Love Bites

My cell phone rang before I could attempt to continue the list. I looked down at the ID and felt a slight pang of disappointment. I had been home for almost four months, and every time my phone rang, I still hoped it was him.

It never was.

“Hey girl,” I answered.

“Hey J,” Renee said on the other end. “You still coming to Dylan’s show tonight?”

Shit. I had forgotten all about it. Renee’s fiancé, Dylan, was the singer in a local band, and she had told me about the show weeks ago. I glanced down at my pajama pants. “Yeah,” I answered. “Of course.”

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Yup.” Renee always knew when I was lying. There was no point in covering it up. “What time does it start?”

“They go on at ten. They’re playing the downstairs room at the Middle East, not upstairs. I’m going to ride in with Dylan so just call me when you get there and I’ll come meet you.”

“Okay. See you soon.” I hung up and took a sip of coffee from the mug I’d been holding for the last 20 minutes. I picked up the piece of paper again.

Why I Moved Back to Boston:

#1 – Renee is here. She is my other half. I need her in my life.

It was true. LA didn’t feel like home without Renee. Sure, I had made a few friends at school and at Sphinx, but for the most part, Renee and I did everything together. When she left, it didn’t feel the same. And besides that, the girl was an absolute saint. How she could forgive me after what happened with David was beyond me. But regardless, she was my best friend, and she was here. Therefore I would brave the coldest of winters to be with her, because I loved her.

Truthfully, though, everything worked out for the best. Renee was now six months pregnant, engaged, and happier than I’d ever seen her. Dylan and Renee were perfect for each other. David and Renee… weren’t. My aching heart wanted to say that he was perfect for me, but my head knew that wasn’t true either.

#2 – David does not live here. Therefore, I do not have to worry about seeing him everywhere I go.

I swear, people in love need a live-in therapist. It’s all we think about. It’s all we talk about. After David broke up with me, I couldn’t go anywhere. Everything reminded me of him. Our favorite restaurant, our local bar, the supermarket where we shopped. I couldn’t go any of those places. It was almost as if it would’ve been better if he’d died in some tragic accident or something. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him in line at Von’s.

Here, I was safe. Nothing reminded me of him. He was thousands of miles away. It’s like it was all a dream.

But deep down, I knew that as far away as I was from him, he was still here. He was always here. I couldn’t escape him.

I glanced down at the paper again. I couldn’t think of a number three.

Los Angeles, CA

February 2009

I always know that I’m going to sleep with a guy by the way he looks at me. It’s usually an intense stare, he’s usually Italian, and I usually end up regretting it. That’s just how it goes.

I was less than an hour into our morning meeting at Sphinx when I noticed it. The Stare. I was seated in the conference room with the marketing team for their weekly conference. They met every Monday at 10am to go over marketing strategies for new game releases, and Vincent thought it would be a good idea for me to join the meetings, even though I hadn’t a clue about anything they were discussing. As one of the girls talked about an upcoming convention, I caught eyes with Vincent from across the table. I quickly reverted my gaze back to the girl so he’d think I was paying attention. I wanted to make a good impression. But when I looked back at him a few minutes later, he was still staring at me.

Oh boy.

It’s easy to differentiate a professional stare from a sex stare. A professional stare ensures that the employee is comfortable and attentive on his or her first day of work, but seizes once eye contact is met. A sex stare does not. A sex stare is confident and will maintain eye contact even after the contact is broken, thus intimidating its target and causing he or she to become nervous.

And damn it, it always fucking works.

By the third eye-contact connection, I already knew I was going to sleep with him. The stare wasn’t making me uncomfortable. Instead, a familiar nervous-yet-exciting stomachache appeared. I looked down at my outfit, trying to see myself as he did. I was wearing a black fitted sweater, my favorite pair of Bebe jeans, and black stilettos. Undoubtedly the most feminine outfit in our entire mini-gaming world. I twirled my long brown locks between my fingers. I felt his dark, Italian eyes on me. I liked it.

My eyes drifted to his left hand. No wedding band. Check. Rolex watch. Silver cufflinks. Double check. Navy collared shirt, tanned skin, slightly gelled hair. Very put-together. I pictured him in an expensive sports car. A Porsche, maybe. Black. I pictured myself in the passenger seat. I wondered if he had a girlfriend.

It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I had been looking in the wrong places. I mean, didn’t a lot of couples meet at work? It was pretty obvious by now that I wasn’t going to find Mr. Maturity at UCLA, nor was I going to find Mr. Monogamous on the Sunset Strip. Vincent was older, good-looking, and, judging from his appearance and title, did well for himself financially. He was a catch. And based on my appearance, age, and the burning stare from across the conference table, it appeared that the feeling was mutual.

My first few weeks at Sphinx were a joke. I made zero professional contribution whatsoever. Instead, my days went something like this:

10am: Get coffee and bagels for Vincent.

