The Lonely Hearts Club

by Brenda Janowitz

  I get into bed and curl next to him. Like I had any other choice.

  22 - Koka Kola

  The Love, Inc. ad was just the beginning. Apparently, my tagline of “I got a gift certificate to this site and I threw it in the garbage” worked well for them. They love being a part of the Lonely Hearts Club site, and even bought a big banner ad to go on top.

  The ads, as Max promised, keep rolling in. The Italian restaurant that started this whole thing contacted us next. They couldn’t even afford a tiny side ad, the cheapest type we offer, but Max gave them a discount. He thought their ad, with my tagline “This restaurant tried to charge me an inflated Valentine’s Day rate when I was ordering for one, but I told them where they could put their inflated Valentine’s Day prices” would do well. He was correct. Manager Greg e-mailed me a week later to say that they could barely keep up with the new demand the ad generated.

  A bunch of the downtown clubs where I play also asked Max for a discount. He obliged—I told him that the site needed some street cred, and it was important to have them on there.

  Next came the chocolate. Godiva—Godiva!—booked an ad that said, “Who needs love when you have chocolate?”

  Even Guitar Center got into the game. Their ad (“Jo called us up about our mailing list and ripped us a new one—we loved it.”) actually pays us by clicks, so we’re making money off them every day.

  It’s a lot of money. Just not Soho-loft money. I’m starting to save up for the first month’s rent, so that I can move back into the loft, but the problem is, then I’ll need a second month’s rent, and then a third month, and then…Well, you get the point. The Soho loft costs a fortune. I understand that it’s not fair to expect my dad to keep it sitting there empty when he could be making thousands of dollars a month by renting it, but at this rate, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move back in.

  “I guess you’ll just have to move in with me,” Max says, and I laugh. “What’s so funny?” he asks. “I wasn’t joking.”

  “It’s only been a few months,” I say. “I’m not going to move in with you.”

  But my body language tells a different story. My legs are twisted toward him, my shoulders squarely facing him. I’ve even developed the very un-me habit of twirling my hair in my fingers.

  “You’d rather be homeless than live with me?” he asks.

  I laugh, and then realize that I do want to move in with him. I really do. We spend all of our free time together, so it would make sense, wouldn’t it? But it seems crazy to move in with someone so soon. Especially since I was just living with someone else who recently moved out.

  Well, Jesse and I weren’t technically living together. He technically lived with three of his bandmates and slept on the couch. But he spent all of his free time with me and all of his stuff was at my place, so you can draw your own conclusions from that.

  But still. Moving in together? It sounds so formal, so definite. And I’m only twenty-two years old.

  “I’m not going to be homeless,” I explain. “I’ll just keep crashing with Chloe until I figure something out.”

  “What happens when Chloe gets back from California?”

  “I’ll just move on to the couch,” I say.

  “Ouch,” he says, and grips his chest dramatically, as if I’ve just shot him in the heart, at close range.

  “Want me to kiss that and make it better?” I ask.

  “Does Chloe know about us?” he asks. I don’t know how to respond. The truth is, Chloe does not know about us; no one does. Not even my parents, who I usually tell everything. But it feels like telling Max that might hurt his feelings. And I don’t want to do that.

  “I haven’t really told anyone yet,” I say. “But it’s not because you don’t mean something to me. You do.”

  “You mean something to me, too.”

  “This is a really weird time for me,” I say. “With the site and everything...”

  “I know,” he says. “No pressure. You should do whatever feels right.”

  I nod my head in agreement, but all I can think is: This feels right. Maybe I should seriously consider moving in with Max. But what would that mean for the Lonely Hearts Club?

  “You may not have to move out after all,” Max says as another e-mail pops up.

  “What?” I ask. His eyes are glued to the computer screen and I edge over, close to him, to take a look.

  “I knew it was just a matter of time until someone like this came along,” he says, and we both read the e-mail in silence.

  “Cobra Vodka?” I say. “Never heard of them before.”

  “Who cares?” Max says. “Look at what they offer to do an ad.”

  The number’s big. So big, in fact, that I have to read it three times before I can process it. This would take me one step closer to staying in the loft. This would definitely cover the first month’s rent. Maybe even the second. But does this mean that the discussion with Max about moving in is over?

  “Let’s do it,” I say. I’m not entirely sure what I’m suggesting—the ad or the offer to move in with Max?

  “Do you want to do the honors?” he asks and turns the computer my way.

  I write an e-mail back to Cobra, explaining my usual stipulations for having an ad on the blog—they have to match the color scheme of the blog (or lack thereof, I should say), they have to allow me to create my own tagline, and they don’t get final approval. I click SEND.

  “Then that’s it,” Max says.

  “I guess so.”

  23 - Hide Your Heart

  We’re kissing and we’re kissing and it’s like we don’t even notice that a band is here to play.

  I feel a pair of eyes on me and I look across the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Max murmurs into my ear. Chills go down my spine and I have to close my eyes for a second just to take it all in.

  “I think that guy’s staring at me,” I say, and then bury my face in Max’s chest. It’s like I’m a child, making myself invisible by simply closing my eyes.

