Sound Bites

A Rock & Roll Love Story

Rachel K. Burke

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Rachel K. Burke

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Rachel K. Burke

I discovered my passion for writing at the age of ten, when my love of R.L. Stine mystery novels inspired me to write my own. Over a decade later, I read my first music-themed novel, and decided to combine my music journalism experience and rock and roll obsession into a book.

I live in Santa Monica, California, a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean. When I’m not at the beach, I can usually be found perusing rock shows on Sunset Boulevard, shopping, at a yoga class, having drinks with friends, or sipping coffee at home and pondering my latest novel.

For more information on Rachel and her upcoming fiction, please visit www.rachelkburke.com.

Many thanks go out to all my family members, friends and people in my life who have followed my journey throughout the years. I am forever grateful for all your encouragement and support.

I want to thank my childhood best friend, Liz, for being my biggest fan and supporter ever since the sixth grade, Erin for always making me laugh, Kurt for all his hard graphic design work, Katrina for letting me steal her hysterical one-liners, Jenn for publishing my first review, and Christina for taking the time to put together my kick-ass website. I also want to thank my Mom, Dad, Susan, Nana, and all of my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who have always believed in me and inspired me. I am very lucky to have such devoted people in my life.

Big thanks go out to all the editors, agents, publishers, copywriters and everyone else that has worked hard to help bring my work to life. You are all amazing at what you do, and your dedication and hard work is truly appreciated.

To my New York Pitch and Shop writer’s group, you are all incredible, and it’s been a pleasure following all of your careers along the way. Thank you for answering my questions and supporting me in my endeavors.

To all the artists, musicians and authors who have mentored and inspired me over the years, this would never have been possible without you. Keep doing what you do. You never know whose life you may change.

And lastly, a giant thank you to the team at Harper Impulse for believing in Renee and Dylan and bringing their story to life. You made a lifelong dream come true.

Chapter One

Going from Catholic school to public school is like living in a fishbowl your whole life, and then being dumped into the Mississippi River. The classrooms are bigger, the hallways are wider, and everywhere you look, there are cliques upon cliques of students of all different genres.

It was September of 1997 when I began my freshman year at Rockland High. I can still remember staring at the mass of strange faces – preppy cheerleaders who followed the jocks, stoners in leather who smelled like cigarettes, art kids in an assortment of colors – and wondering where I, Renee Evans, would fit into the equation.

But as soon as I walked into my fifth period English class, I didn’t have to wonder for long.

I spotted her in the back corner, scribbling something on her notebook. She was wearing black combat boots and a yellow T-shirt that said, “Save a Tree. Eat a Beaver.” I was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and the purple Converse sneakers I’d owned since junior high. I took a seat next to her and we both discreetly eyeballed each other until she broke the ice.

“I like your necklace,” she’d whispered to me. I was wearing a black choker that resembled a dog collar with silver studs. A token of one of my unfortunate, short-lived goth phases.

“Thanks,” I’d whispered back. I pointed to her notebook, where she’d written the words “J.B. 1966 – 1997” with a heart around it. “You’re a Buckley fan, huh?”

Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “You like Jeff Buckley?” She looked me up and down, then narrowed her blue eyes suspiciously. “What’s your favorite song?”

That was an easy one. The day I discovered “Lover You Should’ve Come Over,” music took on a whole new meaning. It was like Jeff Buckley had beamed down from rock and roll heaven to educate society on what music was meant to be. To turn music into more than just a dancy track that saturates the airwaves – into a life-altering event. Into something that makes you view the world differently.

I relayed this information to her, at which point a glorious grin broke out across her face. “I’m Justine,” she said.

“Renee.”

Her eyes circled the room, then she leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you want to meet me for a smoke at the Groves after school?”

“Sure,” I agreed. I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life, but it seemed ideal for an otherwise uneventful Monday afternoon.

The Groves were located in the back of the Rockland High football field, a giant spread of woods where kids would meet at the end of the day to smoke cigarettes, get high or arrange fist fights with their opposing enemy of the week. Justine led me down to a secluded spot, then took a seat on the ground and handed me a Marlboro red. When I took my first drag and started coughing like an amateur, she broke into a fit of laughter.

“Never smoked before, huh?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I just spent the last eight years in a Catholic school. The most rebellious thing that kids ever did there was sniff White Out.”

That made her laugh harder. Laugh is an inappropriate word actually, because Justine didn’t laugh, she giggled. And it was contagious. No matter what kind of mood I was in, all it took was Justine’s infectious, childlike giggle to snap me out of it.

I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but there was something about Justine that I was instantly drawn to. Maybe it was her constant paradox of innocence and mischief, or the way she loved music the same way I did. All I knew was that, up until that point, I’d always felt like an outsider, but when I was around Justine, it was different. I’d found someone who was just like me.

We spent the rest of the afternoon lying face-up on the grass, Justine twirling her long brown locks with her left hand and chain-smoking with her right. We exchanged grunge fashion favorites and sexual experiences. We quizzed each other on alternative one-hit wonders and compiled a list of CDs to trade. We took Polaroids of ourselves upside down in the grass and howled over the results.

When it started getting dark, Justine walked me to the top of my street. Before crossing to head home, she removed a Polaroid of us from her purse and pressed it into my hand.

“Keep it,” she said, smiling. Then she turned and walked away.

***

After our high-school graduation, Justine and I wasted no time plotting our escape out of the hells of Rockland. The small-town scene wasn’t for us, and we craved a destination full of skanky rock clubs, sweaty musicians, and lots of nightlife. So, six months after receiving our acceptance letters to UCLA, we made the forty-two-hour drive west to the city of Lost Angels.

So many things I never would have imagined. Living in L.A. was like one long vacation. We oo’ed and ah’ed over all the things we didn’t have back home, the little things that homegrown Los Angelites undoubtedly took for granted: In-N-Out Burger, twenty-four-hour diners, the ninety-nine cent supermarket. We spent our days on Venice Beach and our nights on the Sunset Strip, enamored with the seedy sinkholes that lined the majority of West Hollywood. Occasionally we’d throw aside the rock gear, layer ourselves in scarves and high heels and pretend we fit in with the high-class L.A. sector, treating ourselves to fruity champagne drinks at the Ivy, Santa Monica shopping, rooftop pool parties at the Standard. California, aside from the overpopulation and traffic, was heaven on earth.

During my senior year, I landed an internship as a music columnist for Pace, a local magazine that specialized in all aspects of the über-hip L.A. scene from fashion to nightlife. It was there that I met my boyfriend, Pace’s sports editor, David Whitman, a broad-shouldered, macho-masculine jock whom I had virtually nothing in common with. However, his charm and matching dimples were a socially and ethically acceptable diversion from this roadblock.

Originally, I had assumed that once our four-year UCLA stint was complete, Justine and I would move back east to be with our families. But now the thought of giving up the daily dose of L.A. excitement in exchange for bleak Boston winters and small-town gossip didn’t seem the least bit appealing. So, after several heart-to-heart discussions over martinis, Justine and I made the unanimous decision that we were here to stay.

