The Lonely Hearts Club (22 page)

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I can do anything you want.”

“Now that sounds interesting,” I say, smiling. “Tell me more about this ‘anything I want’ thing.”

Max crawls across the couch to where I’m sitting. He kisses my ear. His kisses are always so gentle, and I can feel my face lighting on fire just from his touch. Then he moves to my neck, and I lean back and run my fingers through his hair. My cell phone rings, and he asks me if I need to get it. I grab my phone from the coffee table and look at the caller ID.

“I don’t have to answer,” I murmur.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“No one important,” I say. “Just these guys who wanted to buy the Web site.”

Max pops up and regards me. “That’s amazing. What did they offer?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, climbing over to him. “I turned it down anyway.”

“What do you mean you turned it down?” Max asks me. He stands up from the couch and begins to pace.

“I said no.”

“No? You don’t just say no. That’s not how these things happen,” Max says. He’s panicking, grasping at straws. “They have the lawyers draw something up, they send you a proposal. You don’t just turn it down. You
can’t
just turn it down.”

“I told them I wasn’t interested,” I explain. “Look, Max, it’s not a big deal. It’s not what I wanted. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not what you wanted?” he asks. “I thought it’s been what we’ve been building up to this entire time?”

“I’m not ready to let it go yet,” I say, almost under my breath. I don’t want him to hear me say it out loud—that I don’t want to let the band go, I don’t want to let my old dream go. I can’t let it go. I just can’t.

“How much money was it?”

“The Lonely Hearts Club Band Web site is not for sale,” I say. “I thought I’d explained that to you.”

Max exhales deeply. “How much money was it?”

“A lot.”

“I don’t understand,” Max says. “Why’d you just say no outright? Why wouldn’t you at least entertain the offer? What does it hurt to hear what they have to offer?”

“I don’t want to be a sellout,” I say.

“This again,” he says. He rubs his hand across his forehead, as if I’m a toddler and I’m giving him a headache with my ridiculous logic. “You don’t want to sell out. You don’t want to make money. Are you scared of being a success or something? I’ve heard about this—people
being scared of their own success so they sabotage it. Self-sabotage, it’s called. Is this what it’s all about?”

“How is selling my Web site being a success?”

“Well, let’s see,” Max says, pacing the floor. “You create something. You build it up. And then you sell it. For a lot of money. That money enables you to do whatever you want. Like move back into the loft, for example. Or find your own place. Or book expensive studio time. You can make the music you want. On your own terms.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Do you want to move off Chloe’s couch?” Max asks. “Or do you want to just keep our relationship secret for the rest of our lives?”

“This is about
us
now?”

“Is this a relationship?” he asks.

“Of course it is.”

“Okay, then why are we keeping it a secret? It’s been almost a year. You haven’t told your family. You haven’t even told your best friend.”

“You know why,” I say. “You know I can’t.”

“Lemme guess,” he says, standing up from the couch to pace around the living room. “You don’t want to be a sellout.”

“No,” I say. “Yes. I mean, the site is important to me. I thought you knew that.”

“I
do
know that,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to figure out here is if
I’m
important to you.”

“Of course you are,” I say, grabbing his hands and pulling him back down onto the couch. “You know you are.”

“Did you really mean what you said on
The Today Show
?”

I can’t even recall what he’s talking about. There have been so many interviews, so many magazine stories, so much coverage that I can’t even remember what I said anymore.

“What I said?” I ask.

“That you’re done,” he says, looking down at my hands. “No more love for you.”

“No,” I say.

“No?”

“No, I didn’t mean it.”

“Jo, I love you,” he says. He takes my face in his hand and gently kisses my lips. “I love you.

“I love you, too,” I say. And then I kiss him back.

36 - Dance the Night Away

It’s here. It’s finally here. It’s Valentine’s Day and anyone who is anyone is at the Lonely Hearts Club Ball. The Chalice has the entrance lit up in various shades of black, gray, and white (my mother’s brainstorm) and there’s a gray step-and-repeat setup at the red carpet. Which is actually a black carpet (Kitty’s idea).

My mother is far too busy bossing around Kitty to make an appearance on the black carpet, but Barbie insists that she and Andrew get photographed. When the photogs ask her who they are, she says, “I’m Jo’s sister-in-law,
silly
!”

Chloe and I stand at the edge of the black carpet, greeting guests, giving interviews, and everything seems to be going according to plan. Of the 7,000 tickets we sold to the event, about 4,000 guests have arrived already. The party is in full swing.

An enormous black limo pulls up and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. Most of the celebs we invited are already on the step-and-repeat or inside, firmly ensconced in the vaults at the VIP area, so I’m not sure who it could be. Who else could need such pageantry to show up to the Lonely Hearts Club Ball? My mother’s already here, so it can’t be my parents. And Chloe and I don’t have any friends with the sort of money to spend on a limo. Our crowd is more public transportation than private limo, anyway.

I see a long, tan leg make its way out of the car, followed by a long black sequined gown. Then I see a mountain of blonde curls, and I know. I just know. It’s Amber Fairchild. Yes,
that
Amber Fairchild.