  “Which guy?” Max asks and turns around. But by then, the guy’s right next to us.

  “Hey,” he says to me. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so, man,” Max says and turns his back on him.

  But he doesn’t walk away. “Are you Jo Waldman?” the guy asks and puts his hand on my arm.

  “No,” I say. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  Max grabs my hand and we make our way to the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the guy typing away on his cell phone.

  “Hey, you are!” he says, walking over to the bar. “You’re the Lonely Hearts Club girl! I’m VelvetUnderground98.” He’s holding his cell phone up so I can see—it’s the Lonely Hearts Club Web site.

  I turn back to the bar as quickly as I can. Max puts his arm protectively around me as we wait for the bartender to get our drinks. Max throws a bill down on the bar as the bartender slides two beers our way.

  But I feel like I can’t turn around. I don’t want to be questioned again. And I can sense that Max feels it, too. Like we’re being watched. Like someone knows something that we don’t know. I have to get out of there.

  The guy calls out to me and I turn around. He’s now got a bunch of Google images up on his phone. They’re of me. All me.

  I grab Max’s hand and we make our way toward the back of the club. I push open the door, the secret one that most people don’t know about. I push it open and Max and I run through. We hold hands as we run up the steps—a tiny, narrow iron staircase—and make it up to the rooftop.

  “Are you okay?” Max asks, once we’re out in the damp night air.

  “I just needed to breathe,” I say.

  “I know what you mean,” he says.

  We walk to the edge of the roof and look out at the city skyline. It’s beautiful up here, looking uptown at the city—a mess of light and sound and energy. Max takes my hand and I give it a squeeze.

  “Hey,” he says.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re that girl. That girl from that Web site.”

  “You must have me mistaken with someone else,” I say, catching on.

  “No,” he says. “It’s definitely you. You’re the one who’s sworn off love.”

  “Why yes,” I say, as prim and proper as I can muster. “You’ve caught me. I’m the anti-love girl.”

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “Because I really want to kiss you.”

  “Well, I really want to kiss you, too.”

  “Too bad you’ve sworn off love.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Do you think maybe I could convince you otherwise?” he asks, leaning into me.

  “Oh,” I say. “I don’t know. I really, really meant it when I said that I didn’t want love.”

  “Well, that’s a problem,” he says. “Because I really, really meant it when I said that I wanted to kiss you.”

  “Then we seem to be at an impasse,” I say. Our faces are inches apart and I can feel his warm breath on my face.

  “Indeed.”

  I can’t help but smile and Max smiles back at me. I wonder for a second who’s going to break character first—if he’s going to give in and just kiss me, or if it will be me who can’t take it anymore. But then he puts his hand on my cheek and we both lean in at the same time to kiss. I melt into him and memorize the moment. His smell, the sounds of the city, the way he presses my body into his. Is there anything sexier than kissing on a Manhattan rooftop?

  I really don’t think so.

  24 - Constant Craving

  “Didn’t I tell you to answer my landline?”

  “I didn’t even know people still used landlines,” I say. “Chloe, you are totally retro.”

  “When I get back I’m going to have, like, a million messages!” Chloe says. “I thought you were going to text me my messages? That was part of the payment for letting you stay there rent-free, you know.”

  I send Chloe a text: Telemarketer. You may be a winner!

  “Cute,” Chloe says. “I wanted to check in on you.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, watching Max get settled in, putting the Chinese food on the kitchen counter, looking for plates. “How are you?”

  “I’m more worried about you,” Chloe says. “Have you burned my apartment down in a rage yet?”

  “Not yet,” I say, watching Max as he uncorks a cheap bottle of wine. Will I ever tire of just staring at Max?

  “Well,” Chloe says, “that’s good to know. Are you listening to me? Earth to Jo. You sound like you’re somewhere else.”

  I was. If only I could tell her about it. I make myself more present for our call. “How’s California?” I ask. And then, not waiting for an answer, “How’s your boss? Please tell me you’re not sleeping with your boss.”

  “My boss?” Chloe asks. “Ew, gross. No, I’m not sleeping with him. We’re working our asses off here, trying to get things set up so we can come home.”

  “I miss you,” I say.

  “I miss you, too,” she says.

  Neither of us says anything for a second. We both let it sink in. It sucks having your best friend across the country. Even if you still haven’t told her the single most important thing that’s been happening to you lately, a girl still needs her best friend.

  “The music scene out here is sick,” Chloe finally says.

  “That’s cool,” I say. “See any bands I’ve heard of?”

  “Nope,” she says. “Totally different from the scene we’re used to. It’s kind of cool to go to a rock club and feel completely anonymous, you know?”

  And I do know what she’s talking about. She once told me that anytime she walks into a downtown rock club, she thinks everyone is staring at her, whispering behind her back that she’s the girlfriend of that drummer who OD’d and died. No matter how many times I tell her that that’s not the case, there’s no convincing her. It’s hard to prove a negative.

  “It’s great to lose yourself in music,” I say, and Chloe agrees with me. “Do you bring the people from your office?”