The plan was set. We’d renew our lease and driver’s licenses. We’d land real jobs, ones that paid us in wages instead of school credits. We’d let our families know we’d be home to visit every summer and every Christmas, and make a list of all the things we loved about L.A. in case we ever got homesick.

Then one day, something happened that ruined our plan completely. It was the day that I walked in on Justine and my boyfriend in bed together.

Chapter Two

I was in desperate need of an apartment, although apartment hunting scored a pretty low ranking on the list of my favorite activities. Whatever qualities one apartment had, the other usually lacked, and vice versa. There were the expensive places in a great location, the reasonably priced places in a not-so-great location, and the dumps. And when you have a slowly dwindling post-college fund and no roommate to share rent expenses, you usually aim for something between the middle and the latter of those three options.

I had entertained the idea of a roommate for one brief, fleeting moment, but every classified ad I came across only reminded me of the outcome of my last roommate.

I ended up settling for a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a complex about three blocks away from Central Square in downtown Boston. The hallways smelled like a nursing home and were lined with painted bricks, like a high-school bathroom, but it was one of the only places in town that included free parking, a high selling point for someone who loathes the public transportation system. I also wasn’t too keen on living in a complex since I feared the combination of thin walls and loud neighbors, but luckily it was a small complex with about twenty apartments, not the kind with fifty floors and elevators up the wazoo.

I had barely moved one box into my new place before my cell phone rang again. When you move across the country and land a new job and a new boyfriend, your life becomes interesting at best. When you walk in on your best friend and boyfriend in bed together, your life becomes tabloid fodder.

“Hi, Mom,” I greeted, holding the phone with one hand and attempting to unpack with the other.

“Hi, honey.” I could hear the pity already. It practically seeped through the phone. “How’s the moving coming along?”

“About the same since the last time you asked.”

“Sorry,” she said, unapologetically. “You sure you don’t need any help?”

“No, I’m almost done,” I said, which was a lie. I’d spent about ninety-five percent of my day thus far on my cell phone, and the other five percent moving, which meant I’d brought exactly one box of clothing and a lamp up to my place.

“Okay, well I want you to know that I’ve been praying for you,” she said. “Everything will work out for the best, Renee. You’ll see.”

Sadly, I had shared this same belief at one time. Now, it just sounded like my mother’s usual Jesus jarble.

“So…” She paused, and I knew what was coming next. “Have you heard from Justine at all since you’ve been home?”

“No. I think she finally got the hint after I ignored the eighty-five sobbing voicemails she left me.”

Another pause. “Honey, I know this is hard for you. But don’t you at least want to talk to her about it?”

“No, Mom, I don’t,” I said flatly. “And frankly, if I never talk to her again, that would be fine with me.”

***

The walls to my new apartment were painted lime green. Apparently the gay couple who lived there before me had taken a liking to bright colors. They’d also lost their security deposit, according to my landlord, but when he offered to paint over it, I insisted he didn’t have to. If there was ever a time in my life when I needed to brighten up my surroundings, it was now.

I lugged the rest of the boxes up to my new pad, then plopped down on the sofa and stared at them for a good twenty minutes, wishing they would unpack themselves. I had agreed to meet my friend Beth later that night at Noir, the Charles Hotel bar in Harvard Square, and I knew that once I started unpacking it would be midnight before I knew it. I was an all-or-nothing organizer; once I got wrapped up in something I lost all concept of time and refused to quit until everything was completely finished.

My parents had been extremely generous and donated some of their furniture to me, which I knew was just because they felt sorry for me. But even though all the furniture had already been delivered, I had been staying at my parents’ house until everything was completely in. This is what I told everyone, anyway, because it was much easier to procrastinate and lie than to admit the truth.

I was petrified to be alone.

My friends and relatives had kept me occupied since I’d returned, and they’d actually done a pretty good job keeping my mind off David and Justine. But I knew that the minute I arrived permanently in my new home and shut the door, I’d be alone with nothing but my thoughts. My thoughts and I, alone at last, all shoved into one tiny, quiet room. The thought of that was beyond frightening.

I grabbed a black halter top and a pair of jeans from a box of clothes in my bedroom, threw them on, and then turned around to study my reflection in the mirror. I looked like hell. It would be blatantly obvious to anyone within five feet of me that I’d barely slept in weeks. My green eyes had giant bags underneath them, my skin belonged on an albino and my hair had definitely seen better days. I quickly applied a layer of foundation under my eyes and threw the blonde disheveled mess on my head into a half-assed ponytail before heading out the door.

It was a warm June day, the kind where the smell of the air made you want to fall in love, if love was even a valid concept anymore. Part of me wondered if it was even an actual, real existence, or just something that people had to believe in, so they had a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

The sun was just starting to set, and I found myself staring at it, wishing I could teleport myself back to what my life used to be, back to a place where everything felt safe. Everyone kept telling me to give it time, feeding me handfuls of bullshit lines to make me feel better. And although I knew it was the truth, I couldn’t stop seeing David and Justine together every time I closed my eyes. The image was forever embedded in my mind, like those 3D books you toyed with as a kid, the ones you stared at for so long that the images seem to rise above the page and become a part of you.

I could feel the blood pulsating through my skull as I thought about all the buoyant clichés I had once believed in, only to have them mock me years later. Give it time, Renee. Everything happens for a reason.

“Right,” I mumbled, looking up at the sky as I shifted my car in reverse. “Well then I’d love to know what possible reason could exist for this.”

And when the impact of the crash jolted me back to reality, I was too stunned to realize that I’d already received my answer.

Chapter Three

The summer before I entered my freshman year of high school, I had convinced my seventeen-year-old next-door neighbor, Pete Maloney, to let me take his car for a spin. It was a classic 1979 Cadillac Eldorado, his prized possession, no doubt. But given the fact that I had hair the color of sunlight and a newly sprouted chest, he agreed to my proposition, as long as I promised not to leave the neighborhood.

Everybody in Wyman’s Field knew that the Queenans had the nicest house on the block. Their lilac windowsills meshed perfectly with the indigo trim of their house and the display of hydrangeas that lined their front yard. Their entire garden looked like something out of a Thomas Kincaid portrait.

So, naturally, when I drove by and noticed the Queenan brothers outside playing basketball in the driveway, I beeped and waved furiously at them, feeling like the coolest kid in the world to be behind the wheel at age fourteen. I then proceeded to drive the car up over the sidewalk and onto the lawn, leaving behind a giant row of tire marks in Mr. and Mrs. Queenan’s impeccable bed of flowers.

If you can imagine the embarrassment I experienced during that ordeal, that pretty much sums up the way I felt when I realized I’d just backed into my new neighbor’s car.

I was so busy cursing my own fate that I hadn’t even noticed the giant van that had pulled up behind me, waiting to slide into my parking space once I pulled out. The guy in the van behind me was throwing his hands up in the air and mumbling to himself. I wanted to crawl underneath my seat and hide there until he was gone.

