Page 48 of The Beat Match

Heaving herself to sitting, she replied as her Harley Quinn alias.

Harley Quinn: Sorry for the silent treatment. I’m a bit of a sad sack these days.

She’d tried to stay positive since Wes had walked out her door. Between waitressing shifts, she’d made halfhearted attempts to practice DJing. She’d gone for walks outside, had logged on to her Punchies page, chatted with Pegasus and a couple of other women. Some online friends’ genders were a mystery. Others had been sussed out through their chats. Deaf Jam was (supposedly) a married man in his late twenties who worked at the post office and loved talking music through the BOOMPop site. Their conversations usually invigorated Annie. Tonight warring jellyfish on her ceiling were more her speed.

Deaf Jam: Something happen?

Annie’s instinct was to brush him off. Discussing personal problems wasn’t part of their usual chats, but her sad-sack state was becoming tedious. She chewed her lip, debating how honest of a reply to give.

Harley Quinn: I’m in love with a guy, but he blatantly told me he’s not interested.

Blunt and succinct for the win.

Deaf Jam: That’s harsh.

Harley Quinn: Lepers feel more attractive than I do right now.

Deaf Jam: Better he was honest than lead you on.

Harley Quinn: In theory sure. In practice it sucks.

It felt like someone had stuck her heart in a blender.

Deaf Jam: If this dude told you he’s not interested, no point mooning over him. He doesn’t deserve you. Go out. Find some guy to have fun with.

Again, easier said than done. Annie had never been a once-and-done girl. She liked romance, dating. Getting to know a man.

Harley Quinn: Casual hookups aren’t usually my thing.

Deaf Jam: Nothing wrong with blowing off steam by blowing…

Harley Quinn: Why do guys always fall back on blow job jokes?

Deaf Jam: We’re the more primitive of our species.

Harley Quinn: Agreed, and one-night stands feel skeezy to me.

But she remembered Duncan’s forward suggestions to add benefits to their “friend” status. Hooking up with him wouldn’t be as nerve-racking as taking a stranger home. Based on his continued jokes on the subject, he’d probably agree to a no-strings romp between the sheets. The thought still made her squeamish.

Deaf Jam: If this guy made you feel shitty, a casual fling could help you get your mojo back.

Or it could make her feel worse.

Annie thanked him for the advice and dropped her head back onto her couch cushion. Deaf Jam was right about her mojo: it was obliterated. Nonexistent. She was edgy and sad, and she felt incredibly unattractive. A man telling you a kiss was adrenaline, not lust, was up there with getting laughed at naked. She eyed her phone. Maybe calling Duncan wasn’t the worst idea. He was free with his compliments, quick to make a woman feel desirable. But she wasn’t overly attracted to him. Their occasional texts were always light and fun, with Duncan eventually prodding about Wes, worried about his friend and boss, but she couldn’t imagine kissing him.

Still, a friendly night out with a guy could be just what she needed.

She grabbed her phone and texted Duncan one word: Hey.

When he didn’t reply, she resumed analyzing the water stains on the ceiling. Not a particularly fun activity, she sat at her piano instead and played. Choppy at first, then she closed her eyes, pictured Leo beside her, moving her fingers to the right keys. She relaxed slightly, let the notes tumble from her fingers, but they sounded thoughtless and angry, a strike of chords to excise her frustrations.

She hadn’t spoken with Wes since his epic brushoff. There had been no friendly chatter, no talk of more DJ lessons. Her only remote connection to him had been working on the video feed, without him knowing. Another activity to busy her mind. She’d searched through endless clips, all portraying the effects of gun violence, sorrow and devastation in violent images, hope and artistic portrayals in others: objects that looked like guns dissolved into a blur of butterflies, graveyards of rifles and revolvers and semi-automatics covered with dirt, blooming into flowers and new growth above.

The possibility of change. But first, the violence.

When she’d learned Vivian had video editing skills, Annie had offered free piano lessons in exchange for her help. She hadn’t explained how deeply the gun violence images affected her, why the topic was so personal, but they’d created something bold and moving. A flowing montage Wes could enhance with his beats.

But she hadn’t breathed a word about her work to Wes. Her humiliation and pride kept her quiet. Wes hadn’t opened the lines of communication, either. He must be utterly embarrassed for her.