*
It’s Sunday night, less than a half hour until Mae comes on the radio. It’s been a week since I first heard her. I left the hotel that night, sat in my car in the parking garage, and just listened to her voice, trying to convince myself it wasn’t her.
Since then, I’ve downloaded and listened to every old show of hers I could find on the internet. For hours and hours, I’ve listened to her voice. It’s like binge-watching a show without video, but it doesn’t matter. I can imagine her. The image of her is clear in my mind—her brown hair with those wispy curls that frame her face, her blue eyes, the way she moves, tastes, the feel of her skin next to mine. It’s all still real.
It wasn’t always easy to listen to her show, hear about her dating life. I shouldn’t be jealous after all this time, but I still am. I’ve tried to Google her, find a picture of her, but I’ve come up empty. I know her show airs out of Denver, but there aren’t pictures of her anywhere. There’s nothing to connect her to the show. It doesn’t matter, though.
I know it’s her. I know it deep in my bones.
The lights are low in the bedroom of my Malibu home. Memories of Mae surround me. Running my fingers across the cassettes, I’ve kept every one, storing them in an old Nike shoebox from when I was thirteen. I loved those shoes, begged my dad for them for months. They were custom made with my initials on the back heel, blue and green, with glow in the dark laces. Wonder what happened to those? Some fan would probably pay big money for my old, sweaty tennis shoes.
Mae and I never started a new tape until the old one was finished, so each tape sounds more like a continuous conversation. Whoever had the tape when it was full, kept it. Not long after I broke her heart, she sent me all of hers. No note, no card, just the cassettes. All the places I’ve lived, all the moving around, these tapes have always been with me. For a long time, it was the only piece of her I had. I used to listen to them over and over again, but it’s been awhile. I still keep a cassette player on hand just in case, though.
Her voice.
Even now, it calls to me.
CHAPTER THREE
Mae
“Men are like libraries. You hope you’re checking out a romance, perhaps a thriller. But occasionally, you end up in a tragedy, or if you’re anything like me—true crime. In the library of men, be careful not to get overdue fines,” I say into the microphone, looking up at the clock.
The station broadcasts several different shows, but it’s late on a Sunday, so it’s pretty empty. The Breakup Bible has a producer who monitors the show. Given the subject matter, we have to be careful we don’t violate any rules of the airways. My call screener sits right outside the booth in a plexiglass cube. We can see each other, but of course, I can’t hear her. It’s her job to make sure the calls stay on topic, the callers are over the age of twenty-one—that kind of thing.
It’s nearly midnight, but I have time for a couple more callers. “Hey caller, what’s your name and how can we break you?”
“Monica,” the female caller says.
Generally, we get about as many male callers as female. I’d say the breakdown is sixty/forty female. The business of heartbreak does not suffer from sexism. Having a penis does not make you immune to having your heart broken, but most of tonight’s callers have been female.
“I’m so pissed,” the caller says.
Pissed or completely devastated tend to be the emotions I hear most often. “Spill,” I say.
“My boyfriend just dumped me,” she spews. “He said my orgasms are too quiet! How fucked up is that?”
The F word got bleeped, but we all know what she said. “You don’t sound too quiet right now,” I say.
She laughs a little. “I swear, I don’t know what men are looking for. We get judged on our boobs, our butts. We get judged on our clothes, our hair. And now the decibel level at which we orgasm is up for debate!”
I bust out laughing. This woman deserves her own show.
“I mean, what am I supposed to tell my mother when she asks why we broke up?”
“Tell her you aren’t the only one,” I say.
“You’ve heard this before?” she asks.
“Well, not exactly,” I say. “I’ll tell you something that happened to me once. I’ve never told this story on the air before. In fact, I’ve never told anyone.”
“I’m listening,” she says eagerly.
“I had the opposite situation,” I say, clearing my throat. “One time, this guy I was seeing was . . .” I pause for a second to think of the least crass way to say it. “Was paying me some lip service down there.”
