Another Little Piece of My Heart Page 6

  The kitchen barely contains enough room for two people, but I worm my way into the available space and pour some vodka into a plastic cup. As I slink back out, I brush against a new guy coming toward me. Catching a whiff of him, I freeze.

  Struck by lightning twice. So it is possible, and I should have hightailed it out the door as soon as I realized who Mike is.

  I feel Jared tense. My chest touches his, and it’s way closer than I ever hoped to be to him again. Although I struggle to keep my face neutral, my brain reels. How many times can you be struck by lightning without dying? The answer has got to be less than two. Although I thought I’d steeled myself to the possibility of running into him again around here, I feel my will to survive crumpling.

  Why is that? Why do I feel like I can’t deal with his presence? All I should be feeling is anger, but its purity is diluted with this icky betrayal and humiliation.

  If Jared’s surprised to see me, I can’t tell. He becomes a blur as I push through the crowd. I stumble into the hot living room, my heart racing, but it’s not far enough so I head outside. Mike’s communal backyard is small and the crowd around the beer pong table is thick. About thirty feet away, the grass descends into evergreen woods. Beyond the first few trees all is blackness.

  I long to run there. To hide in the forest. My bones buzz with repressed anger, and I almost believe I have the energy to do it. Run blindly. Madly.

  Instead, I down the last of my drink, and shadows shift on the grass by my feet. For a second, I fear Jared’s come over to rub my face in his presence, but it’s another guy.

  “You’re Lisa’s cousin?” A few freckles decorate his nose, and he has nice, broad shoulders. A bit jockish for my taste, but I’m weird like that, or so my friends would have me believe. He leans against the wall next to me, close enough to give off that flirting vibe.

  Also close enough that I can smell beer on his breath. But hey, I’ve got beer breath, too, so who am I to judge? Besides, he’s a guy who’s not Jared, and he’s paying attention to me. I’m not above seeing the possibilities here.

  “Yeah. I’m Claire.”

  “Zach.” He peers into my empty cup. “Need another?”

  Oh yeah, I have a feeling I do. “Sure.”

  The kitchen’s cleared out, and I let Zach make me another drink. He doesn’t skimp on the vodka, either. Usually alcohol makes me giggly, but I must be too confused for giggles tonight. My head swims a bit, that’s all.

  “So how long are you guys staying here?” Zach asks.

  Behind him, Jared sits on the sofa, surrounded on both sides by girls. One of them is Hannah. He glances my way and we both catch each other looking. Then I turn away before he can read anything into my expression.

  “A month or so.” How do you make small talk again? I seem to have forgotten. “So do you live around here, or are you hanging out at school all break?”

  “Both. I live right here.” He points to the floor. “And I’m taking a couple summer classes.”

  I nod. In the silent gap, I hear Jared telling some story about what life was like touring with Purple Waters. Hannah’s laughing like an idiot.

  Ignore him, I tell myself.

  Zach takes a long drink, and I can’t help but notice how hairy his legs are. “Where do you go to school?”

  “Nowhere yet.” I scratch my neck, wondering if that’s a mosquito bite back there. “I’m taking a year off before I start college to work on my music. Hoping my band can scrape enough money together to get some studio time. Maybe land ourselves some actual paying gigs, you know.”

  Yes, that is part of my master plan, but it’s also such bullshit. I steal another glance at Jared. Hannah’s drunk and she has a hand on his shoulder.

  “Really? That’s cool. What do you play?”

  “Guitar and piano.”

  “Awesome. Hey, did you know who’s here?” He motions to Jared.

  I bury my face in my cup. Sweet alcohol, save me. “Yeah, I saw him. Don’t tell him, but I’m not a big fan of his music.”

  Zach finds this extremely funny for some reason. The vodka must be kicking in at last because I find his laughing funny, and finally I’m giddy, too.

  Yeah, take that Jared. I’m not a fan of your music.

  I empty my cup for the second time. The room sways.

