And I see him everywhere.
I’ll sit here, watching vacationers walk by, and if I peek a strand of loose blond hair on a tall man, I perk up, imagining it’s him, but it never is.
Like a mirage deployed by my broken heart.
On my way to the bus stop to go home, I stop halfway down the boardwalk at a small shop I haven’t noticed before. It is tiny, and the windows are painted black, but there’s a fantastic painting on the sign above the door. It is a woman, her face painted like a skeleton, and she’s swallowing the stars straight out of the sky. The sign under the spectacular painting readsM y M. I’m not sure why, maybe because it gives me rock and roll vibes, but I feel drawn to the little shop, so I open the door and step inside as the doorbell rings above me, announcing my arrival.
A woman greets me with a welcoming grin. “Hi. I’m Mitzy. How can I help you?”
35
KARL
Ihaven’t touched my guitar since she left and instead limit myself to writing songs. Bren’s ongoing paternity leave and the band being stalled temporarily helps in my avoidance of the instrument. Instead, I limit myself to writing page after page of songs about her.
It started off as a joke.
I told myself I’d do what Bren did when he broke it off with Sofia before they finally got back together. And I understand the allure of it now.
Keeping the mind occupied with words, with ink on paper, is better than wallowing, motionless and useless. It’s better than being stagnant, and waiting for . . . for what? For the heartbreak to one day magically disappear?
Because it won’t. The hurt of her not loving me back will not lift its crushing weight, so instead, I harness that pain and put it into words.
Some of the songs are sweet little memories.
Some are accusatory and regretful.
But they are all true.
I’m not surprised when Bren shows up unannounced. He still has access to the penthouse, and I have to remind myself to revoke it. But I can’t begrudge him. After all, this is what I did to him when he was feeling this low. Showed up unannounced. Though, to be perfectly honest, I do think he was way more melodramatic. At least I function. And bathe. I shudder, remembering what he looked like that day I showed up at his country house in Germany.
Bren hands me a beer.
“Can I read some of those?” He points at the pieces of paper on the coffee table.
“Have at it,” I say, not caring at all what he might think of them.
“This one’s good,” he says after a moment. He sips his beer.
“Which one?”
He hands me a single piece of paper. “Pain in my Ass,” he says.
I smirk. Lola sure as hell is a pain in my ass. “I like that one too.”
“Mind if we record it on the next album?”
I blink at him. Is this man serious? “No,” I say casually. “I haven’t written the music to go along with it.”
“We’re not recording for a year at least. You have time.”
He hands me the piece of paper and stands to leave. “Good work, man. Keep it coming.”
I stare at the elevator doors long after he’s gone. I think Brenner Reindhart just paid me a compliment.
* * *
I kneelby the bed and take a deep breath. Pixel is staring at me like I’m crazy. Three months without playing guitar—the longest I’ve ever gone since I touched one for the first time.