Chapter Eight
Matthew doesn’t wait a week. He e-mails me two days later, and his name on my phone sends a rush through me, in spite of my annoyance with him. I force myself to ignore his note for a few minutes as I wander through my old East Village stomping grounds in hot pursuit of inspiration. This is where I first lived when I moved into Manhattan and where I lived when Aidan dumped me and I wrote my epic album, so maybe I can find that evasive Muse hiding under a stoop here on my old block on Ludlow Street, where the scent of kimchi and bimini bowls permeated our old apartment thanks to the Korean restaurant we lived above. I haven’t found the secret sauce for a new song, but the smell reminds me that I’m hungry, so I dart inside and order my favorite veggie bibimbap bowl, grabbing a stool at the counter.
Then I let myself click on his e-mail.
I hate that there’s a part of me that wants his message to say he can’t stop thinking about me, and that he didn’t mean it when he said he wanted to erase the kiss.
But that’s not what the note says.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:47 AM
subject: Re: Article
Dear Jane –
I know I said I’d reach back out in a week, but I couldn’t resist passing along this note from a reader who adores your work. I also wanted to let you know I’ve received more than forty-seven such requests, asking to cover what you’re working on next. ALL FROM YOUR FANS. You have so many. My contacts at iTunes also are quite eager to run an extended profile on you.
Perhaps this comes across as pressure. Let me assure you, I simply want to give my readers and your legions of fans what they want—more of YOU.
Best,
Matthew
Then there’s the e-mail attached from a fan. It’s one sentence, but it says, I love Jane madly!! Please, please, please give us more of her!!!
I mark the note as a keeper, but only because I love my fans madly too. It never gets old hearing from them, but I don’t want to disappoint them, either. I don’t want this gal to feel let down if my next album is a mediocre mish-mosh of adequate songs. I’m about to close out of my e-mail when a new note pops up on my screen, with only Matthew’s first name, rather than his full name. Intrigued, I click it open.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:48 AM
subject: Time Travel Tricks Fail
I really shouldn’t say this, but that whole erasing those ten minutes didn’t do the trick for me. I’m still thinking about them.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:49 AM
subject: Penny For Your Thoughts
Interesting. What about them exactly is on your mind?
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:49 AM
subject: Reporter Cred Zero
The taste of your lips. My hands in your hair. How I could have kissed you all night.
P.S You should delete this message. It’s not helping my cred as a reporter.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:49 AM
subject: Man Cred
What about your cred as a man?
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
date: 11:50 AM
subject: You be the judge
You tell me. Helping? Not helping?
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:51 AM
subject: On a scale of 1 to 10…
It’s high. Very, very high.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:51 AM
subject: How about thirty minutes?
Now I’m thinking about more than ten minutes with you.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:52 AM
subject: Or even an hour?
What would you like to do in more than ten minutes with me?
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:52 AM
subject: Could do this for hours…
I would really like to kiss your neck. The hollow of your throat. Your bare shoulder.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:53 AM
subject: Where do I sign up?
I like the sound of this…
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
time: 11:53 AM
subject: Damn Black Keys
I bet your earlobe is quite tasty too. I should nibble on it next time I see you. BTW, I have to run. Have an interview with The Black Keys now. And all I’m going to be thinking about is you…
I place my phone next to me on the counter, and I am grinning—ear to f*cking ear—as I happily watch the cooks whip up a bowl of white rice with sautéed veggies. I wonder if they can tell I’ve been flirting, because right now I am glowing, absolutely glowing, and I know I’ll be rereading that e-mail exchange far more times than I should. But I’m okay with that. Because it’s been so long since I’ve had this kind of back and forth. This kind of attraction that’s not a lie.
The woman behind the counter thrusts the bowl at me and hands me some chopsticks. I dive into my food, and I’m actually humming as I eat. I put down the chopsticks, root around in my purse for my notebook, and open it up to the working title for my newest song, “Mixed Messages.” I jot down a few quick thoughts. The things I can do in ten minutes.
Then a sliver of doubt runs through me. He’s not saying those sexy things to get me to agree to the article, is he? My mind starts to swim with the underhanded possibilities, even though the way he kissed me didn’t seem fake at all.
But then, at least I’m writing again. It’s a muddle of a song, but maybe there’s something there. Maybe flirtation, maybe mixed messages, is what I need. So I check my phone one more time just in case.
There are three new messages. But they’re not from Matthew. There’s one from Aidan: Hey Jane, just wanted to circle back on the Gay Men With Straight Wives meeting. Hoping you’ve had a chance to think about it. Talk soon. Aidan.
Then one from my sister reminding me she has more potential publicists for me to consider.
Then one more from Jeremy and it’s titled, Got a Club?
Jack London said, “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.” Studio time is booked for you two weeks from now. I assume you’ll be ready. Consider the attached your clubs.
I click on the attachments. They are tickets for the Museum of Modern Art, the Museum of Natural History, even the Intrepid Air and Space Museum.
I write back: Air and space? Want me to write a song about hot sailors?
His reply: Whatever it takes to make a new album, Black. Whatever it takes.
Tick, tock.