The Lonely Hearts Club Page 18

  I reach down to pick up my guitar—I remember from my supergood days how much better hearing a song played on guitar in the meeting can sell a concept—and when I look up, Amber’s crying.

  “When I say he’s not home, I mean he hasn’t been home for two weeks,” she says, crying. “No one’s seen him, no one’s heard from him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s nowhere to be found,” Amber cries. “He’s gone.”

  “Does he do that a lot?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Amber confesses. It’s like a tiny whisper that escapes from her lips. From the way she says it, I get the sense that it’s the first time she’s admitted this out loud. That I’m the first person outside of her camp she’s told. “Unfortunately, he does. This time is a little different, though.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m having a slight problem with some of my accounts,” Amber says, and then starts crying hysterically again.

  “He took your money?” I ask, incredulous. I know I thought it was funny when Amber got stuck with a lip-synching scandal, but this is something entirely different. This is a federal crime.

  “All of it,” Amber says. “Gone.”

  “All of it?” I parrot back and Amber nods her head yes.

  I don’t quite know what to do—part of me thinks I should reach over and give her a hug, but I barely know her. Would a hug from someone you barely know be comforting? I end up putting my hand on top of hers, and she looks up at me and smiles.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask. “How are you going to pay for all this?” I look around the rooftop and can’t even calculate how much an apartment like this must cost. I can barely afford the rent on a ground-level studio apartment. This gorgeous house in the sky must cost a complete fortune. Not to mention the staff she employs. Payroll alone must run in the five figures.

  “My accountant just sold off one of my properties,” she says. “So that can hold me over for a while.”

  “That was smart,” I say.

  “Alan was the one who encouraged me to invest in real estate,” Amber says, and the waterworks start over again.

  “That piece of shit,” I say, taking a swig of green tea for good measure. Not exactly the same as downing a shot, but I think it has the intended effect.

  “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t use a cuss word,” she says. “He is still my husband. We are still bound by God and the law.”

  “The law?” I say, thinking aloud. “You should have him pronounced dead!”

  “Dead?”

  “After all, no one’s heard from him, right?” I say. “And maybe he really is dead! Then maybe you could get your money back.”

  “I don’t want him dead,” Amber says. “I don’t want anyone dead. Just like I’m sure that you don’t want Jesse dead, Jo. You’re just cross with him.”

  “No, I want him dead,” I say.

  “The Bible tells us...” Amber begins.

  As Amber gives me my Bible lesson for the day, I think about what she’s said. How could she not want him dead? I want the dry cleaners dead when they deliver my clothing a day later than promised. Maybe I could learn a thing or two from Amber. Maybe I could learn to live without the anger. Without the rage.

  “Can I confess something to you?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “I thought it was really funny when you got caught lip-synching,” I say. “I really did. But now I feel bad about that. And I’m sorry. I’m really excited to help you get back into the swing of things.”

  “I thought it was funny, too,” she says. “And frankly, I never could understand why they always made me lip-synch at those things. I can sing and dance at the same time, thank you very much.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure you can.”

  “But I’m sure you remember that from American Star,” she says, smiling at me. I can’t help but smile back. So the Amber Fairchild remembered little old me all along. And look at us now.

  She sings a few bars of her breakout hit—“I Want You to Keep Me Up All Night (All Right)”—but she does it with just a few chords on the guitar, and plays it slowly, not with the frenetic beat it was recorded with as a pop single.

  It’s another song entirely.

  When I can focus on Amber’s voice, and not all of the Auto-Tune electronic sounds, the song takes on another meaning. I can focus on the words, and how beautifully Amber can actually sing, and I love it. I really love it. It’s a song about longing, about wanting to be with someone every moment of the day. About how you can never get enough of that person. I connect to it completely—it’s how I feel about Max.

  “I wrote it about Alan,” she says. “When we first met. You know that feeling when you first meet someone wonderful?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

  I wonder why I don’t write songs like that. My songs are usually borne out of anger or rage. About the end of things. Why didn’t I ever think to write from a place like that? To write about the beginning? To write about love?

  “Do you think maybe we could write a song together?” Amber asks.

  “I think that would be great,” I say. And I actually mean it.

  43 - Modern Romance

  Blog comment from Rockboy1983:

  To BrokenHeartontheLES:

  I’m so sorry. I know you were waiting for me. I know I was supposed to show. Things have changed, and I couldn’t be there. I promise, I’ll explain it to you one day. All I can say is sorry. Give me another shot when the timing is right?

  Blog comment from Vermontisforlovers:

  You, rushing for the L Train. Me, trying to hold the door open for you, but getting crushed by the doors. I saw you smile at me. We had a moment there, didn’t we?

  Response from punkrockprincess:

  We did. Meet me at the Yellowcard show at Irving Plaza tonight. I’ll be waiting outside for you at 8.