  “You want to dance?” Zach asks.

  I check the living room. Only a handful of people are dancing, but they’re right in Jared’s line of sight. Perfect. He can see that I’m having just as good a time without him as he’s having without me. That’s a definite improvement over him seeing me in an ugly grocery-store blazer. “Sure.”

  I set my cup down. As I come in close to Zach, I try not to check on Jared, but it’s hard. The room’s tiny, and I can see him from the corner of my eye, laughing at something Hannah’s saying.

  I move closer to Zach, fling my hair around, and raise my arms so my chest sticks out more. He dances closer, too, and puts his hand on my back. At some point I stop pretending I’m having fun and actually have some. That’s the beauty of endorphins and booze, I suppose. For a little while, they can make you forget anything.

  Even that your cousin’s hanging all over your famous ex, and your ex appears to be enjoying it.

  Chapter Six

  Milk and Honey closes at five on Sunday, and not a minute too soon. I arrived at work hung over and have been popping ibuprofen since. That might sound like a bad thing, but waking up early was a relief. It meant I was out of the house long before Hannah got up. She was too exhausted on the drive home last night to gush about Jared, but I know it’s coming. And after working all day, I might be too tired to lose it when she does.

  I’m telling Beth, who turns out to be a year younger than me, about the party—leaving out the pieces about Jared, thank you—when familiar voices flood the store. It’s between the two of us to check them out, so I tell her to close down, and I’ll handle it.

  Hannah dumps a five-pound bag of potatoes on my belt. She and Lisa must have come from the beach. They’re sweaty and reek of the unmistakable fake coconut that permeates all sunscreen.

  “Ring us up our dinner, cuz.” Hannah pulls a wallet out of her pink-and-orange striped beach tote, and sand lands on my checkout belt.

  “We’re having potatoes for dinner?”

  “We’re having lobster for dinner.” She makes a dreamy face. “Mom always makes salt-and-vinegar potatoes to go with it. She forgot to get the potatoes, earlier.”

  “Ah. Where’s April?”

  Hannah throws me a “what are you, stupid?” kind of expression. “She didn’t feel like walking here with us.”

  I should have known. “You want a bag for that?”

  “No.” Lisa grabs it. “Are you off now? We’ll wait for you.”

  I check in Ben’s direction, and the manager gives me the closing signal. “Yeah, I’ll be a couple minutes because I have to count down the till.”

  They’re waiting for me on the bench when I emerge, Hannah smoking again. Although I’ve been bracing for her onslaught all day, it still hits me like a punch in the stomach.

  “So did you notice who was at the party last night?”

  Since neither Hannah, Lisa, nor my aunt and uncle—to my knowledge—know about my past with Jared, I see no point in enlightening them. It will only cause more questions, and the less said, the better. Some experiences don’t need to be relived.

  “Yeah, someone pointed him out to me.”

  “Oh, my God. Did you talk to him? He’s even hotter in real life than he is in photos. Don’t you think?”

  Lisa snorts. I shrug. What am I supposed to say—wait until you see him without his shirt on?

  “Nope, didn’t talk to him.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You were too
busy dancing with that other guy. Who is he? He’s cute, too.” She says that as an afterthought, a consolation prize.

  “Zach.” I never did get his last name, although I think I gave him my phone number. Way to go, Claire.

  “Zach Stevens,” Lisa says. “He’s a friend of Mike’s.”

  “Not a friend of yours?” I ask.

  “No.” Something about the way she says it makes me curious for more details, but I don’t have the chance to ask.

  Hannah bounces on her feet. “So’s Jared. A friend of Mike’s, I mean, from high school. Jared’s staying with him for the summer. So you’ll totally get to talk to him next time, Claire. I mean you should—about music and all. I bet—”

  “Wait.” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, panic gripping me. “Next time? Jared’s living with your friend?” The street sways before me, and this time I can’t blame it on alcohol. No. Oh, God. No.

