The Lonely Hearts Club (16 page)

I look through the pictures a bit longer—it’s like a car crash I can’t take my eyes off—and then I repack the posters, drumsticks, and the box, just as I found them, and shove them back to the bottom of the closet.

21 - All She Wants Is

“What’s this?” I ask Max. It’s been only a few months, but already we’ve fallen into a sort of pattern. Well, not a pattern so much as he comes over to Chloe’s place every night. But isn’t it like that when you’re discovering someone new? Everything about them is fascinating, and you seemingly can’t get enough. Why see them once a week when you can see them twice? Why see them twice when you can see them three times? Four times?

Every night.

“It’s an article about Daft Punk,” he says, throwing down a bag and melting into the couch.

“I thought we’d settled this,” I say. “Didn’t you like the band we saw?”

“I would’ve liked it more if I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t know you.”

“I can’t be seen out on a date if I’m the symbol for all things anti-love,” I say.

“I thought you said that this wouldn’t be a problem,” he says.

“It’s not,” I say.

“It’s not?”

“You know I couldn’t have that reporter see us together and risk exposing myself as a total liar,” I explain. “She seemed very interested in all things Lonely Hearts Club.”

“I’m interested in all things Lonely Hearts Club,” Max says, pulling me onto the couch.

“I’m not reading this article,” I say, and grab Max for a kiss.

“It’s about how they use instruments to make their sound,” he says in between kisses. “I thought you’d like the bit about Nile Rodgers.”

“No way,” I say, pushing him off to read the article.

As I read, Max picks up my guitar and pretends to play. He has no idea what he’s doing, but still, he manages to hit a few chords here and there. The article’s fascinating, and I make a mental note to download Daft Punk’s latest album, the one featuring Nile Rodgers on guitar.

Max continues his attempt at my guitar. I take his second finger, and put it on the third fret of the sixth string. Then I take his first finger and put it on the second fret of the fifth string. And then finally, his third finger on the third fret of the first string.

He strums and it sounds beautiful.

“A perfect G major,” I say. “That’s your first lesson.”

“I always wanted to play guitar,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, adjusting his fingers into a C major. “Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Got into other things, I guess.”

“Like G and G?”

“D&D,” he corrects. “Yes, that. And computers.”

“I can’t imagine doing anything besides music,” I say.

“Then why don’t you book more gigs?” he asks. “Get your band back together?”

“I
am
doing my music,” I say quickly, but we both know it’s a lie. The only things I’ve put in my notebook lately are notes on what to write for the next Lonely Hearts Club blog post.

All I do all day is write about how love breaks your heart. And then all I do all night is fall deeper into it.

“I just want you to be happy. You know that, right?” Max says.

“Then come over here,” I say.

His lips touch mine and I forget to breathe. He moves down to my neck and I feel myself breathing again, only they’re short, tight breaths. I close my eyes as I wait to see what he’ll do next. His hands run up and down my arms and I grab onto him.

And then our clothes are off and we tumble onto the ground. His hands are all over my body; my hands are all over his. It’s like we can’t get close enough to each other. And then we do, and with his body over mine, inside of mine, I feel like we are meant to be together. Like we were made for each other. This is what I long for, all day, and I can never get enough of him.

“Oh my God,” I say, breathless, sweaty, and spent.

“I love…” Max begins to say, but then thinks better of it. “I love being with you.”

“Me too,” I say.

“We didn’t even make it to the bed,” Max says, as we lay on the floor, side by side.

“No, we did not,” I say. I grab his undershirt and put it on. I love the way it smells, like sweat and lemon and sweetness. “Hand me my guitar.”

“You’re going to play for me?” he asks as he reaches up for my guitar.

“I am,” I say, and tune the strings.

I start to play without really knowing what song I want to sing to him. Just random chords, warming myself up, figuring out what’s next. Then it comes to me. “‘Don’t get me wrong. If I’m looking kind of dazzled,’” I sing slowly. “‘I see neon lights. Whenever you walk by.’”

I strum along to the Pretenders’ melody and Max watches me as I play. The way my fingers move over my guitar, the way I tap my foot to keep time, the way my lips move.

“‘I’m thinking about the fireworks,” I sing, “that go off when you smile.’”

Max smiles back at me, on cue, and I continue the song: “But don’t get me wrong.”

Max falls asleep, but I’m wide awake.

The computer is on, always on, beckoning me, asking me to hop on and see what’s happening with the site. My Twitter feed is on fire—#LonelyHeartsClub is trending after my last post. I hear the sound of a record scratch—the new sound of messages and comments that Max installed for me—and I click over to the blog. The comments are the ones I’m used to seeing by now. Allsfairinloveandmusic doesn’t know how to leave her husband, even though they’ve completely grown apart. RockBoy1983’s girlfriend is pregnant and now he feels forced to marry her. Chloe’s even figured out how to put her Instagram pictures onto the blog as comments. The latest one is a picture of Marilyn Monroe and President Kennedy with the caption: Love kills you.

But one comment in particular stands out to me.

Blog comment from Pianosoundslikeacarnival:

You don’t really believe all this negative stuff about love, do you?

I quickly respond to the comment:
Yes, of course I do. Love makes you weak. Vulnerable. It crushes you whole
.