I climbed out of my car, my cheeks burning, and waited for the other driver to follow. My first impression was that he was semi-good looking, in an unconventional, tortured artist sort of way. His T-shirt hung loosely on his lean frame, and a mass of dark hair wilted around his face and curled right below his ears. The cliff of his cheekbones was lined with a dark five o’clock shadow that ran down his entire jaw line. He looked like someone who would act the part of Jesus in a play. I chuckled to myself, thinking of how much my mother would love him.

As he got closer, there was a certain intensity about him that almost scared me, like he was withholding some kind of dark secret. His piercing blue eyes found mine and remained there, unwavering.

“Did you not see me behind you?” He crouched down and ran his hand over the dent in his front bumper.

“Obviously not.”

He tilted his head upwards, his face a pale sheet of white. His eyes were like ice, a cold blue-gray mass of bitter illumination. “Well, next time maybe you should look behind you before backing up.” He spoke softly and evenly, but I could sense an underlying tone of patronization in his voice.

Without a word, I turned and ducked inside my car to find my registration. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. I had just moved across the country and lost my best friend and boyfriend in one swoop, and this dope was crying over a dent in his bumper.

I fished my registration out of the glove compartment and gave it to him. He handed me his information in return, which I jotted down on the back of a receipt, the only piece of paper I could find in my mess of a car.

Dylan Cavallari

10 Park Place Apt. 18

Boston, MA 02111

I stopped writing and tried to figure out if his apartment was on my floor or the floor above me. I wanted to be sure to avoid him at all costs to save myself any future humiliation.

“California, huh?” Dylan asked, glancing at my license plate. “What’s the matter, they don’t teach you how to drive in Beverly Hills?”

“Funny,” I said. “Actually, I just graduated from UCLA, but I’m originally from here.”

After handing me back my registration, I heard him mumble something about women drivers under his breath as he marched back to his van. I studied his hell-on-wheels contraption – a frightening navy-blue monster with tinted windows and dark rain guards that lined the edges – and wondered why he was so upset about it in the first place.

“Nice child molester van you got there,” I said, attempting a joke.

His eyes wandered to the van, gave it a silent appraisal, then found their way back to me. “Thanks for the input,” he said, unsmiling. His quiet confidence was both intimidating and irking at the same time. “For the record, a buddy of mine gave it to me. It’s not something I would’ve necessarily picked out for myself.” He toyed with the silver ring on his right index finger, his gaze now back on the van. “Not that it’s really any of your business.”

The flames in my cheeks had expanded, and I could feel the heat spreading to my ears, my neck, my chest. After everything I’d been through, the last thing I needed was some pompous ass giving me a hard time, especially when I hadn’t even done anything wrong. Not on purpose anyway.

Dylan was just about to open his door when he suddenly turned back around to face me, looking intrigued. “So, why’d you move back here, anyway? Cali wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”

“No,” I said, my blank expression mirroring his. “For the record, I moved back after I caught my best friend in bed with my boyfriend.” I started to head back to my car, then stopped and glanced back at him over my shoulder. “Not that’s it’s any of your business.”

***

I called Beth on the way to Noir to tell her I was running a little behind schedule, thanks to my impeccable driving skills. I ended up stuck on the phone with her for the entire drive because once Beth’s mouth gets going, it stops for no one.

Beth and I had known each other since grade school, and she was a great person to confide in when you were in the midst of a crisis because she never told you what you wanted to hear. She was gut-wrenchingly, wholeheartedly, one-hundred percent honest. Always. I hated her candidness when we were younger because my hormonal, sensitive teenage self didn’t exactly take well to constructive criticism, but now that I was older I really appreciated her honesty. Sure, there were times when little white lies were necessary, because no one wants to hear “Yes, you really do look fat in that dress” or “You’re right, your forehead does look like you’ve sprouted a third eye.” But there were also times when you didn’t want someone to sugar coat anything; you wanted them to give you their God’s honest opinion.

This was definitely one of those times.

“So you walked in on them?” she asked, wide-eyed, leaning forward in her seat.

“Yeah, I…”

“What did you do? Did you cause a scene?”

“I just… ran.”

“You left? Why?”

I shrugged. “I was in shock. I didn’t even know what to say. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and try to process what just happened.”

“So what did Justine say? Have you talked to her? She must’ve called you, right?”

Beth was very analytical. Conveying a story to her was like being on trial; she would constantly interrupt with one hundred questions and you had to offer up every single detail so she could analyze each aspect of the story and weigh her opinion carefully.

Beth and I met the summer before we both entered the sixth grade. She lived a street over from me and was the only girl in my neighborhood who didn’t think I was some sort of foreign reptile because I went to Catholic school. Our afterschool rituals consisted of riding our bicycles around the neighborhood and swapping stories about our daily adventures. I was always envious of her public school lifestyle, mainly because nothing exciting ever happened at Holy Family. No one ever got caught fooling around in the locker room or smoking pot in the bathroom. Her stories were like listening to the narrative of a soap opera, which, in my eyes, made her the epitome of cool. I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to be friends with someone who wore knee socks and saddle shoes on a daily basis.

“She’s called, but I can’t talk to her,” I said, answering her question. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to, but right now, I just can’t.”

“Do you think they’re, like, dating? Or do you think it was just a one-time thing?”

“I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t want to know.”

“God, I really can’t believe Justine would do that to you,” she said, covering her eyes with her hands. “I really can’t. You guys have been friends for so long.”

I bit my thumbnail nervously, and then asked the question I had been dying to ask all along. “Beth, why do you think she did it?”

Beth sighed. “Well, I think it could be one of two reasons. The first reason could be that she’s jealous of you.”

I shook my head. There was no way. The only time jealousy occurred was when someone felt they were being denied something they could have, something that belonged to someone else. Justine could’ve had any guy on the planet. It didn’t add up.

“No way,” I said. “I think I’d pick up on it if she was. I mean, come on, the girl was my best friend.”

Beth gave me that look that implied she knew what she was talking about. “Don’t be so sure. Sometimes people hide things well. Maybe she’s always secretly compared herself to you and you never realized it.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. So what’s the second reason?”

“Well, the second reason is that maybe she’s in love with him. And I don’t mean some sort of sexual infatuation, I mean serious love, as in marriage. If she doesn’t have jealousy issues with you, then that’s the only thing that would make sense. I can’t picture her ruining a friendship, especially a friendship like the one you guys had, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this guy.”

That was the more logical explanation, the one I had been leaning towards all along. But the thing that bothered me even more than the thought of Justine and David getting married was the fact that Beth used the word “had” when referring to my friendship with Justine. The friendship you guys had.

And even when I returned home later that evening, I still couldn’t get those words out of my head.

Chapter Four

I’m not sure who came up with the brilliant revelation that college freshmen are mature enough to choose their own majors and career paths because – and I can pretty much guarantee this – eighteen-year-olds do not have the mental capacity to make such a life-altering decision. And in the city of Los Angeles, if you decline to enter into the world of wanna-be model/actresses, that doesn’t leave you many job options.

