Page 68 of It's a Love Story

Okay.

There it is.

I feel it in my chest, simmering. Lyle laughs, though I don’t know if he thinks this is funny or if it’s his job to laugh.

Lyle looks me up and down and says, “That tracks.”

“Beverly Hills,” I say after a quick intake of breath. “And yes, I did say that. I was fourteen.” Now that I’ve said it, I think the phrase “I was fourteen” should be a blanket explanation for every stupid thing everyone did that year. No one should be held responsible for the things fourteen is capable of. Jack and Lyle are both smiling. I roll my shoulders back and take another breath. “So we need something big to make this film commercial enough to be green- 1 it, and since you’re on the radio every single time I get in my car, I thought of you.” I toss my hands up in a theatrical ta-da and then backtrack and squeeze them together. “Just one Jack Quinlan song for the soundtrack and I can almost guarantee you an Oscar. That’s how good this script is.” They’re both looking at me, and Lyle has a smirk on his face that I want to rub off with my fist.

“I remember you now,” Lyle says. “From like a week ago. I called you back. You sounded a little desperate. It was cute, and it sounds like nothing’s changed.”

Jack shakes his head and smiles. “Love that.”

Hearing how consistent I am about being desperate takes me back to that night where I was desperate for love but was told that I was too weird and gross to have it. Humiliated, I turned to the comfort of my parents’ love story, only to find out that Jack was right.

That little pink envelope, then the letter, the word “brutal” written so casually in that sloppy handwriting, a throwaway word. A throwaway girl. I was crazy to unearth these details today, and now they’re out, swimming inside me and opening the darkest door in my heart. It’s where I carry my essential not-enoughness. It’s where I know that my mom knows too, and that she’s lied to me my whole life to keep me from finding out that I’m not worth it. This old, old pain forms a lump in my throat.

“I’m not at all desperate,” I say, punctuating each word the way a desperate person might.

Jack slumps back in his seat and turns to Lyle. “She was kind of hot,” he says. Lyle nods, and I have this feeling that I am not here. That I’ve dissolved or that Jack thinks the world is a big limo and he can put up the partition anywhere he wants. “But then also kind of ridiculous? I don’t really remember. Perfect Janey Jakes.” He doesn’t laugh, but Lyle does.

“Yes, that was my job,” I say. I can feel myself shrinking. My hands are clasped so tight that I worry one of those tiny, tiny bones might snap. There’s a burning at the back of my nose that feels like betrayal. This pain has nothing to do with Jack, I realize. Jack is just tied up in that day, the way an old song can take you back to a kiss. Sharing the truth about my dad with Dan and then seeing pompous Jack has left me uncomfortably exposed for what I am. I don’t know how to lock that tiny door in my heart, but I do know that I finally have my audience with Jack Quinlan and I am probably going to start to cry.

“So you’re telling me now you want me to do a song for your movie?” Jack asks.

“Yes? But you can read it first? To decide?” I don’t know how to stop the question marks in my voice.

“I don’t have time for that, Janey. But seriously, it’s hilarious to see you again.Do do do do do do,”he finishes with the familiar riff.

Lyle takes that as his cue to get out of the limo and hold the door open for me.

“I could just send it to you and you could consider reading it?”

“Oh my God, Janey. Stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.” The words feel like a slap. I can normally take a verbal slap—I work in Hollywood—but not today. I am too raw already.

“Yes,” I say. That’s what I need to do. Stop.

I move to get out of the limo, and Jack says, “Wait.” I pause for a second without turning around. My body is telling me to keep going, get out and run. My ambition to get this movie made tells me to turn around, so I do.

“Yeah?”

“It was shitty that they didn’t give us credit on that song.”

“Yes, it was,” I say and wait for more. I glance up at Lyle, who’s as interested in where this is going as I am, probably because he’s the one who agreed to it on Jack’s behalf.

“I mean, I understood about me, I wasn’t even on the show. But they could have let you sing it for real. I hate that they were so hung up on looks and charisma and whatever. We were kids.” He gives me the smile that a serial killer practices in the mirror to feign compassion.

I am at a loss for a response. I think he’s just told me that I was unattractive and uncharismatic, but that’s not possible. People don’t say things like that to each other. “It was fine,” I say finally, my favorite lie. “We got paid.”

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to say I felt bad for you. It had to hurt.”

Lyle says, “It made sense to me, Hailey was so compelling.”

“Compelling?” My voice cracks.

“Oh, no, sorry,” Lyle says. “I don’t mean that as an insult. God, no. I just mean they knew Hailey was the sort of person an audience would keep coming back for, she’d hold their interest. It was a business decision and it worked out. They ate that song up.”

I have never heard a word resonate with so much clarity. Compelling is the exact thing I am not. It’s been a feeling I’ve had for decades, but I’ve never been able to name it before. Thank you to Lyle, the namer. I am uncompelling, unable to hold interest. You could be watching me and turn the channel. You could be my dad and decide not to be. This absolutely tracks.

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