“What is she doing here?” I say, under my breath to Chloe, as Amber makes her way onto the step-and-repeat. Reporters are practically falling over themselves to talk to her, to get a sound bite. A photograph.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Why don’t you go ask her? If you get into a fight with her, it will make great press.”

As I make my way toward Amber, all I can think is how angry Lola’s going to be at me—her mom wouldn’t let her attend the party since Lola’s too young (true), the party’s going to run too late (also true), and she felt that the themes of the evening would be too mature for Lola (definitely true). I may have also mentioned to Lola’s mom that there were various alcoves and little rooms throughout the venue, old offices, and that who knows what might be going on in them.

“What are you doing here?” I bark at Amber. She’s holding a hot-pink evening clutch and I want to scream that the invite specifically said black clothing only. I flash a particularly vicious look Alan Golden’s way. He’s wearing a black suit with a coordinating hot-pink tie.

But Amber’s such a pro. She doesn’t even flinch. “Why am I here?” she asks, incredulous, in her husky voice. She puts a perfectly manicured hand onto her chest. “I’m one of your biggest followers!”

The crowd goes wild. Absolutely wild. I grind my teeth and try to think of something to say about her recent lip-synching scandal.

“Let’s hear it for the woman of the hour!” Amber calls out, and grabs my arm. She holds my hand up, as if I just won a boxing match or something. “It’s good to see you again,” she whispers to me as the cameras are going off.

The worst part is that I know that this is the photo everyone’s going to pick up tomorrow. This will be the photo that epitomizes the event.

Amber insists on walking into the ball holding my hand. As if we’re sorority sisters or something, off to braid each other’s hair. But I can’t break away from her. The crowd loves it—that we’re together, that we’re holding hands, all of it. And there’s nothing I love more than to make a crowd happy.

Once inside, Alan whisks Amber off to the VIP section.

“Visit me later, okay?” she calls to me, over her shoulder. I find myself saying okay back, even though I don’t mean it. Not really, anyway. Chloe laughs at me, and I find myself looking up, trying to figure out which tiny alcove Max is holding court in. Since we knew we couldn’t be seen together, I gave him a bunch of tickets so he could bring his friends and have fun. When I told him about the tiny catwalks and the little alcoves that were scattered around the venue, he decided that he was going to hold court with his friends and make it their own private VIP section. I look up and can see he wasn’t the only one with that idea. I see the pale glow from cell phones in various alcoves along the wall. It looks like a million stars lit up in the sky.

“Oh, my God, you’re in
US Weekly
already!” Chloe says, and hands me her phone. I take a peek and see that there’s a picture on the front page of the app—Amber and me at the step-and-repeat from fifteen minutes ago. “Love, Inc. will be happy,” Chloe says. “Amber’s head is right next to their logo. Isn’t that great?”

“Me and Amber, at the Lonely Hearts Club Ball. Great.”

The dance floor is a sea of dirty dancers. People are meeting, bumping into each other, making out…We all may have come in vowing to give up on love, but many of the party guests seem to have forgotten that vow. The band plays a cover of “Love Stinks,” and the party guests sing along as they pair off. Love may, in fact, stink, but apparently making out shamelessly with the person directly to the right of you is just fine. I lose Chloe in the crowd, and I figure that she must have found someone of her own to pair off with.

I rush off toward the catwalk to try to find Max. It’s dark—almost too dark—on the tiny iron pathway that runs along the side of the bank. The Chalice dates back to the early 1900s—were people smaller back then? In order to pass another party guest on the catwalk, you literally have to brush up against them to get past. Perhaps that’s what’s leading to the amorous feeling permeating the Lonely Hearts Club Ball? I glance at my watch and see that I’ve got time. I need to be down by the stage at a little before the clock strikes twelve. That’s when I give my grand toast, with just enough time for my band to go on at midnight. For the grand finale of our set, a bunch of actors dressed up as 1920s-era gangsters will come out with fake tommy guns and stage the reenactment of the Valentine’s Day massacre that Chloe and I thought up.

I’m glad I switched back to my usual uniform of old concert tee, ripped jeans, and motorcycle boots. Most of the women in stilettos are getting their heels stuck in the catwalk. But me? I’m able to skulk around easily.

I check the first level of alcoves and don’t find Max. I climb up a tiny flight of steps to reach the next level. I look down at the view and the party looks amazing. I take out my cell phone to snap a picture. I put it on Instagram with the caption #TheLonelyHeartsClubBall.

I did it. I really did it. The party is a success. The music’s amazing, the alcohol’s flowing, and the dance floor’s been packed from the second we opened the doors. My mother’s having the time of her life, seeing how the crowd is responding to the décor she’s designed. (Now, to be clear, the crowd is mainly drunk, but she interprets this as sheer bliss over her design choices. Let her have this one, okay?) Green Day called my father on stage for their final song, so he’s in pretty good spirits, as well. (Though he’d never heard of Green Day before. But he still enjoyed himself, regardless.)