Five years and three major switches later, I didn’t find my calling. It found me.

I was browsing the classifieds for internships when I saw it.

“Pace Magazine is looking for interns to assist with our new music column, ‘Sound Bites.’ Responsibilities will include article fact-checking and assisting with weekly music reviews. Journalism and Communications majors only. All interested candidates should send their resume to Karen@pacemagazine.com.”

The words danced before my eyes. Bright lights and heavenly choir music engulfed me.

A music writer. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of this before? For all the years I’d lived and breathed music, it had never occurred to me that there were other professions inside the music industry besides those solely performing music. I’d long since come to terms with the fact that, in light of the many things I was good at, singing was not one of them. Writing, however, was something that had always been a passion of mine.

My eagerness had clearly shown through on the day of the interview, when the entertainment director hired me on the spot. I’m not sure if she hired me because no one else had applied for the job or because she saw the undying love for music glowing from my eyes, but either way, I was told to report to the lobby on Monday at nine and bring two forms of ID.

When my first day arrived, I was sitting in the lobby, pretending to be engrossed in the latest copy of the L.A. Weekly, when I noticed him. He strolled across the room steadily, his white polo hugging him just tightly enough to show off the outline of his biceps.

“You must be Renee Evans,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m David Whitman, Pace’s sports editor. It’s nice to meet you.”

I stood up and shook his hand, still stunned by the beauty of his dark, deep-set eyes and perfectly chiseled frame.

“The HR team is in a meeting, so they’ve asked me to bring you up to the conference room to get started with your new hire paperwork,” he continued. “Follow me.”

I grabbed my purse and followed him down the corridor. I had to increase my speed to keep up with his brisk pace. One of my college professors had taught us that, when in a business environment, there were three things you should always remember: make eye contact, have a firm handshake, and walk with confidence, “with a purpose,” as he’d called it.

David Whitman walked with a purpose.

After recovering from the initial intimidation of his beauty, I felt instantly at ease with him. By the end of my first day, the budding feeling of lust had already started to form in the pit of my stomach, and I found myself humming on the way home from work like a smitten teenage schoolgirl.

By the end of the second day, he had already asked me out.

I can remember our first date as clear as you’d remember anything else of significant importance in your life: your first kiss, your first love, your first heartbreak. He picked me up in a black Lexus RX, wearing a white baseball cap and a light-green shirt that showed off the tanned tone of his skin. He took me to dinner at Bandera in Brentwood, then for a walk down the Santa Monica Pier. When he leaned in and kissed me, all I could think of was how long it had been since I’d felt like this.

Naturally, at first, I thought it was love, as everyone does when they’re blindsided in the initial relationship stages. I even withheld sex for as long as physically possible, because I was “waiting for the right time.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Justine had asked. “Singing angels to come down from the sky?”

“Hey, we don’t all put out on the first date like you,” I’d joked, but in truth, I really did want it to be perfect, just like everything, up until that point, had been.

But after the honeymoon stage fizzled out, a few concerns emerged. For one, if things didn’t work out between us, I knew the inter-office romance drama at work wouldn’t go over well, and could possibly cost me my newfound dream job. And I had also slowly started to come to the realization that David and I didn’t have a hell of a lot in common.

I had just been assigned my first research piece at Pace, where I was instructed to review the album charts for the past decade and compile a list of the most popular rock bands of the twenty-first century. After coming up with a pathetically weak list of bands not even worthy of mention – it was of no comparison to the bands like Nirvana and Radiohead that had severely impacted the music world a decade prior. I began to wonder if the entire music scene had gone downhill in the last ten years.

When I presented my frustration to David, his lackluster attitude gave way to the realization that we were definitely lacking in the common-interest arena. David’s only passion in life was sports, which was like a foreign language to me. For the first time since we started dating, I began to question our relationship’s shelf life. Common goals and passions may not be important to some people, but they were to me.

“Cornell is still around,” he’d argued when I vented about my article.

“My point exactly. Cornell was one of the talented artists who evolved in the nineties. Name at least one of your favorite bands who evolved over the past ten years.”

Silence.

“See?” I pointed out. “It isn’t easy, is it? I literally sat at my desk for hours today trying to come up with some great bands that have formed in the last few years and I ended up having to include bands that I don’t even like. The only one worth adding to the list is Muse.”

“Who’s Muse?”

***

The lobby to my apartment building was lined with a horizontal row of silver mailboxes, each of which held a small lock in the center. Every afternoon, like clockwork, I’d spend at least ten minutes trying to force my key to unlock the damn door, which usually resulted in my fist beating it repeatedly until it swung open.

Which was exactly what I was doing when Dylan came strolling through the front door.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss California herself,” he greeted, sidling up next to me. His mood seemed to have slightly improved since our last encounter.

I groaned and continued to toy with the lock. Dylan watched me for a good thirty seconds before reaching out and taking the key from my grasp. “Allow me,” he said, unlocking the door in one swift move. I stared at him in bewilderment.

“Try turning the key to the left and then to the right,” he explained. “Works every time.”

I nodded and scooped a pile of junk mail into my arms.

“A thank you would be nice.”

I feigned a smile and mumbled “thanks” before turning to walk away. I could feel his glare as I began to ascend the stairs.

“Why are you such a bitch all the time?”

I spun around to face him, but said nothing.

“Christ, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he continued. “But I’m trying to be cordial and say hello. The least you could do is reciprocate.”

I felt like I had suddenly teleported back to middle school, back to when the class bully would poke fun at you in front of everyone, and instead of coming up with a wise comeback, you’d be too frazzled to think of a good response. I remember racking my brain for something, but I always ended up sputtering off at the mouth and sounding like a complete idiot.

Which reminded me that in most circumstances like these, it’s better to keep your mouth shut.

Without another word, I turned around and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Somehow, I could feel Dylan laughing at me as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t hear him, but I could feel him. And the bastard was laughing.

Chapter Five

Being unemployed whisks you into this magical world where you lose all concept of reality. You never know what day it is, what time it is, and you can’t understand why you’re still constantly late for everything when you have no job. People have a tendency to blame everything on work: the reason they’re behind on chores, the reason they’re late to events, the reason they need to go home early after a few cocktails. Ironically, all these things still take place when you’re jobless, except now you have nothing to blame it on.

My life, up until a few weeks ago, had consisted of cramming in school work, actual work, and time with my then-boyfriend and then-best friend.

My life now consisted of sleeping until noon, checking my email, applying for jobs, watching reruns on Soapnet, fielding calls from my long-lost friends and relatives, and running the occasional food shopping or laundry errand. I’d lose count of how many days it had been since I last showered until someone actually invited me out into the real world.

I came to the realization it is not impossible to become extremely busy doing absolutely nothing.

I also came to the realization that I was in desperate need of a job.

***

Surely there are worse things in life than going from a music writer to a resume writer. When I find out what they are, I’ll let you know.