  44- I Wanna Be Sedated

  “Don’t forget to breathe,” he says to me, pushing down on my back. I know that he thinks he’s giving me the “subtle pressure” he warned us about at the beginning of class, but actually, it just feels like torture. “Really breathe your way into this pose, Jo.”

  Amber told me that whenever she’s feeling stressed, she does some yoga. It’s done miracles for her moods, she claimed, and has made her more centered and happy all around. I probably should have thought to ask how long, exactly, it would take for me to start feeling more centered, less angry, before I signed up for this class. Because having this ponytailed yogi push down on my back to get me into a most unnatural position is totally pissing me off. So far, we’re only fifteen minutes into the class, and already it’s had the opposite effect of what was intended.

  “I am breathing,” I say through gritted teeth, as he continues to push.

  After what seems like hours, he moves on to his next unsuspecting victim and tells her to breathe. Only she doesn’t seem to mind it. In fact, she very much seems to enjoy it.

  “Is this right?” she asks him, batting her eyelashes.

  “That’s just great, Amy,” he says, smiling at her. “You’re doing great.”

  “I’ve really been working on opening up my hips,” she says. And then she splays open her legs to show him how loose, in fact, her hips have become.

  I’m beginning to think there’s an entire subtext to yoga that I’m not privy to.

  I look away from the heavy flirting and try to follow Amber’s advice—clear my mind and focus on my breath. I listen to the yogi’s instructions and try to block out everything else. All the things that are bothering me. All the things that I messed up. All the things I can no longer fix.

  The instructor guides us into dead man’s pose, which I decide is my favorite yoga pose to do. It basically entails lying flat on your back, with no movement. No engaging your quads, no balancing on your hands, no reaching for the ceiling. You can just lay there. Be still. Be quiet. Be.

  As I lie on the ground and l
isten to the yogi’s words, I can actually focus on my breath. I finally get what he’s been saying this whole class. I feel my body melting into the ground as I listen to him talk about becoming one with the earth, connecting with it. I feel myself breathing in and out, and I only focus on his words. I don’t let any outside noise come in—the constant soundtrack of doubts and regrets flowing through my thoughts—I only listen to what he’s saying. For the first time I can remember, I clear my mind.

  He then moves us into the sun salutations, and while I’m disappointed that I can’t just lay there for the rest of class, I feel more motivated to get into the poses, breathe my way into them. This time, when he comes over to give my back some pressure to guide me farther into my downward dog, I don’t get angry, I don’t get annoyed.

  I go with it.

  After class, I feel energized and happy. Calmer than I’ve felt in a very long time. I immediately text Amber: Did my first yoga class! Thx for suggesting - loved it.

  She quickly texts back: Let’s go together next time!

  I make my way out of the yoga studio, and the girl who was on the mat next to mine calls out to me.

  “I really loved your site,” she says. “You’re Jo Waldman, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I didn’t get to go to the Lonely Hearts Club Ball, but I wanted to. Despite everything that happened, I heard it was a really good time.”

  “Thanks for that,” I say.

  “I should be thanking you,” she says, looking down at her shoes. When she looks back up, she says, “I met my boyfriend on your blog.”

  “Cool,” I say. “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “I really wanted to say that to you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  “Maybe I’ll see you again here next week?” she asks. “Jeremiah is totally the best instructor I’ve ever had.”

  I’m surprised when I hear myself say back to her, “Yeah, I think I will.”

  45 - Dancing with Myself

  “Table for one.”

  The hostess looks around the restaurant—it’s pretty crowded, especially for a weeknight—and walks me over to a small table by the back. It dawns on me that I’ve never actually eaten here before, I’ve only ordered take out. But that doesn’t stop it from being my comfort food. It’s why I traveled twenty blocks for a Caesar salad and plate of chicken parmesan.

  Manager Greg spots me and walks over to my table.

  “Is it you?” he asks. I smile back at him. I was hoping to sneak in and eat undetected, but if that was my plan, I probably should have chosen somewhere different to eat. Not the place where the whole Lonely Hearts Club thing started in the first place.

  “It’s me,” I say quietly as Manager Greg sits down next to me. “You probably want me to pay that tab from last year, huh?”

  “Hey, everyone!” he yells, popping up from his chair. “Jo Waldman is here!” he announces to the dining room. He throws his arms out and expects a round of applause or something, but no one reacts. No one cares. No one even looks up from their rigatoni à la vodka.

  “I don’t think I’m quite as popular as I used to be,” I explain to Greg.

  “Are you all by yourself?” he asks. He sits back down next to me at the table. The way he’s sitting, next to me instead of across the table, reminds me of Max. He always used to sit next to me when we went out to eat. He said he liked to be close to me, so he could put his arm around me whenever he wanted.

  “Yup,” I say. “Just me tonight. I really needed some comfort food.”

  “Get Jo her regular,” Manager Greg says to a passing waiter. “Caesar salad, chicken parm.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Of course,” Manager Greg says. And then he leans in a bit. “I can’t let a local celebrity eat alone.”