“Got it.”
“Let’s just say, he was very skilled. My legs spasmed, and I kicked him in the head.”
She cracks up. “You’re joking?”
“Nope, he had to go to the ER. He had a concussion.” I start laughing myself. “He ended it with me a week later. He said it had nothing to do with that, but I have my doubts. I think he was afraid of me.”
She’s now laughing so hard, she’s snorting. “Oh God, I feel so much better.”
“Glad I could help, and good luck,” I say, ending the call. “Looks like we have time for one more call.” I look down at the board, hitting the button to answer. “Hey caller, got to make this a quickie.”
“Mae?” a male voice asks.
I freeze. That’s me! My real name.
And I know that voice. His voice! I’d know it anywhere. The rough texture that somehow sounds sweet. The man who broke my heart.
Quickly, I slap the button to disconnect the call, my hand shaking. I do some quick thinking, thanking God my name isn’t Sophie or Natalie, but Mae. Mae can be a noun, like the month of May, or a verb like May I ask you a question?
I’m banking on my listeners thinking the caller was going to start his question that way.
“Looks like we lost the call,” I say. “And I’m afraid we’re out of time. That’s it for this episode of The Breakup Bible, where getting on your knees has a whole other meaning. Until next Sunday.”
I hit the button to start whatever commercial or music that’s queued to play, then push my seat back from the microphone, my heart pounding. Maybe I was wrong. No, I know I’m not. It was him. It’s been five years. I was barely twenty-one last time I saw him or heard his voice. I don’t even watch his movies. I turn off the television when trailers for them come on. I painstakingly avoid even looking at magazine covers he graces—not at the grocery check-out line, not when they are online, never. And if I happen to be channel surfing and see him on the red carpet, I quickly change the channel—to maybe something about puppies to clear my mind. I have a complete blackout on Knox Merrick.
My ex. He’s not just any ex. He’s THE EX. The shouty caps ex. The one that still haunts me. The one who still makes my heart sting.
Very few people know that I once dated the sexiest man alive, according to nearly every popular online poll and magazine. A few friends remaining from my high school and college days know. My dad and my grandmother know, some locals in Haven’s Point, but I don’t volunteer the information. What’s the point? It’s old news.
The phone screener for my show sticks her head in. Amy has the most beautiful strawberry blonde hair you’ve ever seen. No bottle or salon in the world could mimic that color. She’s one of those women that are just universally pretty—tall, thin, and always eager to help. She’s a good bit older than me, maybe ten years or so, but technically, I’m her superior. It’s a weird dynamic. I don’t like thinking of myself as anyone’s boss. But she’s a whiz with anything technical and constantly updates our website and social media outlets, and handles the app, which really helps me out, since those are not my forte. She was even able to bring our computer system back to life after it crashed a few weeks ago. She our own personal Genius Bar.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know how that guy slipped through,” Amy says, looking down at some papers in her hand. “California area code. Gave the name Knox. I tho
ught that was so funny. Who has the name Knox and lives in California? Besides Knox Merrick. Like he’s going to be calling our show! Although, Knox is from Colorado, right? I think I read that somewhere. Maybe he’s a fan. You don’t think . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Amy,” I say, gathering my things and walking past her. She’s relatively new, hasn’t been here long. She’s going through a divorce, which makes her kind of a perfect fit for the show, not that I’d wish that heartbreak on anyone. I don’t want to make her feel worse than she already does, and the damage is done, so it’s best to let it go.
I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t give Knox Merrick any more of my time, and I’m not about to break that promise.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mae
Why do they call it “beauty sleep” when you wake up looking like death? The dark circles under my eyes could pass for black holes, and my brown hair is flat on one side and crazy on the other. Clearly, I didn’t hit the beauty REM cycle of sleep. Having tossed and turned all night, I splash some warm water on my face.
Knox? Knox called my show last night!
Nope, not going to think about it.
Was that really him?