With my minimal experience, the only job that I could find was writing resumes for Staffing Pros, a recruiting firm that occupied the fourth floor of the Fiduciary Trust Building in South Station. In addition to the fact that I had now been demoted from an entertainment industry expert to a corporate suit, I was also forced to take public transportation, since ninety-nine percent of places downtown didn’t provide on-site parking.

When I arrived, Elaine Curtin, my new boss, barely said two words to me before leading me to a cubicle-infested room and pawning me off on my co-worker. The girl, a short brunette who didn’t look much older than me, pulled up a chair beside her and motioned for me to take a seat.

“I’m Angela,” she said, peering up at me through her purple Vogue eyeglasses. “I’ll be going over your job duties with you, but they’re pretty easy. You’ll speak to candidates over the phone, ask them about their job responsibilities and put together a nice, formatted resume that highlights their experience.” She handed me a stack of sample resumes. “You’ll also need to provide them with a cover letter, as well as a thank you letter that they’ll send to clients post-interview.”

She wheeled her chair towards the computer screen and opened a resume template. “Basically, you want to make sure to emphasize how the candidate’s role affected the business as a whole, instead of just listing their individual responsibilities. I always recommend searching for similar resumes and job postings online to get ideas.”

I nodded. “Sounds easy enough. Is this what you do, too?”

She shook her head. “I’m a recruiter. Basically, after you’re done with the resume, it’s my job to find the candidate a job with one of our clients.” She pointed to the row of cubicles to our right, where two middle-aged women were typing on their computers. “That’s Nancy and Linda. They’re the other recruiters. And over there,” she said, pointing to our left, “is where Kerry sits. She’s the other resume writer.”

“What about the girl in the front?” I asked, motioning to the six-foot-tall Asian woman who was seated at a desk in front of the entrance. She looked like she weighed about ninety pounds, and her hands were the size of my entire head.

“Oh, that’s Kim. She’s a temp who’s working as Elaine’s assistant.” She leaned in closer to me and whispered, “We’re all convinced she’s really a man.”

She grinned, then looked over her shoulder at the clock. “Do you want to go grab some coffee before we get started? There’s a great little café downstairs.”

I grinned back, stood up and followed her to the door. And for the first time since I’d moved back home, I got the feeling that things were starting to look up.

***

After my first day on the job, I arrived home from work a little after six, just in time to catch Dylan bidding farewell to his girlfriend in the parking lot. Her hair was a tornado of poorly bleached curls, her shirt looked like it was laminated to her breasts, and her jaw line was sporting a fresh trail of orange facial concealer that went along nicely with her giant layer of black eyeliner. A walking Halloween party.

I hustled through the parking lot, trying to pretend that I didn’t see them, but I could feel Dylan’s gaze on me. I always felt it. Even when I wasn’t looking at him, I sensed his stare burning a hole in the back of my head. I kept my eyes focused on the ground, hoping he would ignore me.

“Hey, California.”

Damn it.

“Hi, Dylan.”

“Who’s that?” God, even his girlfriend’s voice was annoying. She sounded like a whiny toddler.

“Some girl who just moved into the building.”

“Oh. How do you know her?” A certain suspiciousness crept into her voice.

Oh boy. Not only was his girlfriend tacky and whiny, but she was also insecure, which I assumed was probably because he cheated on her. No, he definitely cheated on her. Of course he did. What man didn’t cheat?

Note to self: all men are lying, cheating scum.

I spent the remainder of the evening unpacking what was left of my things, which was really just one box, the box I had been avoiding since I’d moved in. I sat cross-legged on the floor and sliced open the cardboard with a pair of scissors, removing the contents one by one.

Justine’s passion, ever since we were teens, had always been photography. I’d listen to her rant for hours on end about the evolution of technology and how no one bothered to develop photos in print anymore.

“They’re going to lose everything,” she’d say. “Everyone just saves their pictures to their computers or to websites instead of developing them. Sooner or later, their computer is going to crash, or another social networking site will take over, and somewhere down the line those pictures will be lost.” She’d hold up a giant photo album for emphasis. “But no one ever loses these.”

To prove her point, every Christmas I’d receive the same gift: an album of all the pictures we’d taken in the past year.

And now, here they were, laid out in front of me. Smacking me in the face with reality.

I knew better than to sift through the recent albums, the ones that would make my eyes bleed, reflecting back on my beautiful lie of a life in L.A. I stacked the albums on the top shelf in my closet, a safe place where they’d never block my path or catch my eye. But when I got to the bottom album, the archives from 1997, I opened it.

Maybe I was hoping to discover some clue, some inclination of where it had gone wrong. But all I found was a series of Polaroids of two fourteen-year-old girls, laying side by side behind the football field, whiling away another fall in Rockland. Justine had always been a boy-magnet, with her small frame, giant blue eyes and teeny nose that crinkled when she laughed. I had a blonde shoulder-length bob and short bangs that looked like they belonged on a first-grader. We were both fashion disasters back then, Justine constantly wearing dark lipstick that contradicted her pale complexion, while I was caught in the middle of a grunge versus goth identity crisis.

I stood up and relocated to the couch, my head propped against the armrest as I flipped through the pages. There was the freshman semi-formal, the dance that Justine and I dressed up and pretended to go to, but instead snuck out the back door to get drunk in the woods with the senior boys. There was my first boyfriend, Ethan Blackwood, the typical high school bad boy who was notorious for his crass humor and irresistible charm. There was the time Justine and I MacGuyver’ed a bong out of a Sprite bottle and tin foil and spent the night blowing hits out of her bedroom window and laughing hysterically.

Ah, high school. How I missed it…

I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until I was awakened by a familiar melody coming from directly above my living room. It sounded like it was flowing from the vents, but it was hard to tell. I listened to the words as they drifted through the walls, like some sort of distorted lullaby.

It's never over,

She's a tear that hangs inside my soul forever

I couldn’t believe it. Someone, somewhere in my building, was playing “Lover You Should’ve Come Over,” the Jeff Buckley ballad that had altered my entire perception of music.

As I haphazardly transferred myself from the couch to my bed, I realized that something about the song was off. It sounded almost identical to the album version, only it was softer. An acoustic version, maybe. I couldn’t place it, but whatever it was, there was something brilliant about it.

***

Two nights later, it happened again. I was in the midst of a dream where I was working back at the Pace offices. I had been assigned my first profile story on a local band, but as soon as I finished piecing the article together, my computer crashed and the entire document was lost. I kept restarting the computer, but all I saw was a giant black screen in front of me.

When I awoke, the same familiar sound was seeping through my vents, and I realized that was what woke me. Only this time, it was a version of Buckley’s cover of “Hallelujah.” I listened until the song ended, and then heard the first notes of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over” strike up once again.

Without even thinking, I got up, threw on a pair of shoes, and proceeded up the stairs to find out where it was coming from.

When I reached the top of the stairwell, I heard the music coming from the first door on my right, the apartment directly above me. I paused and gnawed on my lower lip, contemplating how ridiculous I’d be to knock on some stranger’s door and confess that I was eavesdropping on their music collection.

