, prepared to be shot down the way Love, Inc.’s parent company did to me about the Web site sale, but to my surprise, Amber Fairchild wants to meet.

  “I didn’t think you would want to meet with me,” I say to Amber. We’re at her midtown duplex apartment, on the roof. A person I can only assume to be her assistant is serving us iced green tea with slices of lemon.

  “Of course I wanted to meet with you,” Amber says. I can never get over the way she speaks. As if she’s auditioning for a current adaptation of Little House on the Prairie. All wide eyes and big teeth. “I’m a devout Christian.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m not Christian.”

  “I know that, silly,” she says, smiling her big-toothed smile. “I meant that I forgive. I’m very forgiving. I forgive you.” She says that last bit with prayer hands, like she’s about to bow down to me or something.

  Green tea almost comes out of my nose. I don’t know why I find her earnestness so completely funny. Probably because I know it’s all an act. Ten bucks says she’ll be cursing and gossiping inside of an hour. Not knowing what else to do, I give the prayer hands back to her, and nod my head down.

  “I know that you’re not a liar, Jo,” she says. “And I forgive you for letting everyone think you hated love when you don’t really hate love. You love love, don’t you?”

  “Do you have any vodka?” I ask. “It might make this green tea a little more palatable.”

  “Heavens, no,” she says. “I don’t drink.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I mutter under my breath.

  “You never asked me my username.”

  “What?” I ask. I take a sip of my iced green tea and a lemon pit gets wedged in the straw.

  “My username,” she says again. “On your site. Or do you know all of them already? Do you track those?”

  “I definitely do not track them.”

  “I’m Allsnot
fairinloveandmusic,” she says. And then she dramatically pauses. Now, I know this is the part where I’m supposed to gasp or faint, or otherwise express extreme shock, but the truth is, at its peak the site had over a million users. I really can’t remember any one in particular.

  I nod my head in a way that I hope seems knowing.

  “I used to write about my husband,” she says, sotto voce. I still don’t know what she’s talking about. I wish I had Chloe here with me—she knew so many of the site’s users. She’d be able to tell me who Amber was and I could save myself this awkwardness.

  “Writing about your husband isn’t off limits,” I say. “Actually, I started the whole site after a brutal breakup with my ex, Jesse.”

  “You were married?” she asks.

  “No, we just lived together,” I say, and then instantly regret saying it. Amber puts her head down and makes those stupid prayer hands again. I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned the whole living-in-sin thing?

  “Well, I was married,” she says when she finally comes up for air.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “That’s my point. A lot of people wrote about their spouses. You’re not alone in that.”

  “Well, the problem is,” Amber explains, “I don’t believe in divorce.”

  “Does your husband believe in it?” I joke. Amber stays straight-faced. I’m not sure if she doesn’t get the joke or if I’ve inadvertently offended her. Probably not a good way to start a working relationship. “Sorry,” I say. “Should we get to the songs?”

  “My husband usually chooses my music for me,” Amber says quietly. She looks down into her green tea.

  “No problem,” I say. “Are we waiting for him to get started?”

  “He’s not home,” Amber says. She can’t bring her eyes up to meet mine. I don’t know much about business negotiations, but I’m thinking that this is not a good sign.

  “Oh. Do you want me to come back later? I’m really looking forward to working with you. I can work on whatever time frame is good for you,” I say, but in truth, I was hoping to sell at least one song today. I really need the money that Alan had offered me when we first met. I’ve got my first appointment to look at apartments tomorrow. To sign a lease, I’ll need to have first and last month’s rent, along with enough for a security deposit. “I know you’re going to love what I’ve picked out. I’ve got that first song, “When Will Tomorrow Be,” that I know you guys really responded to.”