11am: Have coffee and bagels with Vincent in his office. Pretend to talk about work. Talk about anything but work.

12pm: Have lunch with Vincent.

1pm: Pretend I am checking my professional emails. I am an intern. I do not have professional emails.

2pm: Pretend to pay attention to Vincent’s social media tutorial when what I am really paying attention to is how close he is standing to me.

3pm: Attend “off-site meeting” (happy-hour drinks) with Vincent and “vendors.” Pretend to know what “vendors” are.

Repeat.

Surprisingly, Vincent waited an entire month before asking me out. By then, I was practically panting for it. He, of course, pretended the invitation was to “celebrate” all the hard work I had accomplished during my first month. I knew better. Not only because he stared at me like I was a Krispy Kreme, but because I hadn’t accomplished jack shit in the past four weeks.

The bad news was that he was going to be working from Sphinx’s London office for the next month, so our date was postponed until his return. The good news was that we had already covered everything that you cover on a first date, so I figured I was good to skip the three-date rule and prematurely put out. I knew everything about him that I needed to know. He had grown up in Milano and moved to the United States when he was eleven. He lived in Beverly Hills. He had a ten-year-old son, whom he mentioned having on the weekends, thus the reason he didn’t go out much. Ah, a divorced dad. I wondered if my parents would disapprove.

I couldn’t wait to tell Renee about my upcoming date. I had been gushing about Vincent since my first day at Sphinx, and I could tell she was relieved that I finally had a love interest, too. Her daily David Whitman anecdotes had grown more than tiresome and I hadn’t even met the guy yet. They were still in the newlywed stage, where they mainly just had sex at his place. David lived alone. I understood.

I was bent over the kitchen stove making a grilled cheese when I heard the sound of our front door open.

“He asked me out!” I yelled to Renee, flipping my sandwich onto a plate. I barreled into the living room, but stopped dead in my tracks when I realized she wasn’t alone.

“J,” Renee said cautiously, as if she felt bad catching me off guard. “This,” she gestured behind her, “is David.”

Wow. I was not expecting that. Naturally, I wasn’t expecting David to be standing in my living room, but I also wasn’t expecting to feel the sinking in the pit of my stomach when I met him. Never in my life had I met someone and felt so instantly drawn to them. And he hadn’t even said anything yet. He just grinned at me like we were having a private joke. The only two people in the room. In the universe.

“He asked you out, huh?” David joked. There it was again, that mischievous, one-dimpled grin. His eyes went slightly wild when he smiled, like he was scared, surprised, and amused all at the same time. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“He did,” I said, nodding slowly. David loomed behind Renee, at least six feet tall, with dark hair and a hint of a baby face. His lips had twisted into a faint smirk, the amusement of the situation still lingering. But those eyes. Those giant, brown, crazy eyes. They were having sex with me. In my own living room. Behind my best friend, who I could no longer see.

“About time,” Renee said, hanging her purse on the wall rack. “Listen, we’re going to sleep here tonight because David has a meeting in Brentwood in the morning. Fill me in tomorrow?” She winced like she felt bad.

“Okay,” I agreed. David followed Renee out of the living room, still smiling back at me. But not with his mouth. With those goddamn eyes. I had never met anyone who could smile without moving their mouth.

I heard the bathroom door close and the sound of the sink running. Before getting settled on the sofa, I realized that I’d left my grilled cheese sandwich in the kitchen. I got up and headed toward the kitchen, and there he was. Leaning casually in the doorway, his right arm propped against the wood. Like he’d been hiding there, waiting for me the whole time.

“So, did you say yes?” he asked, not bothering to move out of my way. He was blocking the doorway. I couldn’t get through. I didn’t care. “To the date, I mean.”

“I did.” I was whispering. I wasn’t sure why. Like we were sharing a secret.

“Lucky guy,” he said in a low voice, slowly looking me up and down. As he turned and disappeared into Renee’s bedroom, his eyes never left mine.

Even if Vincent wasn’t in London, at that moment, he still seemed a million miles away.

Chapter 4

The Middle East felt like my childhood. It was what I imagined Seattle to be like during the nineties. Dark basement feel, sticky floors, heavy distortion, the distinct aroma of weed and beer. It was dirty and raw. In LA, everything was pretty. Even the rock clubs were pretty. In Boston, the rock scene was real, not manmade. No one painted a mural of Jim Morrison on the side of the building to be cool. It was cool without trying.

I spotted Renee as soon as I walked downstairs. Even at six months’ pregnant, she was still stunning. Her blonde hair spiraled down to her waist, and she wore a long, black vintage coat with a fur collar. She looked like a seventies groupie. She was perched by the merchandise table, helping the merch girl unload the band’s albums and t-shirts. Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Hey!” She waved and abandoned the table, wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. You have to see the albums!”