  Lisa swings the sack of potatoes over her shoulder. “Yeah, I sort of remember Mike saying something once about having gone to school with Jared back in Connecticut , but I didn’t pay much attention. He’s not my kind of music, so it wasn’t a big deal to me.”

  “And he’s staying there?” That’s what I can’t get my brain to accept. And if it does, I might run across the street, down to the beach, and drown myself in the Atlantic.

  How could I have not put this together? Jared being in New Hampshire isn’t random. He’s friends with Mike from high school. Mike went to UNH for college. Jared came up for a visit. And because Mike met Lisa at UNH, and now they’re friends.... Shit. Too many different areas of my life are colliding and the fallout could be disastrous. I’m going to have to do some serious damage control and hope Jared’s still as interested in avoiding me and our past as much as I am.

  “Can you believe it?” Hannah’s practically squealing. “The apartment’s got three bedrooms, and one of the guys who’s supposed to be living there isn’t around all summer. So Jared came up here for a couple months ’cause he’s writing stuff for his new album. He felt stifled back in New York and wanted inspiration or something.” She sighs.

  Freaking awesome. Jared wants inspiration, and I—the girl who directly inspired no less than three angry break-up songs—happen to run into him again. I don’t suppose there’s any way to avoid making an encore on his follow-up album? I can hear it now: “Daddy’s Girl, Part 2”:

  Daddy’s girl, what do you do now that your dad ain’t got a dime?

  You know he’s banging his secretary all the time.

  I want to cry. To my right, the ocean is a grayish-blue grave. How bad can death by drowning be anyway?

  We turn onto Ocean Boulevard and pass by the Bean Factory. The sleekly decorated coffee shops sits, somewhat out of place, between a stand advertising homemade saltwater taffy and one renting bodyboards and other beach equipment. I’m desperate for something to calm my nerves, preferably something that doesn’t involve me dropping to lotus position and doing yoga breaths on the boardwalk while kids on scooters run me over. “Hold up. I need coffee.”

  “Ooh, good idea.” Hannah waves her almost-finished cigarette around. “I’ll join you in a sec.”

  Lisa comes inside with me. For the AC, she says, although I’ve seen her trying not to stand downwind of Hannah’s smoke.

  I order an iced mocha and peruse the community bulletin board while Hannah comes in and makes her choice. One of the flyers advertises a battle of the bands hosted by some bar and a store called Papa’s Funky Music. Absently, I sip my mocha and read on, struck by an idea.

  The date is three weeks in the future, and there’s still time to register.

  In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. I—or rather Stabbing Shakespeare—have entered these sorts of competitions before. At best, they’re fun and we’ve won some money. At worst, they’re some of the only chances we get to perform rather than merely play. Most of the time our group is together, we’re stuck practicing in Erica’s dad’s monster five-car garage, and her cats aren’t the most appreciative listeners. If it weren’t for the occasional request to play at a party, or at Alex’s school talent show, we’d have no live audience without the occasional competition.

  Still, it’s no biggie. My hopes are far grander than competitions or private parties. “Dream big and never settle” is what Grandma B always told me. Although she was talking about boys, I still think those are words to live by.

  Right now, though, I need a pick-me-up, and this could be perfect. With Jared around, I have this insane urge to prove myself. To show off. We were supposed to write songs and perform them together. That was the dream, but now he’s living it at my expense. So yeah, it’s petty, but I want to show him how much better I’ve become without him over the past couple years. I know he’d never go watch, but Hannah and Lisa might. And if we do well, they’ll talk.

  All I have to do is convince my bandmates to come up here and hope they’ve kept up practicing without me. I’m sure Nate has, but Erica and Alex leave me in doubt. Alex works hard and parties harder over the summer, and Erica probably couldn’t bring her guitar along when she was visiting her grandparents in Korea.

  Still, I enter the number listed for information into my cell phone.

  Hannah’s waiting on her drink, but Lisa strolls over and sees what I’m doing. “You serious?”

