I’m silent for a moment. “Sorry, who?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. He’s this hot-shit music exec with El Sol Records. He was at the bar scouting out new talent, and he said he likedmymusic. But that’s not even the wildest part. He wants me to come down to the studio tomorrow and audition for the head of the label. If all goes well, they might even sign me.”
“No way!” I squeal, flopping down on my back and staring up at the ceiling. I grin as I imagine Jake onstage, guitar on one knee, his dimple popping as he smiles at adoring fans.
“I know. This is just so surreal,” Jake sighs. “Listen, I gotta go. But I’ll call tomorrow, okay? I promise.”
“Sure,” I reply. “Sounds great.”
“And Lexi?”
“Yeah?”
“Better go ahead and pick out those Broadway tickets.”
Grinning, I hang up the phone and plug it back into my charger. My heart is still pounding with shock and excitement. This could be it for Jake, his big break. Closing my eyes, I drift off to sleep, oblivious to the reality that awaits.
That this will be the first and last phone call I receive from Jake Taylor.
7
FOR AS LONG ASI live, I’ll never forget the first time I heard “Blueberry” on the radio. I was in the school kitchen, cleaning up after a long morning of service. It was early September, the start of my final year of culinary school, six months since I’d last heard from Jake.
One of my classmates flipped open her laptop and connected to Spotify for some background music. As a familiar melody wafted through the speakers, I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“She’s got a certain way about her, an alchemy that’s all her own, something that makes me feel at home.”
“Oh my god, I freakin’ love this song! Turn it up!” Ali squealed. The music grew louder, and as his voice came through the speakers, the plate in my hand slipped through my fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
With a murmured apology, I knelt to the floor to pick up the shards. Trancelike, I listened to the lyrics as though hearing them for the first time.
“I met her once, but she’s gotten to me. Slipped inside me, made me feel so woozy. Found the key to my heart and what does she find? The taste of blueberries on my mind.”
No, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Was it?
My eyelids fluttered shut as I was transported back to the first time I heard this song. The smell of meat sauce wafting through the kitchen. Long fingers sliding elegantly over guitar strings. A pair of chocolate eyes warming as they met my own.
“My newest imaginary boyfriend,” Ali sighed, interrupting my thoughts as she knelt beside me, dustpan in hand. “His name is Jake Taylor. You ever heard of him?”
IDON’T KNOW WHYI’ve never told anyone the truth about my relationship with Jake. Maybe because it would make it less real, cheapen it somehow. The secrecy preserves what we had: the memories are mine alone, locked away in my heart, like Rose DeWitt Bukater’s romance with Jack Dawson.
I waited all day to hear from Jake the morning he went to meet with the El Sol executive. By 10P.M., I gave in and called him, my heart thumping as the phone rang in my ear. And rang. And rang. Until finally, it clicked over to voicemail. I sent him a text, since only psychos leave voicemails.Hey, it’s me! Call me when you get this.A moment later, three dots appeared on the screen. Then nothing.
Two days and another unanswered text later, I was starting to get worried. When I tried him again, a robotic female voice informed me that the voicemail box was full. A day after that, he sent me a quick text:Sorry, I’ve been swamped! I’ll call tomorrow.But he didn’t.
The rest of the week passed in a fog. I spent most of it staring forlornly at my phone, willing it to produce a message from Jake. The phone stared back at me blankly, showing nothing but the hours passing.
By the time our weekly happy hour rolled around, I was a sullen mess. Ali was also in rare form that afternoon. Still white-hot with rage after yet another disastrous date, she’d mounted oneof her soapboxes to deliver a TED Talk on “How All Men Are the Worst.”
“You can’t conflate every bad experience you’ve had into a blanket statement about men,” Chloe argued. “Besides, they’re hardly the only offenders. Do you not remember Jo from Macy’s PR department? The one I brought home for Christmas after they told me they wanted to be exclusive, only to ghost me the minute we got back to the city?”
“Point taken,” Ali relented. “I’m just so over dating in New York. All anyone here wants is a fuck and to fuck off. I’m seriously considering joining a convent. You know, if they made one for Jews.” By that point, she’d already refilled her margarita glass three times, and her words were beginning to slur. She tipped her chin toward me to punctuate her point. “I mean, just look at what joining the dating pool has done to our little Lexi.”
They both turned to stare at me then, the pity in their eyes impossible to miss. In fairness, it wasn’t unmerited. I knew how I looked, with my unwashed hair and eyes that had gone red after too many late nights spent staring at my phone, willing it to ring.
“My thing is not like your thing,” I protested. “Jake’s going to call. He’s just… busy.” Ali and Chloe exchanged a look, and I felt my cheeks grow hot. Even to my own ears, it sounded pathetic.
“They’re all ‘busy,’” Ali retorted. “They’re all ‘busy’ and ‘tired’ and ‘overworked,’ and whatever other line they feed us. We’ve got to stop making excuses for these dismissive assholes! Are we seriously going to spend the best years of our lives chasing fuckboy finance bros who send us one-word text messages at twoA.M., or are we going to stand up for ourselves and demand better?” I considered pointing out she was the one chasing finance bros, not me. But before I got the chance, she grabbed the phone from my hand and began scrolling through my messages.