Tonight was the album-release party for Dylan’s band, Electric Wreck. They had just finished their first full-length album, Hiatus. I’d photographed them for the album cover, thanks to Renee’s referral, but had yet to see the finished product. Renee was like an elated toddler, grabbing me excitedly by the arm and dragging me to the table.

“What do you think?” she asked, thrusting a copy into my hands. I looked closely at the cover. It looked great. We had used their studio for the shoot, which everyone agreed was a practical location, with the graffiti and equipment in the background adding to the sincerity of the setting. The four guys were strewn across the room with their instruments – Christian in the back of the photo behind the drum kit, Andy seated on the floor with a guitar in his lap, Jeff leaned up against the wall clutching his bass, Dylan in center, head down, gripping the microphone with both hands. It was a fantastic shot.

“It looks awesome,” I said, running my fingers along the edges. I had sent the final image to their graphic designer, who had adjusted it to black and white and added classic-style font so it looked like an album from the sixties. I flipped it over to read the twelve-song list on the back.

“I know!” Renee was beaming. “I told him it would come out great.”

Dylan was not a fan of the cover concept. He thought a photo of the band members was cheesy and opted for artwork instead. Renee insisted that, since they were all good-looking guys, it would be more marketable. Sex sells. Dylan argued that this theory was exactly what was wrong with the music industry today.

He eventually gave in.

With her new mom-to-be schedule, Renee had quickly become the band’s pseudo-manager. She devoted all her spare time to learning about the music industry and indie artist success strategies. Thus, Dylan usually listened to her even when he didn’t want to. And I was just grateful for the referrals. Electric Wreck was the second band she had referred to me for photography shoots, and since I hadn’t found a job or a permanent place of abode yet, freelance work helped. Living rent-free also helped.

Although I knew the real reason for my lack of drive. I hadn’t fully committed to being home yet. My heart was still in LA.

Renee handed a cardboard box to the merch girl, then led me to the side of the stage. “Did I tell you that they raised over 20,000 dollars for their album through the Kickstarter campaign?”

She had. At least three times. “I think so,” I lied.

“You’re almost as bad of a liar as I am,” she said, laughing. “Sorry if I keep repeating myself, it’s just so exciting. Twenty thousand dollars! They haven’t even been around that long.”

Through Renee’s research, she’d discovered that a lot of emerging indie bands were launching online donation campaigns to help with their album recording expenses. Renee had started a campaign for the band and executed different marketing strategies to get the word out. I knew she’d put a lot of effort into it, but I don’t think anyone realized how effective it was until the results came in. It was all Renee had talked about for weeks.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said, lowering her voice. “Andy thinks you’re cute. He hasn’t shut up about you since the photo shoot. Do you…” She hesitated. “What do you think of him?”

I think he’s not David, I thought.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I said. Technically, it was the truth. I hadn’t thought about any man except David in months.

“Do you think he’s cute?” she asked. She had a painful expression on her face, like it would hurt her if I said no.

I considered. Their guitarist, Andy, was average-looking, shaggy dirty-blonde hair, nice cheekbones, a little extra weight around his midsection. He was the personality of the band, that was for sure. Dylan was too intense, and the other two didn’t talk much.

“He’s okay,” I answered, shrugging. “He’s funny.”

The truth was, every time I pictured myself with a guy, all I could think of was David. I couldn’t imagine feeling that way with anyone else. And if I couldn’t feel that again with someone, then everything else would just be settling. I’d rather be alone.

Just then, the lights dimmed and the four guys slowly made their way to the stage, Dylan arriving last. Renee’s eyes locked on him, and I knew better than to say any more. I had seen Dylan perform, and the way he silenced the audience. He had an undeniable gift. He wasn’t just a voice, he was a presence. It was easy to see why Renee had fallen for him.

When I first met Dylan, he wasn’t at all what I had expected. Maybe because he was so different from David. He was smaller than I’d imagined, five foot nine at most, and incredibly skinny. A true starving artist. He had a big nose and very dark hair, almost black, the complete opposite of his glowing light-blue eyes. His eyes were so intense it was hard to look at him sometimes. Like he was perpetually scared.

After my first conversation with Dylan, I understood the attraction. It was his voice. Not his singing voice, but the way he spoke. He had a deep, sexy tone and spoke slowly and deliberately, like he was half-asleep. It was almost hypnotic. He kept you hanging on every word. Renee also had a tendency to gravitate towards the mysterious, detached type, and Dylan was about as elusive as they came. You never knew if he cared, what he was thinking. He just stared at you with those glowing eyes.

The music started, and for the next two hours, I had officially lost Renee. The music had taken her. My beautiful best friend, with her tiny baby belly poking out from behind her coat. Swaying to the music. In love.

Throughout the entire show, her eyes never deviated from Dylan. At one point, he looked over at her and smiled ever so slightly, and I felt a pang of jealousy in my gut. I wanted that. I wanted someone to look at me like that.