Yes.
Why would he call?
Stop it.
What could he possibly want?
Who cares?
Why now?
Enough! I grab my hairbrush, pulling my hair up into a ponytail. Colorado in the summer can be hot, but so far, this summer has been pretty mild. The ponytail is on every list for simple summer hairstyles, but it’s not as easy as it looks. You can do a high pony, a low pony, a side pony, a teased pony, but this morning, I’d settle for getting my dang hair up. The thing about a ponytail is, you have to get it in the right spot on your head, or your head won’t rest on your car headrest correctly, or you won’t be able to lay down right on your yoga mat. Not that I do yoga.
You know the day is going to be crap when the hair tie on your ponytail isn’t right. Two loops around is too loose, and three loops is too tight. The day is doomed.
My eyes close, and I can feel his finger twirling the little wispy curls around my face. My brown hair is thick and straight except for a few pieces around my face and neck that always frizz out in little curls. I hate it. My mom said they are my leftover baby hairs. Apparently, I had curls as a toddler. Well, I’m in my mid-twenties, and I’d think my baby hairs would’ve grown out by this point. Maybe that’s what I’ll call my extra curves—baby fat that I still haven’t outgrown.
When I was little, my mom used to call my crazy curling tendrils my “koala ears” because they stuck out so far. We’d laugh. I miss her. She passed away a little over a year ago, just got pneumonia and died. She was still young, healthy, and the doctors didn’t have any answers for us. She and my dad were stationed in France at the time. My dad’s still there. I’ll never forget that call. His voice.
Seems I’m haunted by a lot of voices these days.
Solution for voices in your head—play music as loud as you can! Turning on The Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing”, I follow the lyric’s advice and start a dance across my little house. Instead of having motion detector lights on my house, I should’ve installed a disco ball!
I’ve lived all over the world, but nowhere is better than Haven’s Point, Colorado. It’s a suburb of Denver, about a forty-five-minute drive to the radio station. It’s good that Haven’s Point is close to a big city, a major airport, nightlife, but still quiet and peaceful. It’s not so small that everyone is up in your business—except, of course, my grandmother and her friends. They pride themselves on knowing everything about everyone, especially me. But this town is home. In fact, her house has always been my true home. And now I have my own little place here.
My cottage sits on a crystal blue lake. I own enough land around my place that you can’t see any other houses from mine. My place is small, just two small bedrooms and an office space, but every room has a view. I can soak in my tub or stand in my shower and stare up at the mountains in the distance. To me, it’s the best view in the whole world.
The house has a stone and wood exterior with planter boxes on each window. My Gigi, Imogen Sheridan to everyone else, always says you are either a plant person or not. Not quite sure what she meant by that, so I asked her one day. Does that mean one type of person cultivates life and the other doesn’t? One kind is patient, the other isn’t? She simply laughed and said, “Some people like to play in manure!” She’s wise like that.
Gigi doesn’t like that I live “out here” all alone. It’s literally ten minutes to her house, but she makes that ten minutes sound like a trek across the Serengeti. I learned a long time ago not to argue. We see one another a lot, and always meet up on Monday afternoons. She likes to analyze my Sunday night broadcast.
Only a select few know my actual job at the station, and Gigi is one of them. Most people know I work for the station in Denver, but I’m always vague about what I do there. No one in Haven’s Point would suspect I’m on the radio, broadcasting a national program from Denver! My cover story has always been that I work from home, doing research, social marketing. It’s not a total lie.
Gigi is my biggest fan. She never misses a show, but I’m really hoping she didn’t catch Knox’s voice. I’ve overanalyzed that relationship enough in my lifetime.