  “I’m okay, really,” I explain. “I was actually hoping to be alone.”

  “I was actually hoping to have dinner with you,” Manager Greg says, his cheeks turning a slight shade of red as he says it. He nervously laughs and then looks at me for a response. “Consider it an apology for what happened last year with the inflated Valentine’s Day bill.”

  I do not want to have dinner with Manager Greg. Even now, as I see how handsome he is close up—is he an actor? A model?—it doesn’t feel right. How can you start something up with someone else when your heart is broken? When you’re still aching for someone else?

  But that’s how things started with Max, didn’t they? I was fresh off a breakup with Jesse, just a few weeks shy of sharing my life with him, when I met Max. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone new, but the second he walked into my apartment, there was something about him. I immediately knew there was something special. Something I wanted to know more about. After all, that’s why I kept calling him about the site, isn’t it? It wasn’t because I was so dedicated to the Lonely Hearts Club movement—it was him.

  And now I’m alone. But this time it feels different. I don’t want to replace Max with someone else. I don’t want to rage. I don’t want to yell from the rooftops. I just want Max back.

  And I really want to eat my Caesar salad and chicken parm in peace.

  “I just got my heart broken,” I explain to Greg. “Now’s not really the best time for me to be dating.”

  “Does this mean the start of a new Web site?” he asks, the edges of his mouth turning up just the slightest bit.

  “No,” I say. “This time, I’m going to go about things differently.”

  46 - I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

  Armed with the requisite scandal, my mother has found herself with a new show on the design network. Seems after the HGTV special, she and David Bromstad got to talking. She showed him around my dad’s office, their house, the spaces she had personally designed herself without any formal training, and he went back to the HGTV bigwigs with a show idea.

  The concept of the show is this: My mother gets hired to plan parties with elaborate themes—every week, it’s a different theme—and she plans them on a grand scale. Casino night, Las Vegas, Mardi Gras…you get the idea. This week, it’s the Wild Wild West. She has on an adorable dress that’s made out of bandanas and a pair of red cowboy boots. They’ve even done up her hair in low pigtails.

  She is similarly attired this evening, for the viewing party in honor of the airing of her first show. The invitations looked like a wanted poster, with a picture of her on it. (With her impeccable hair and makeup, she didn’t really look like an outlaw, but the invites were adorable nonetheless.) She’s decorated the entire house in what she calls “cowboy chic.” Elegant red- and white-checked tablecloths over the dining room table, a chandelier made entirely out of antlers, and even an enormous (seriously, it’s huge) bison’s head hung over the fireplace.

  “Congratulations!” I say to my mother. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “You’re not dressed in theme,” my mother says, pouting.

  “I didn’t realize we were all dressing up as cowboys,” I say.

  “I’m a cowgirl,” my mother corrects. “And it was right there on the invitation. It said: Dress up!”

  “I am dressed up.”

  “You’re wearing the same jeans and old T-shirt you wear every day.”

  “This is my dressy T-shirt.”

  My mother shakes her head, as if to get the thought that these are my dressy clothes out of her mind. “‘Dress up’ meant to dress up for the theme.”

  I pick up a cowboy hat that’s hanging on the wall (design tip from Nan: arrange trays or photographs—or even hats!—on the wall in groups of six—makes it a collection!) and perch it onto my head. “Better?” I ask.

  “You’re destroying my décor,” my mother says, taking the hat and placing it back on the wall. “I’ll find a bandana for you to put on.”

  I sit down on the couch next to my dad and he smiles at me.

  “Is it just me,” I s
ay, pointing to the bison’s head, “or does that thing’s eyes follow you wherever you go?”

  “It’s not just you,” my father allows.

  “I can’t believe you let her hang that up.”

  “Sometimes you do crazy things for the people you love,” he says, looking over at my mom. And then, when he looks back at me: “I’m happy to have the old Jo back.”

  “This is the old me?”

  “I’m thrilled that you’re not channeling all of your energy into something so negative,” he says. “I didn’t think it was good for you.”

  “Is that why you were posting messages about it, Mr. pianosoundslikeacarnival?”

  “You knew that was me?” my dad asks, incredulous.

  “Of course I knew it was you,” I say. “You didn’t exactly try to hide it.”

  “Were you tracking the usernames?”

  “I haven’t the first clue how to track a username,” I say. “Why is everyone asking me that?”

  “So then how did you figure out who I was?”

  “You took a lyric from the song ‘Piano Man,’” I say. “You’ve been playing that Billy Joel song for me since before I could talk. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” my dad says. “But someone had to talk about how you were channeling your energy into all that rage. All that anger. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t good for you. I know you’re upset, Jo, but I’m happy that the Web site is over. Nothing good could come out of something so negative.”

  “But it helped me find Max.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the right time for you and Max,” he says. “Because of the negativity, the hiding. If he’s the right one for you, it’ll work out. Those things always do.”