Page 67 of It's a Love Story

“I guess. Last chance.” I give his hand a squeeze. I am absolutely not ready, but I am happy and raw and in love, I think. There has to be some power in that.

The parking lot is full when we arrive, so we park on a residential street and walk to the Owl Barn. People are milling around everywhere, lining up to get in and buying merch from guys with pushcarts. Finn’s left word with security, and we all get in through the side door. Dan and I stand just offstage with the half-baked plan that we will catch Jack as he comes in. Dan’s behind me with his arms around my chest as we listen to a band warm up. His head rests on my shoulder.

“I feel like I met a girl on vacation, but I get to take her home with me tomorrow,” he says.

I am dying to get from here to tomorrow. I don’t necessarily want to leave Long Island, but I do want to get to the other side of this Jack thing, one way or another. I want to move forward with everything, Dan especially, and stop looking back. Telling Dan about my dad has me feeling vulnerable, like someone pulled up the shades and you can see right into my wobbly heart. But there’s something about him that makes me think I can wander onto the high wire and be okay.

I turn around so I can see his face. There’s so much love there, like he’s happy he gets to look at me. “I’m glad this isn’t going to be long distance,” I say, playing along.

“We’d have to write letters.”

“And my mother would hide them.”

He laughs. “I have total faith that you’d go to the mailbox for me.”

“I would,” I say and wrap my arms around his neck. I think what I want to say isI’d do anything for you.I can picture him at my house with Clem and me. It’s not a daydream kind of scene. We’re not sipping champagne under the bougainvillea. We’re rinsing dishes in my tile-countered kitchen and laughing. I imagine him pulling sheets out of the dryer. I have never felt this way before, and I want to tell him, but I don’t know how. I’ve never read a script where the heroine tells the hero that she wants to do chores with him.

We stand offstage and watch as four bands come and go. I am relaxed in my body and feel oddly sure of who I am with Dan’s arms around me. We are quiet inside the din of the music. His hands on my hips, his lips brushing my cheek. So when the ground starts rumbling, I am surprised, but I immediately know what it is. Jack has bypassed us somehow and has walked onstage, where he is taking his time tuning his guitar. The crowd is frantic, and from where I stand, I can see the calm on his face, like he knows the world will wait any amount of time to hear him sing. This isn’t one of those times when you haven’t seen someone in twenty years and you’re surprised at how much they’ve changed. I see Jack all the time. Music videos, magazines, TMZ. That time I threw an orange soda at his car. In fact, I’ve seen his grown-up rock star face many more times than I ever saw him at sixteen, pre-whiskers, pre-anything. He turns his head, and I see that he’s shaved his sideburns. I’m entirely unarmed. Our half-baked plan is already half failed, and this is my last chance to try. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.

“He must have come in the other side,” Dan says. “Let’s stay here. Finn will stall him if he leaves that way.”

It’s hard to describe the screaming that erupts when Jack starts playing. It’s easier to describe the effects of it— the ground I’m standing on starts to shake, my head fills with the color red, and I can feel where the roots of my hair meet my scalp. I squeeze Dan’s hands.

He sings “Purple,” his newest release, and I can feel the beat of it in my chest, competing with the rabbit’s beat of my heart. I am not nervous in my mind the way I can be at meetings or before dates. I’m nervous at a cellular level, like every atom of my being is desperate for him to write us a song. He sings “By My Side” and then “Coconut Girl.” As the last song ends, the crowd roars, and two security guards escort him toward our side of the stage. He is walking directly toward me, and the breath leaves my lungs as if I’ve been kicked.

“This is it,” Dan says. “You can totally do this. You’re totally worth writing a song for.” Tears burn in my throat at this. It’s like he’s seen the hole in me and wants to fill it.

“Thank you,” I say. He puts a gentle hand on my back to push me ahead.

I take a step forward to block the exit and my mouth goes dry. I open it and close it twice before I say, “Jack.”

He looks me right in the eye. “Good night,” he says. Polite. Neutral. He has no idea who I am. He doesn’t even seem to remember that I was the same nut who chucked a soda at his car. His security guards place themselves between us before I can say anything else, and he walks out the door. I feel like I’ve just dropped my keys down a sewer grate—there’s no getting them back.

A guy who seems like the right age to be Jack’s uncle is following them out, and I have absolutely nothing to lose. “Lyle,” I say, and he stops. “I’m Jane Jackson, we spoke on the phone.” He shows no recognition at all. “Jack and I recorded ‘Jump-Start Love Song’ together when we were kids.

He smiles.“Pop Rocks?”

“Yes, we did the duet together.” I do not pause long enough for him to walk away. “And I’d really like to talk to him, like for five minutes about a movie I’m making. Can you help me out?”

“You were the one with the braces?”

“Yes! That was me! Great memory. We really had a great time with that song. Can you get me five minutes?”

“Hang on,” he says and walks outside. He leaves the side door open and there’s a limousine waiting. He taps on the window, it lowers, he says something and nods.

“This is good,” Dan says and takes my hand. “You’re sweating like crazy. This is going to be fine. A favor from an old friend.”

Lyle turns around and motions for me to come, and I walk outside without a word. My chest is in my throat. I am aware of my position here, the smaller person asking the bigger person for a favor. I take a second and try to imagine myself as a lit match on a totally still night.

Lyle opens the limousine door for me, and as I step in, I notice that I am in jeans and a black top, the same thing I wore the day I met Jack. This throws me off for a second. I want to explain that it’s a coincidence, though Jack would never remember that day the way I do. That quick thought is another gust of wind on my precariously lit match.

Jack is on the left side of the black bench seat with a tiny cup of espresso in his hands. I try to imagine performing for a huge crowd, indoors in August, and then hydrating on three sips of espresso. He hands his cup to Lyle and leans forward to give me an awkward, half-sitting hug. He smells of scotch, coffee, and mint gum, and the combination makes me even queasier than I already feel. “Janey Jakes! Of course I remember you!”

I read his face for a clue as to what color that memory is in his mind. You remember seeing a dolphin family surface during a beautiful sunset, and you also remember the noro- virus. There are a million shades in between. I’m sitting across from him with my knees pressed together, and my hands folded so that I can contain all of my energy in one place. Lyle is sitting next to him, and I sort of wish I had someone sitting next to me, a backup person.

“I know you must be dying to get out of here,” I say, though I think I might be talking about myself. “So I’ll just get to it. I’m a creative executive at Clearwater Studios now, and I’ve just acquired a really beautiful script, it’s a love story. And we—”

He interrupts me. “Remember we went to Studio City for like an hour and then you said you loved me?” He turns to Lyle. “I swear to God.”

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