I turned to head back down the stairs, but froze when something on the door caught my eye. The apartment number stared back at me, mocking me, laughing at my expense.

Apartment eighteen.

The image of Dylan’s registration appeared in my head:

Dylan Cavallari

10 Park Place Apt. 18.

Boston, MA 02111

There was no way in hell I was knocking on that asshole’s door.

I lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, imagining what would happen if I did knock. I pictured his trashy, loudmouth girlfriend answering the door in her underwear and demanding to know if I was sleeping with her boyfriend. I pressed my ear to the door and listened, but didn’t hear any voices so I assumed he was alone.

My second fantasy consisted of Dylan answering the door, telling me that I was a huge bitch and to go screw, then slamming the door in my face. That was what I was most afraid of.

My third fantasy consisted of Dylan answering the door and inviting me in. While Jeff Buckley played in the background, he threw me down on his bed and ripped off each article of my clothing one by one, while condescendingly telling me what a bitch I was. I liked that one that most. It was kind of a turn-on.

Screw it, I told myself. It’s now or never.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

Chapter Six

The incredulous look on Dylan’s face when he answered the door was priceless. He stared at me for so long that I burst out laughing.

“California?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here? Everything okay?”

I nodded. “I know this is really strange, but I have to ask you a question. Am I interrupting anything?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m alone. Come on in.”

I followed Dylan into his living room, which was an absolute pigsty. It had that specific bachelor pad aesthetic to it – piles of books and newspapers strewn everywhere, dirty dishes covering the coffee table, the lingering scent of stale beer and dirty laundry. I could barely tell what color his armchair was because of the massive pile of clothing draped over it. I made a poor attempt to hide the disgusted look on my face, but it must have been pretty obvious because Dylan shot me a judgmental look.

“Listen,” he said. “I know it’s a mess, but I don’t want to hear one complaint out of your mouth or I’m kicking your ass out. Understood?”

I nodded in agreement.

“Good. So what’s up?”

I glanced down, looking for a place to sit, but I didn’t have many options. Realizing this, Dylan picked up the pile of clothes on the chair, threw them onto the floor, and motioned for me to sit down.

“Well,” I began. “I woke up the other night because I heard music coming through my vents and … ”

“Hey,” he interrupted. “If you’re coming here to bitch about the noise, I don’t want to hear it. It’s one of the prerequisites of living in a complex.”

I felt my face harden. I hadn’t even been in the door for two minutes and the guy was already getting under my skin. “Will you let me finish? That’s not why I’m here.”

Dylan threw his hands up, his expression softening. “Sorry. Continue.”

“Okay, so I woke up and heard one of my favorite Jeff Buckley songs, but I…”

My voice trailed off as I noticed a pleased expression slowly cross Dylan’s face, replacing his usual perma-scowl. “Wait a second, you listen to Buckley?”

“Of course. The guy’s amazing.”

Dylan leaned forward in his chair, looking at me with raised eyebrows. The shocking part was, in place of his normal brooding self, he was actually smiling. This was a first.

“Wow,” he said. “California, I may have completely misjudged you. You kind of struck me as some high-maintenance club rat that rocked out to overproduced pop music. But I’ll have you know that I’m a huge Buckley fan myself, which you’ve already probably guessed.”

“That’s what I was getting at. I came here because I’ve never heard that acoustic version of ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ before. I have a few live albums of his but the one you were playing was just…” I searched for the word. “Brilliant.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“Huh?”

“I’m flattered,” he repeated.

“What do you mean you’re flattered?”

Dylan smirked at me like he knew something I didn’t. “It’s Renee, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, Renee, you can search long and hard, but you’re never going to find that version of the song.”

I was getting annoyed with his off-topic insinuations. “Okay. Why not?”

“Because that wasn’t Jeff Buckley’s version. It was mine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” He pointed to his acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room. “That’s my favorite song to play.”

No way, I thought to myself. There was no way. Buckley was The Almighty. I had yet to meet someone walking this Earth who could be mistaken for him.

“So, you mean to tell me that you were the one singing that song tonight?” My eyes narrowed.

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay.” I walked over to the other side of the room and handed Dylan his guitar. “Prove it.”

He sat in silence for a minute, his smooth wave of confidence crashing down. He suddenly became very interested in studying the ceiling patterns.

I placed his guitar back on the floor. “I knew you were full of it.”

He finally lowered his head and met my gaze. “I’m not lying, I just… can’t,” he mumbled. “I can’t play in front of people. I’ve never been able to. I hate it because a lot of my friends are in bands and I envy them every time I see them up on stage, but I just can’t do it. I get too nervous.”

It was funny because the intensity that usually seared from his eyes had now dimmed, changing his entire demeanor. In a matter of seconds, Dylan had transformed from a cocky, arrogant prick to some sort of self-doubting loner. It was like he oozed both confidence and insecurity at the same time.

“It’s just me,” I reminded him. “It’s not like you’re playing in front of an audience.”

He turned and stared at his guitar for a long time, as if debating whether or not to pick it up. I knew he wanted to, but he probably felt strange emptying his soul in front of someone he barely knew.

“I…I can try,” he surrendered, reluctantly picking up the guitar. “But I’m telling you, it’s not going to be as good as the version you heard a few nights ago. I play the best when I’m alone because I’m not nervous.” He let out a quick laugh. “Actually, on second thoughts, I always play alone so I guess it’s hard to compare.”

“Have you ever played in front of anyone?”

He nodded. “Yeah, when I was younger and had no fear. But for some reason, when I was in my late teens, I couldn’t do it anymore. I think it’s because once you get older, you start to become more aware of your surroundings and how people view you. And whether you like it or not, you start to care what they think.”

He was right, to a point. I thought back to when I first met Justine, when I was fourteen and fearless. But I could still see glimpses of myself that stuck with me through the years, besides the bowl haircut and excess flannel. Dylan, on the other hand, didn’t exactly strike me as the type that gave a damn what people thought of him.

I motioned my head towards the guitar, signaling for him to play. He fiddled with the tuning for a minute, then began to strum the first few chords of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” He stopped after a few seconds, took a deep breath and then started the song over again. I sat in shock as he belted out the first verse of the song.

I was wrong. His voice didn’t just sound similar to Jeff Buckley’s; it sounded almost identical. The guy could go around impersonating him to the blind and they’d think he’d been resurrected. It was surreal. To me, Buckley had always been someone who no musician could ever compare to, so the fact that I had found someone worthy of his comparison was mind-blowing. Not to mention that certain someone happened to live within a ten-foot radius from me.

Dylan’s voice was a little shaky throughout the first half of the song, but by the end it had smoothed out completely. But what was even more intriguing than his vocals was his entire aura. When he sang, he sang like he meant it. He sang with a sense of desperation, like his entire soul had come to life through the music. I figured out why he always sang alone; it was too emotional for him. It made him vulnerable. And that was a side of him I assumed he didn’t let many people see.