  “Why not?”

  “No reason. I’ve just never heard you play. They do open-mic nights here.” She points to another flyer. “Every other Friday, and there’s no entry fee. You could do that. I’d love to hear you.”

  I put the phone away and take a long sip of coffee. “I don’t do solo stuff. Too much pressure. We have videos online if you want to listen.”

  It’s weird, I admit, especially since I’m the one who writes and arranges almost all of the band’s songs, and I’m the one who put the band together with Erica. Yet the thought of everyone watching me, and just me, freaks me out.

  I think I lack whatever that extra something is that makes a person into a performer rather than a mere musician. It’s stage presence maybe. Even more so than talent, it’s the sort of thing that draws people’s eyes to you, that makes them sit up and listen. I’m not totally devoid of it, I don’t think; I have enough to front the band. But enough to perform on my own? That’s something else entirely.

  When we get back to the house, I call the number for information and leave a message, then I text my bandmates about the idea. You’d think summer would be the perfect time to practice, but between jobs and vacations, it seems like it’s going to be impossible to get all of us in one place at the same time.

  Sighing, I pull out Jayna, my gorgeous Martin guitar that I splurged on with my Christmas money last year, and not a moment too soon. If I’d waited until graduation like I once planned, I’d never have bought her. By then, I knew just how bad our financial situation was, and I’d have tucked all that money away for college instead.

  Jared named my first guitar Jane because, although she isn’t fancy, she’s respectable and sounds good. Despite the name originating with him, I still call her that, which was why my Martin became Jayna. Fancier and better tone. Get it?

  For the hell of it, I get out my laptop, too, and send Lisa links to our videos. I play through a few myself, trying to listen objectively. Since I stopped writing songs with Jared, our sounds have diverged. His stuff is bluesy. The stuff I write has a darker edge.

  We’ve had a bunch of new hits on the site since I checked last week, and a few new subscribers to our YouTube channel. Our most listened to clip was “Romeo Must Die.” So predictable.

  I click play. Sometimes it’s good to remember what other people are hearing.

  So now...

  I’m stabbing Shakespeare, burning Austen in the fire

  I’m strangling Cinderella, and all the other dirty l
iars

  This was the first decent song I wrote after the dumping-Jared fiasco. I say decent because, trust me, I wrote a ton of totally angst-filled, horrible stuff. None of it will ever be performed outside of my bedroom. If I weren’t so nostalgic, I’d have burned it by now.

  I’m sick of all the hope

  I’m tired of all the lies

  Happily left ever after, and Romeo must die

  Ironically, given what inspired it, “Romeo Must Die” is probably our most pop-y song, and our biggest crowd pleaser even though our audience doesn’t always get the Jane Austen reference.

  I bet Jared wouldn’t get it. Although his mother loved me for encouraging him to do his schoolwork, his lack of interest in anything academic annoyed the crap out of me. Some days I practically babysat him to make him write his papers on time or study for upcoming tests. I’d fold his laundry or clean his room, refusing to do anything fun until he made progress.

  Come to think of it, I don’t know if Jared ever graduated. His music career took off during what should have been his senior year. He probably dropped out.

  My parents might have been wrong about him being poor and unsuccessful, but they were right about the academic stuff.

  One of the songs I wrote about Jared described, in crappy rhyme, all of the things I hate about him: the way he detested school, his slovenly bedroom, his annoying habit of always eating Peanut M&M’S and thus always having peanut breath, the stupid thumb ring he wears, that eyebrow hair of his that sticks out at a weird angle. Every day I’d smooth that hair down so it blended in with the rest of his eyebrow, and five minutes later it would be sticking out again.

  April steps into the bedroom as I shut down my laptop, and she closes the door with a serious expression. “Jared Steele is in town? I thought I saw someone who looked like him at the party last night, but I didn’t think it could possibly be him.”

  Looks like it’s time to start the damage control. “Yeah, he is, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t start telling everyone around here exactly what that means to me.”