Chapter Twenty-five
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.
“I’m doing a piece on regional musical theater for Beat. I thought this would be a good place to start,” he says gesturing at the theater. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says Blame the Cat under his usual leather jacket.
“But what are you even doing in Maine?” I shield my eyes from the sun, then reach a hand into my bag to find a pair of sunglasses. I put them on. This is better. He can’t see my eyes. My sunglasses are another layer of protection between him and me.
“You told me you and Ethan were going to Maine,” he says in a soft voice. “So I went to your house first and when no one was there, I came here.”
I cut him off. “But why are you here?”
He reaches a hand out to touch my shoulder or my arm or something, but I pull back, standing firmly against the hard brick of the outside wall of the theater.
“Jane, I waited for you outside the Ed Sullivan Theater after you did Letterman to convince you to do a story. Did you think I wouldn’t come all the way to Maine for you?”
“It didn’t occur to me you would show up at all. Considering you never were interested in me. I’m sure you’re only here pursuing your book,” I say sharply, emphasizing the word he used when he made me cave after Letterman, when he fooled me into thinking he wanted me. “Because that’s all I ever was to you. Now you can really have fun with it. One-hit wonder. Can’t write again. Poor, sad Jane.” I play an imaginary violin, mocking my own sorry state.
He takes a step closer. “You know that’s not true. Please tell me you know that’s not true.”
I hold up a hand, try to speak. Take a breath. Try again. “It is true,” I say. “It’s clearly true. You didn’t want me. You only wanted access.”
He takes a step closer. This time he reaches for my sunglasses with both hands and pushes them up on my head. He looks me in the eyes, and I can’t hide anymore. He won’t let me look away. I have no choice but to face him.
“I’m not doing the book,” he begins.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to do the book. I called Alicia, that’s her name, the agent, and told her I wasn’t interested. You’re more important to me than a book. You’re more important to me than a story. You’re the most important person in the world to me.”
“I am?” I ask, in utter disbelief. There’s no way this can possibly be true.
“You are,” he says, and there’s no teasing, no toying, none of the usual banter. “And I f*cked up. I should have told you sooner, but I’m so used to keeping these firm lines with my work and protecting what I’m writing. And I’m sorry. I am truly, deeply sorry. I never want to hurt you. The last thing I want is for you to think this isn’t real,” he says gesturing from him to me. “It’s completely real, and completely true. I was going to tell you about the book, Jane. I know it seemed like I was keeping secrets from you and you thought I was using you, and I feel terrible that I didn’t tell you sooner. I feel so absolutely awful that I could kick myself in the face,” he says, and I nearly laugh because I’ve thought about face-kicking myself at times too. “The truth was I didn’t think it was a big deal. The book, that is. Because it’s not a big deal to me. Alicia phoned me one day out of the blue. She’d been reading my columns and she wanted to see if I would be interested in writing a book. And I’d never thought about it before. So that’s why I bought Sex, Drugs, and Updating Your Facebook Page that night I saw you at An Open Book. But I could barely make it through. You know me, I prefer fiction.”
“You’re a fiction fanatic,” I say, softening a bit. Then I realize I’m suddenly speaking on his behalf, explaining his desires, his likes, his dislikes. This does not go unnoticed by Matthew. The sliver of a smile forms on his mouth.
“In any case, I finally finished the book the day of your show. At the Knitting Factory,” he adds, to jog my memory. But I have a crystal-clear recollection of that show. Every single solitary second of it from start to finish. “And I talked to Alicia that afternoon and said I might be interested in something that explored the indie music business. So we tossed around some ideas. I mentioned I was doing this story with you, she liked the idea, and then I told her I’d have to see how you felt.”
“You wanted to see how I felt about it?” I narrow my eyes, as if I can somehow dissect the truth better this way.
“Yes, which you made pretty clear earlier this week,” he says, playfully. I am reminded of one of the many reasons I love Matthew—the way he teases, the way he knocks things down a few notches, even in the middle of a serious moment. “Nevertheless, I was going to ask you at the show, but then as soon as I walked into the dressing room…” Matthew’s voice trails off, the corners of his lips curling up.
I look at him expectantly, fighting back a smile too. “As soon as you walked into my dressing room,” I say, making a rolling gesture with my right hand, prompting him to pick up where he left off.
“You looked so gorgeous and I wanted you so much and I had to tell you I was madly f*cking in love with you,” he says and holds his hands out wide. “And because of that I honestly forgot about the book and everything else.”
Goose bumps rise on my skin, and I want to banish them so I can be mad. I want to shoo them away, but I can’t, because he’s melting me again. Like he’s always done. “You wanted me so much you forgot about everything else,” I repeat, letting the sheer enormity of that statement, of the sentiment, register. He wanted me so much he couldn’t think straight. Ever since the first night he kissed me I have felt wanted by him. But to be wanted that much, to be loved that much…
It’s completely the opposite of my marriage and completely wonderful.
These are the quiet compromises people make to be together. These are the tentative dances of a new relationship, the tender moves of new hearts coming together, awkwardly at times. These are the secrets a relationship can sustain because they are secrets that are no longer hidden.
“Yes, I wanted you. I want you. I love you. I am completely crazy about you, Jane, and it’s bloody hell without you. So I came here to tell you that. To tell you I was never using you. To tell you that you mean more to me than a book, than an article. To tell you I can’t stand the thought of never kissing you again, and the only thing worse than not kissing is not being able to be with you,” he says so softly, so sincerely that I find myself inching closer to him.