When he finally finished, I sat in silence with my lips halfway parted, debating on how the hell to put the last six minutes and forty-three seconds into words.

“Wow.” That was all I could manage. That was enough for Dylan, though, because he smiled for the third time that night.

“Dylan, you have a gift,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said modestly. “I like to think so.”

“But,” I continued. “If you’re the only one who gets to see it, then what’s the point of having it at all?”

Dylan rolled his eyes as though I was telling him something he was already well aware of. “Don’t you think I know that?” he asked. “It’s not something I can control. I wish more than anything that I had the confidence to walk on stage and perform the same way I do when I’m alone, but I don’t. I’m just not comfortable with it, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

If there was one thing that Dylan and I had in common, besides our love of music, it was the fact that we were both stubborn as hell.

I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost one in the morning.

“I should go,” I said, as I stood up and headed towards the door. “But before I do, I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you play for me again sometime?”

He walked over to where I was standing and rested his arm against the door, looking me up and down warily like he was trying to figure me out. I noticed that his confidence had reappeared. I didn’t like his confident side. It made me nervous.

“You can come by anytime, as long as you leave that bitchy attitude of yours at the door,” he said. I sensed that he was joking, but he didn’t smile. “Just make sure there isn’t a red Blazer in the parking lot because Christina is pretty jealous as it is, so unexpected female visitors might set her off.”

“Understood. I’ll see you later.”

I turned around and began to descend the stairs. I was about halfway down when I heard Dylan’s door creak open.

“Hey, California.”

I looked up and saw him staring down at me from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

He grinned. He had a sexy, crooked grin where only the left side of his mouth shifted upwards. I grinned back stupidly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.

“You know, you’re not half bad.”

Before I had a chance to reply, he had already disappeared back into his apartment.

Chapter Seven

It had been over a week and I still couldn’t get Dylan’s voice out of my head. The red Blazer had been in the parking lot nearly every night, and even on the nights when it wasn’t there, I didn’t have the balls to show up on his doorstep again. I didn’t want him thinking I’d been permanently perched at the window, eagerly awaiting the departure of the Blazer, even though I was about one window-perch away from becoming a certified stalker.

On my way home from work, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a romantic comedy to mask my depression about spending another Friday night alone in my apartment. After settling down on my couch with a glass of Cabernet, I picked up the phone and dialed Beth’s number.

“Do you remember that guy I was telling you about the other night?” I asked her. “The one whose van I backed into in the parking lot?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I proceeded to fill her in on my night with Dylan. For once, she didn’t interrupt me until I was finished.

“Well he definitely scores points in the music department if he listens to Jeff,” she said. I had turned Beth onto Buckley’s music years ago, and she now always referred to him as “Jeff,” like they were on a first-name basis. “So, what’s up with this new guy? Is he cute?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “In a dangerous, tortured kind of way.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know, the type of guy who doesn’t own a hairbrush or a razor and looks like he hasn’t eaten in a really long time.”

“Oh, gotcha. But other than the hobo look, is he attractive?”

“Yeah, you know, the bed head look actually suits him. It gives him character. But, he’s kind of a dick. And he has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, bummer. Well, how’s everything else going? You unpacked?”

“Yeah, I just…” My response was cut short when I heard a knock at the door. I told Beth to hold on and opened my door, only to find myself face to face with Dylan. He jutted his chin out as his way of saying hello, looking nervously around my living room.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Bad time?”

I held my index finger up, motioning for him to hold on. “Beth, let me call you back, okay?”

“I hear a guy in the background!” she yelled. I prayed that my phone volume wasn’t loud enough for Dylan to overhear. “Is it the guy that lives upstairs?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “I’ll call you tomorrow okay?”

“You better.”

I hung up the phone and motioned for Dylan to come inside. He followed me into the living room, peering around like he felt out of place.

“I saw your car outside,” he explained. “I didn’t know if you were doing anything tonight. I’ve been working on some songs that I thought you might want to hear.”

I was psyched that Dylan had decided to share his music with me, since it was something that was obviously very personal to him. Not to mention, I also wouldn’t have to spend another pathetic Friday night alone.

“Sure, sounds great,” I said, making a horribly failed attempt at sounding cool. “Why don’t you go grab your guitar and bring it down here? My apartment is a little, um, cleaner.”

“And green, not to mention. What’s up with the neon walls?”

“Oh,” I said, laughing. I’d become so used to the color that I was completely oblivious to it now. “Apparently the gay gays that lived here before me liked bright colors.”

“Guess they don’t call ‘em flaming for nothing,” he joked, as he made his way out the door. He reappeared several minutes later, guitar in hand, and propped himself down on my floor. As he fiddled around with the strings, I noticed his gray t-shirt exposed three Chinese symbol tattoos that ran vertically down his right forearm.

“What do those mean?” I asked, pointing to the tattoos.

“Courage, strength, and faith.” He looked down at his arm as if seeing it for the first time. “Three of the most important traits.”

“Sounds like something I could use right about now,” I said, more to myself than to him.

Dylan continued to toy with his guitar for a minute, then placed it on the rug next to him. “So, were you serious about why you moved back here? You know, because…” His voice trailed off.

“Because my best friend slept with my boyfriend?” I asked. “It’s okay, you can say it. And yes, I was serious.”

He winced. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, because in truth, I didn’t. But after a moment, I could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air, like some sort of silent presence, and I knew the only way to make it disappear was to acknowledge it.

***

Conquering the quarter-life crisis is much harder than you’d think. It changes the way you look at everything – your job, your goals, your relationships. As soon as the dreaded twenty-five starts creeping around the corner, you feel like the world is going to end. You have so much to do, and so little time to do it. Your passions and goals in life suddenly spring out of left field, reminding you that you only have five years left to backpack through Europe, land your dream job, and find the person you’re destined to spend forever with. Because once you turn thirty, you could wake up one day married with three kids, working a dead-end job, and realize it’s too late to pursue your long-term goals. Or, even worse, you could end up thirty and alone.

Luckily for me, the career aspect of my crisis was covered now that I’d landed a job as a music writer. And the traveling, of course, was something I could arrange between now and the next five years. But what was really weighing on my conscience was the relationship aspect of things.

“Hey J,” I’d said to Justine, who was sprawled on our living room sofa watching an E! True Hollywood Special on Angelina Jolie. “Do you ever think about marriage?”

She looked at me like I was insane “As in, do I ever think I’ll get married?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed wickedly. It was a stupid question. Justine was the biggest commitment-phobe I’d ever met. While most people acquired a handful of lasting, meaningful relationships throughout the course of their life, Justine acquired a new one just about every weekend. She had dated every type of guy under the sun, but typically got bored with them after a few dates and moved onto the next one.

“I’m serious,” I’d insisted. “Have you ever been with someone you could picture yourself marrying?”

“No,” she’d said, without hesitation.

“What about Mark?”