  “No,” she says, reading my mind like she always does, “I don’t bring my boss to hear music. I am not sleeping with my boss.”

  “I wasn’t trying to infer you were,” I say, but I’m lying. I was totally trying to figure out if she was going to seedy clubs (read: places with flowing alcohol) with her married boss.

  “Liar,” she says.

  I look at Max, and he’s got plates and wineglasses set up and ready to go. He holds a wineglass out for me to take. I smile back at him and say to Chloe, “You have no idea.”

  25 - Helter Skelter

  Facebook comment from SexMachine:

  Saw you on NY1—make this happen! #LonelyHeartsClubBall

  Response from SeattleScene:

  I didn’t see it—what’s happening?!

  Response from SexMachine:

  Jo’s planning a huge party to get all of us together! #LonelyHeartsClubBall

  Facebook comment from Pianosoundslikeacarnival:

  A party? See, Jo, I knew you weren’t serious. I’m almost relieved.

  26 - White Wedding

  The day’s a total blur. I can’t tell the difference between the Plaza, the Pierre, or the St. Regis—they’ve all melted into one uber-glamorous memory. It doesn’t help that I’m totally sleep deprived. Tending to the blog all day, and then seeing Max all night, has turned out to be very tiring.

  But I can’t give either one up.

  Barbie’s on total overdrive. It’s like wedding planning is her crack. She’s bouncing and smiling and squealing all day long. More so than usual, I mean. Which is amazing, seeing as she visited all of these venues already with her own parents. She’s only showing my parents again today as a sort of accommodation. Clearly, Andrew’s told her how left out my mother feels where the wedding plans are concerned.

  We talk to all of the wedding planners, tour the ballrooms and bridal suites, and even taste the food at the St. Regis, but I can tell by the look on my mother’s face that it’s not enough. She knows that she’s been excluded, and that this is all just for show. She knows that even though she and my father will be paying the tab for half the wedding, Barbie’s mother will be deciding everything. They won’t be asked their opinion on anything, not in a way that actually matters, anyway. They’ll just be handed a bill. A very, very large bill.

  I grab my mother’s hand as we leave the last hotel (the Plaza? the Pierre? Who can remember at this point?) and walk toward the car. She squeezes back, and I know that she needed that.

  “Do you want to come with us for dinner?” my mother asks.

  I do not want to come for dinner. I want to get back to the loft and meet up with Max, which was my plan. It was the thing that got me through the day, knowing that he’d be waiting for me. I have no desire to drive all the way out to Long Island for a long, drawn-out dinner where I’ll have to hear Barbie squeal about the curtains at the Plaza versus the plush carpeting at the Pierre. Or the elevators at the St. Regis.

  “I’m sure she has plans,” my father says.

  “Right,” my mother says. “You probably have plans. You don’t want to come all the way out to Long Island.”

  But watching my mother smile, even though I know she really wants to break down and cry, is really more than I can bear.

  “No plans,” I say, and my mother smiles. For real this time.

  “I’m concerned about you channeling all of your creative energy into something so negative,” my father says. We’re at Dominick’s for dinner after a very long day of shopping various New York City hotels for Andrew and Barbie’s wedding. Has he been waiting all day to say this to me? Is this what I have to look forward to for the duration of the meal? I take a bite of an onion roll as I consider my father’s statement.

  “Forget about that,” my mother says. “Who’s going to want to marry you if you stand for t
he opposite of love?”

  “I’m not really all that interested in getting married,” I explain.

  My mother shakes her head no, as if she’s not buying this. Not at all. Not for even one minute. “You were never one of those little girls who went through an ‘I hate boys’ stage,” my mother says. “Never thought that they had cooties or that they were gross. You were always pretty boy-crazy, even when you were in the crib. When men would come by and look at you, you’d always coo and smile at them.”

  “I don’t think that boys have cooties now, Mom,” I say. “I just think all men are evil.”

  “Now is not really the time to go through such a phase,” my mother says to me. “Now is the time to be concentrating on things like getting married. Not obsessing over why men are evil.”

  “I don’t care about getting married,” I say, starting the same conversation we’ve had thousands of times before. “What I want is—”

  “Mad, burning, passionate love,” she finishes for me. “I’ve heard the speech before.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with what I want for myself,” I say.

  “Can you register at Tiffany’s for mad, burning, passionate love?” she asks.

  “This isn’t the issue,” my father interjects, putting his wineglass down on the table. “The issue is you putting all of your energy into this uncontrolled rage. Something so negative. We’re worried about you, Pumpkin.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, putting down my wineglass and calling the waiter over to order myself a vodka tonic.

  “Do you really believe all this stuff you’re saying?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, but I can’t meet my father’s eyes. “Of course I do. Why would I write it if I didn’t really believe it?”

  “How’s the rent money coming, Pumpkin?” my dad asks.

  “It’s not,” I say. “I mean, I’m making some nice money from all the ads, but it’s not enough to pay for the loft just yet.”

  “What are your plans?” he asks.

  “Well, I’m hoping to get a few more advertisers,” I explain. “I should be able to have the money soon.”