I remember the first night Matthew kissed me when I felt the world slip away. His words today mean a thousand times more. This is a man who told me he was falling in love with me without any expectations. This is a man who came all the way to Maine to tell me that again. This is a man who told his boss he was falling for me. This is the man who held back until I insisted that I had to have him.
Until I broke down his resistance.
“I’m sorry, too,” I say, shaking my head.
“Why are you sorry?” he asks curiously.
“Because I made it impossible for you to hold out. That day in the park after we saw Goos Mom. Remember?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I remember that day. Every single detail.”
“I knew you were trying to behave, and I wouldn’t let you.”
“Oh my God,” he says, and runs his hand down my arm. “Are you kidding me? I am so glad you didn’t behave. I am so glad you took me back to my place and seduced me.” He leans close to me, rests his forehead against mine. “Please let me kiss you again. I can’t take it. I can’t stand this. Do whatever you want. Objectify me again. I can’t stand not being with you.”
Objectify.
There it is again, and the word echoes louder this time, coming back to me. Louder, clearer, and I can very nearly hear the lyrics, the words that should follow the chorus. They’re sounding low in the back of my brain, but they’re there.
I place my hands on his stubbly jawline, loving the feel of him, but needing to resist. “But if you kiss me, I won’t want to stop.”
“I know. That’s the point. Let’s not stop. Let’s not stop anything. Let’s just keep going,” he says, imploring me, and I am aching to give in.
There’s something I need to do first, though.
I take a deep breath, then tell him my whole truth. “I thought I had to end things with you. I was thinking about breaking up with you,” I say, each word coarse and calloused on my tongue.
He tenses and pulls back. “I had a feeling you were. When Jeremy suggested it.”
I bite my lip briefly, hating to admit this, but knowing I have to be honest with him. “I thought I had to leave you to write. But I couldn’t go through with it. And once I knew I couldn’t go through with it, I started to write again. Not much, but it was something, and I finally started to connect with music…but then the possibility of the book made me sure I had to go back to breakup songs.”
“Do you have to return to breakup songs?” he asks, his voice pocked with nerves.
I close my eyes for a moment, listening hard. I can make out the faintest sounds, and I think I might know where to find the music I’ve been missing.
I open my eyes. “No.” I hold up my right index finger. “But there’s some place I have to be right now.”
…
“You finally came to sign your picture.”
Haley’s walking toward me, looking like he stepped out of my memory perfectly intact. He’s still wearing the same tan cowboy boots, the same diamond-stud earring, and the same getup—jeans and a jean jacket. He has crow’s feet around his eyes and his hair is speckled with gray, but other than that he could be a photograph of Haley from many years ago.
We exchange the obligatory small talk: how are the kids (his are twenty-five and twenty-seven now), how’s the Grammy holding up (fabulous, of course), is he nervous or thrilled to be performing tonight (a little of both). He expanded his shop in the last few years, he tells me, adding more drums and keyboards when the yogurt shop closed down and he “annexed it.” Used to pump frozen yogurt, now pumps tunes.
He pulls a guitar from the wall. It’s a Les Paul, fire-engine red, and it looks hot. Some teenage boy in a garage band is going to love it. “Want to hear this baby?”
He strokes the Les Paul lovingly and plugs it into an amp. Then he plucks out the opening chords for “All Along the Watchtower” by Jimi Hendrix.
“I can’t pick up a guitar without playing that, even though Hendrix was a Fender Strat man.”
“The Gods of Music are commanding you,” I say, quickly getting to the reason I’m here.
He points the neck of the guitar toward me, smiling and nodding.
“Speaking of. What do you do, Haley, if you feel like you’re at odds with them?”
“You having a disagreement with the Gods of Music there, Jane?”
I hold up my thumb and index finger so there’s just an inch of space between them. “A wee little one. Been going on for a few months now. But I think it might be ending. I wanted to talk to you first though. I want to understand fully what you taught me when I was younger.”
He puts the guitar on the shelf, patting it once, and ushers me outside. We sit on a bench outside his store. He’s not in a rush, so he looks up at the sky, then the parking lot, then me. “The Gods of Music give you your gift, right?”
I nod.
“And you need to respect that like I told you when you were younger.”
“Right.”
“But, Jane, they don’t exist to have disagreements with.”
“What do you mean?”
He places his hands on his legs, tilting his face to the sun, warm this clear April day as it descends into its sunset. “They’re guides, they’re there to help you, not to tell you what to do.” He scratches his chin, then continues. “They hover in the background, they linger, waiting for you to find inspiration wherever you need to find it. Then they help you along.”
I look toward the sun; the orange disc skips like a stone lower in the sky. “Wherever I need it?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, eager to hear him confirm what I’ve been thinking. “So I could find it elsewhere?”
“You can find it in front of you. You can find it behind you. It can be whatever you want it to be. You’re not always going to find it in the same place.”
I nod, and it makes sense. I’m starting to understand the inkling of a song that’s been forming in my head. I’m starting to see that the music is coming from all around me.
Not just in a little corner of my heart. But in my whole heart.
“What I am saying is they don’t control you,” Haley continues. “They don’t tell you what to do. They aren’t in charge. You are. And if something is getting in the way of making music, get it out of the way. And I suspect that you might be getting in your own way. So get out of your own way and listen to what the Gods of Music have for you.”
“Really?”
Haley erupts into a torrent of laughter, slapping my thigh with his hand. “Jane, you’re overthinking this.” He stands up, spreading his arms wide, holding his hands up toward the sky. “The music will come to you when you are ready for it. And when it does the Gods will be there to help you. Let them channel you. Let them use you. Let them help you when they wake you up in the middle of the night.”