Justine’s longest relationship to date was with Mark Wheeler, an adorable real estate agent who was the poster boy for the ideal husband. For the likes of me, I couldn’t imagine how this guy ended up with Justine. Considering the fact that she and I had been friends since age fourteen, I knew more or less the type of guy that she was into. No job? Check. Motorcycle? Check. In a band? Absolutely. Long hair? Tattoos? Double check. Ryan Gosling look-alike with responsibility, brains and a great resume? Not so much.

Mark was perfect on paper, but I knew exactly why Justine grew bored with him. He was just too damn nice. He was the one of those guys that you really wanted to like because you knew your mother and grandmother would adore the shit out of him, but when it came down to wanting to rip his clothes off, the burning desire just wasn’t there. Women never liked the nice guys; it was an unspoken rule. We liked the dickheads, the pompous asses, the narcissistic bastards. We wanted a guy to act like they didn’t give a shit about us because then they presented a challenge. Of course, women never said this aloud. We always said “Oh, I wish I could find a nice guy” but what we really meant was “Oh, I wish I could find some arrogant prick who loved me.”

Justine shook her head. “Definitely not with Mark. He was so routine. The most exciting thing he ever did was throw away the Sunday paper without reading about the stock market section first.” She crinkled her brow. “What are you getting at?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I love David and everything, but I just feel like we’re…different.”

Deep down, I knew exactly what it was. It was that profound, meaningful connection with another person. That spiritual soul connection. That painful aching for each other. I enjoyed David’s company and loved being around him, but when I thought about true love and all the things that came with it – weddings, honeymoons, having a family, committing to spending all of eternity with one person – I wasn’t one-hundred percent certain that he was it. Not to mention, there was no way I could visualize spending forever with a guy who thought Muse was a clothing brand.

Justine leaned forward in her seat. “Renee, are you saying you want to break up with David?”

I shook my head, because in all honesty, I didn’t want to break up with him. Aside from our differences, David was everything I’d ever wanted. Caring, funny, gorgeous, affectionate. He was unlike anyone I’d ever been with. Most macho Boston guys wouldn’t be caught dead spending the day watching chick flicks with their girlfriend or surprising her with flowers, and I’d always wanted that. All women wanted that. I just hated the fact that, now that my mid-twenties had arrived, I had to look beyond that. I couldn’t just date someone because he was nice and cute and thoughtful. I had to think about goals, beliefs, forever.

When I explained this to Justine, she looked at me, again, like I was crazy. “Renee, honestly, I think David is great. But if you’re having doubts, maybe you should take some time apart from him to really think about it.”

Fortunately, this wish was granted to me less than an hour after Justine made the suggestion. My mother called and informed me, through broken sobs, that my grandfather had unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack. I was on a plane back to Boston the following morning, part of me grateful for the time I’d have to myself to think things through.

When I arrived back in L.A. the following week, I had a new and improved attitude. I realized how much I missed David when I was away, and told myself that I would stop over-analyzing every aspect of our relationship and start living one day at a time. Maybe my forever feelings about David would change in time. Or maybe opposites really did attract. But what mattered was that I loved David, right now, at this moment in my life. And with my new outlook in mind, I went right from the airport to his house to surprise him.

I surprised him all right.

I strolled in his front door, through the living room, down the hallway, and threw open his bedroom door, not expecting what was waiting for me on the other side.

I stood there in a momentary lapse of paralysis, taking everything in, as David’s eyes stared back at me in horror, followed by another pair of eyes. Eyes that belonged to someone I loved and trusted more than life itself. Eyes I knew that, no matter how many times I stared back at them, would never look the same again.

Somehow, after gathering the scattered pieces of my brain and piecing them back together, I managed to unbuckle my feet from the floor and back away from the deluded scene that was unfolding before me. My legs guided me in the reverse direction as the outline of their figures became smaller and smaller.

And then I did the only thing that I could manage to do in my state of shock. I ran.

And I never once looked back.

***

“Did you have any idea that was going on?” Dylan asked. His back was propped against the living room wall, eyes trained on the ceiling, like he was trying to visualize the horror show I had just laid out for him.

“Not a clue.” I thought back to all the times David had hung out around the house with Justine and me. Sure, they got along great, but I’d never picked up on anything that revealed it was more than purely platonic.

“Why don’t you call your friend and talk to her about it?”

I shook my head. “I can’t. Maybe someday, but right now I can’t.”

“Understandable. So, what’s up with this David guy? Did you have any idea he was like that?”

I forced a sad smile. “I thought he was perfect. And up until that happened, he was.”

“How so?”

I paused, considering. “Well, I was sort of a late bloomer growing up. I dressed like a boy throughout most of high school, so I didn’t exactly have many boyfriends.”

“You?” Dylan looked at me skeptically, eyeing my hot pink Victoria’s Secret yoga pants. “Miss California? I don’t believe it.”

“Trust me, if you saw pictures of me from freshman year, you wouldn’t recognize me,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But anyways, I always felt like sort of an outcast. All my friends had boyfriends in high school, and I was so jealous. I didn’t have a boyfriend until senior year and his idea of a romantic date was smoking pot in the woods together.”

Dylan’s lips curled upward. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

“Oh, I’m sure you guys would get along great,” I joked. “So, after dating more or less the same kind of guys in college, I met David.” I smiled nostalgically. “I know it sounds stupid, but I’d always wanted to be with someone who had a romantic side. David wasn’t afraid to be affectionate in public, or surprise me with gifts, little things like that.”

“Well I bet those other guys wouldn’t have hit on your best friend when you were out of town.”

“That’s the other thing.” I lay back on my couch and propped a pillow under my head, looking sideways at Dylan. “Why her? Of all the girls in the world, why Justine?”

I had gone over it in my head a million times, and could never come up with an answer. Growing up, Justine had always been the cooler, sexier, more adventurous one, teaching me how to dress, where the parties were. It was like she had got a head start on life, and I was just a little Catholic school girl trying to keep up. But as we got older, I found my own sense of style, my own major, my own career. And finally, someone who I thought loved me for who I was.

Dylan’s face darkened, and he looked at me with a faint sadness in his eyes. “You know, you can torture yourself with these questions all you want, but you’re never going to know unless you ask the people who have the answers.”

I shrugged. “I’ll talk to Justine eventually. But as far as David goes, it’s probably just as well because we were totally different. He’s a sports fanatic, I’m a music fanatic. We didn’t really have much in common.”

Dylan cocked his head to the side. “Then why are you so hung up on him?”

“Dylan, something tells me that Christina isn’t much of a music fanatic herself.”

He threw his head back and burst out laughing. “Touché. Although, between you and me, I don’t exactly envision Christina as someone who’s going to be around for the long haul.”

“Yeah, any time I tried to talk to David about music, he just didn’t get it. When I was in L.A., I landed a writing internship for a magazine, and they assigned me to research some of the most popular bands of the twenty-first century. I couldn’t even think of one. If you asked me to write about the most popular bands of the eighties or nineties, I could name twenty off the top my head. But when I tried to talk to David about it, he couldn’t have cared less. I want to be with someone who understands me, who sees things from my perspective. Or someone who at least cares enough about me to try to understand.”

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