I wait for a response from Pianosoundslikeacarnival, but it doesn’t come. Instead, hundreds of blog followers get into the game.

Response from Lovestinks:

Are you accusing Jo of lying? You think she’s a hypocrite?!

Response from Youreallygotmenow:

How dare you question Jo? She’s the one who started this whole thing. She wouldn’t lie to us.

Response from Rocker92:

Jo says what she means. How could you question that?

I look back at Max, asleep in my bed, and I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach. I should never have started this. I tell myself that I need to break it off with him. It’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to the blog followers. It’s not fair to the 200,000 people who tweet at me, “like” me on Facebook, and follow the Lonely Hearts Instagram account that Chloe sent up. I’m living a lie.

I walk back into the bedroom and Max half opens one sleepy eye.

“Get over here,” he says. He pats his hand on the bed, at the space where I’m supposed to be sleeping. I stand for a moment, just staring at him. His eyes begin to close again.

“Hey,” he says, eyes still closed. “I see neon lights whenever you walk by, too, you know.”

I get into bed and curl next to him. Like I had any other choice.

22 - Koka Kola

The Love, Inc. ad was just the beginning. Apparently, my tagline of “I got a gift certificate to this site and I threw it in the garbage” worked well for them. They love being a part of the Lonely Hearts Club site, and even bought a big banner ad to go on top.

The ads, as Max promised, keep rolling in. The Italian restaurant that started this whole thing contacted us next. They couldn’t even afford a tiny side ad, the cheapest type we offer, but Max gave them a discount. He thought their ad, with my tagline “This restaurant tried to charge me an inflated Valentine’s Day rate when I was ordering for one, but I told them where they could put their inflated Valentine’s Day prices” would do well. He was correct. Manager Greg e-mailed me a week later to say that they could barely keep up with the new demand the ad generated.

A bunch of the downtown clubs where I play also asked Max for a discount. He obliged—I told him that the site needed some street cred, and it was important to have them on there.

Next came the chocolate. Godiva—Godiva!—booked an ad that said, “Who needs love when you have chocolate?”

Even Guitar Center got into the game. Their ad (“Jo called us up about our mailing list and ripped us a new one—we loved it.”) actually pays us by clicks, so we’re making money off them every day.

It’s a lot of money. Just not Soho-loft money. I’m starting to save up for the first month’s rent, so that I can move back into the loft, but the problem is, then I’ll need a second month’s
rent, and then a third month, and then…Well, you get the point. The Soho loft costs a fortune. I understand that it’s not fair to expect my dad to keep it sitting there empty when he could be making thousands of dollars a month by renting it, but at this rate, I wonder if I’ll
ever
be able to move back in.

“I guess you’ll just have to move in with me,” Max says, and I laugh. “What’s so funny?” he asks. “I wasn’t joking.”

“It’s only been a few months,” I say. “I’m not going to move in with you.”

But my body language tells a different story. My legs are twisted toward him, my shoulders squarely facing him. I’ve even developed the very un-me habit of twirling my hair in my fingers.

“You’d rather be homeless than live with me?” he asks.

I laugh, and then realize that I do want to move in with him. I really do. We spend all of our free time together, so it would make sense, wouldn’t it? But it seems crazy to move in with someone so soon. Especially since I was just living with someone else who recently moved out.

Well, Jesse and I weren’t technically living together. He
technically
lived with three of his bandmates and slept on the couch. But he spent all of his free time with me and all of his stuff was at my place, so you can draw your own conclusions from that.

But still. Moving in together? It sounds so formal, so definite. And I’m only twenty-two years old.

“I’m not going to be homeless,” I explain. “I’ll just keep crashing with Chloe until I figure something out.”

“What happens when Chloe gets back from California?”

“I’ll just move on to the couch,” I say.

“Ouch,” he says, and grips his chest dramatically, as if I’ve just shot him in the heart, at close range.

“Want me to kiss that and make it better?” I ask.

“Does Chloe know about us?” he asks. I don’t know how to respond. The truth is, Chloe does not know about us; no one does. Not even my parents, who I usually tell everything. But it feels like telling Max that might hurt his feelings. And I don’t want to do that.

“I haven’t really told anyone yet,” I say. “But it’s not because you don’t mean something to me. You do.”

“You mean something to me, too.”

“This is a really weird time for me,” I say. “With the site and everything...”

“I know,” he says. “No pressure. You should do whatever feels right.”

I nod my head in agreement, but all I can think is:
This
feels right. Maybe I should seriously consider moving in with Max. But what would that mean for the Lonely Hearts Club?

“You may not have to move out after all,” Max says as another e-mail pops up.

“What?” I ask. His eyes are glued to the computer screen and I edge over, close to him, to take a look.

“I knew it was just a matter of time until someone like this came along,” he says, and we both read the e-mail in silence.

“Cobra Vodka?” I say. “Never heard of them before.”

“Who cares?” Max says. “Look at what they offer to do an ad.”

The number’s big. So big, in fact, that I have to read it three times before I can process it. This would take me one step closer to staying in the loft. This would definitely cover the first
month’s rent. Maybe even the second. But does this mean that the discussion with Max about moving in is over?