Only that someone was 3,000 miles away, and he’d never look at me like that. Because he didn’t love me.

Los Angeles, CA

March 2009

David started coming around the house more often. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled. I tried not to be. I tried to pretend I wasn’t excited by the sight of him on my couch when I came home, the thought of him in my shower. I tried not to read into his mild flirtations, not to feel his eyes on me constantly. I tried to fight it. I did.

I started to think that maybe it was in my head. Maybe I was reading into it. But it seemed like every time Renee stepped out of the room, he’d inch just a tiny bit closer to me, stare a little bit more intensely. And he didn’t look away. The Stare.

One night, the three of us were watching a movie in the living room. Renee decided to go to bed early, and David stayed up to finish the movie with me. But he didn’t watch the movie. He watched me. I felt his eyes on me the entire time, waiting for me to look his way. I didn’t.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Denise Richards?” he finally asked.

“Every day of my life.” My eyes were still on the TV.

He kept staring. I finally gave in and looked at him. He was grinning. That wild-eyed grin. That we’re-sharing-a-secret grin.

“What?” I asked, fighting back a laugh. I couldn’t help it. He had this way of staring and smiling like he knew something you didn’t.

“You’re really into this movie, huh?” he asked.

I stopped watching it a long time ago, I thought to myself.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Have you ever had Rocky Road popcorn?”

I whipped my head in his direction. “Huh?”

He stood up, walked over to my chair and grabbed both of my hands with his. In one swift motion, he lifted me to my feet. “Come on,” he said, pulling me behind him.

And there, in the kitchen, we melted chocolate and marshmallows, crushed almonds, popped popcorn, and threw them all together. David stood tall above me, so close we were almost touching, and without missing a beat, he shoved a giant fist of popcorn into my mouth.

I screamed, wiping chocolate and marshmallow wads from my face. We were both in hysterics. If this were a date, it would’ve been the best date I’d ever had.

The next day, Renee told me she wanted to break up with him.

Apparently, their differences were beginning to weigh on her, which I knew would happen eventually. You can’t fight the inevitable. Up until David, Renee hated jocks. She wouldn’t even look at a guy if he didn’t hold an interest in some sort of creative endeavor. I think David’s charm had succeeded in blindsiding her temporarily, but now graduation was creeping around the corner. She was starting to think about the future. And questioning whether or not David would be a part of that.

I couldn’t fathom it. She had Him. How could you give up those eyes? Those dimples? The way you felt inside when he looked at you?

Then I realized why. She didn’t feel that way. Maybe to a degree, but not nearly as close to the way I felt. I wouldn’t have given him up for anything.

I understood where she was coming from, but deep down, part of me hated her. I had been on an endless bout of bad dates for as far back as I could remember, hoping to find what she already had. And she was going to throw it away, just because the guy didn’t “get” rock and roll.

Since Renee relied heavily on my opinion, I did what any best friend would do. I told her the truth – that I thought David was great, but if she was having doubts, then maybe she should take some time apart from him to think about their relationship. Renee was flying home to Boston the following week to attend her grandfather’s funeral, so she’d have some space to evaluate their future while she was away.

I just honestly didn’t think that, in the end, she’d decide to stay with him.

Chapter 5

It was almost one in the morning by the time the band was packed up and ready to go. Everyone except for the venue employees and band members had already gone home, so I was left in the smoke-filled backstage room with the Electric Wreck guys while Renee was off settling their bar tab. Dylan must have sensed that I was uncomfortable, sitting alone in the corner, because just as I was about to leave he sat down next to me.

“You like the show tonight?” he asked.

“You know you’re always great,” I said, although I wondered if he really did. No matter how many compliments Dylan received, he still seemed to doubt himself. Typical self-loathing artist.

“Do you have to drive back to the Cape tonight?”

“Yeah. It’s only a little over an hour. Not so bad.”

“Except at this hour.” He smirked. “You’re always welcome to crash with us, you know.”

Renee and Dylan lived in Quincy, which was only a 15-minute drive from the city, but I hated sleeping anywhere except in my own bed.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “Thanks, though.”

“How are you kids doing over here?” Andy asked, sliding in between Dylan and me. He removed a joint from his pocket and held it in my direction. “You smoke?”

I thought about it for a minute. I wasn’t much of a pot-smoker because it made me sleepy, but I did have a long drive home…

“What the hell,” I agreed. “Here?”

“My car. I think they’re going to kick us out soon.”

I followed Andy through the empty main room, catching Renee’s eye on the way. She abruptly stopped her conversation with the bartender when she saw us leaving, giving me the thumbs-up sign. I made a joint-smoking motion with my hands so she wouldn’t get the wrong impression. She shrugged and gave me a smile that said, “Hey, it’s a start.”