*
Cassette
Knox to Mae
Age Fourteen
I got it! I got the lead in the school play! Mrs. Smith said I’m a natural. My dad isn’t thrilled and asked me if I’m gay! Can you believe that? Does he think Sean Connery is gay? Or Harrison Ford? I can’t wait to get out of this house, this town. Anyway, at least my brother was happy for me. I called Ryder and told him. He’s in Nashville trying to become a musician. Wonder if my dad questions his sexuality, not that they are speaking. I wish I could do what Ryder did and just drop out of school, get my GED, and live my dreams. Maybe when I’m seventeen, I’ll do that, what he did. Follow in my big brother’s footsteps. Not music, but acting. That’s what I want to do. It’s the best feeling in the world to make the audience happy. To get to be someone else for a little while.
The only bad part is, I have to kiss Josie Miller. Do you remember her at all? Looks like she’s gone to the tanning booth one too many times? Anyway, as soon as they posted the parts, she asked me to practice the kissing scene. I really don’t want to kiss her. My friends are never going to let me live that down. Plus, I’ve never really kissed a girl. You know, really kissed. You’re the only girl I’ve ever kissed. Shit, shouldn’t have said that. I wonder if you remember that kiss?
*
Cassette
Mae to Knox
Age Fourteen
YAY! I knew you’d get the part. I had no doubts. You’ll be great. I wish I could be there to see your debut.
Don’t you dare think about dropping out of school to become an actor. You know I like your brother, but Ryder had other reasons for leaving. I know you don’t like to talk about it, so I won’t, but stop thinking that way. You’re too smart. You can go to college and study acting.
As for Josie Miller, I don’t think they expect you to ram your tongue down her throat or anything. Just close your eyes, and think of someone else. Pretend it’s not her. That’s what acting is. Act like it’s someone you’d rather be kissing.
Hmm . . .
I do remember our kiss. It was my first. My only so far, too. It was just a peck on the lips the summer we met. The day I left, actually. We were only about five or six. I was leaving with my parents to go back overseas. I came over to your house to say goodbye. I was crying, which was so unlike me. I don’t cry when I leave places, usually. I’ve been leaving people and places my whole life, but for some reason, leaving you that day had me really upset. You told me not to cry, that I was your best friend, and you loved me. I said, “love you, too,” and asked you to kiss me goodbye. You did.
CHAPTER FIVE
> Mae
Haven’s Point is a collection of young families with children looking to escape the expense of big city living and retirees looking to slow things down. The only twenty-somethings living here are either living with their parents or already married. The dating scene is practically non-existent. Most of the guys I’ve dated recently have been from the Denver area. Not having to worry about running into any ex’s is just another benefit to living here.
Riding my Tiffany Blue cruiser bike through town also goes into the plus category. People love to walk and bike here, so there are paths everywhere. It reminds me a lot of many European cities in that way. When the weather is nice, I like to ride my bike or walk places. Driving back and forth to Denver for work makes me want to change my address to Audi Q5. I had to cave and buy a new car after my beloved old VW Beetle died on me. I hated buying a new car, but with all the commuting, I had to get something reliable, even though I hated being all practical. Adulting sucks sometimes.
Strict local ordinances keep the integrity of the town square architecture intact. I’ve always thought the town name should be changed to Haven’s Village instead of Haven’s Point. We aren’t at the point of any river or mountain, but this place looks like a quaint village you’d find over in Europe with its intricate wood latticework, fences, and mom and pop stores. Of course, bigger businesses have moved in, “progress” invading our little neck of the woods, but the center of town remains the same, seeped in small town perfection.
The town is set up in a grid pattern, with little parks or green spaces at the center of each square. It’s common for people to picnic there, walk their dogs, or just read a book. My destination is slightly different. I’m headed to The Tune Up. My best friend, Everly, and her husband, Timothy, own it. Everly’s parents owned it forever before passing it on to her. We used to hang out here a lot. It’s slightly different now. Back then, it was just a coffee shop. Now, it’s a coffee shop and bar! Yep, you can get any type of coffee you want all day long, but if you need a liquid tune up of a stronger variety, alcohol is served from five until midnight. Not much happens in Haven’s Point after midnight.
Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel) Page 2