Ink My Heart

a hand. “Give it back.”

“This is pretty good,” he says, continuing to read and ignoring me.

My hand reaches to tear the notebook out of his, but he leans back. I fly up and my chair hits the wall behind me. “I’m not fucking around.”

He still doesn’t look up. “I’m not either. This is really, really good.”

“Romeo,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I’ve been working on a tune this would be perfect for.” Ignoring me, he mouths the words from the paper and nods his head, obviously thinking in music notes. “A few tweaks and we could have one hell of a song.”

With one step around the table, I snatch the notebook away. “I didn’t write if for your album.”

“It’s our album and that could be our first single.”

“Oh, awesome. Tear out my heart and put it on display for the world. That would make a great song.”

Being a business asshole he says, “What do you think? That great songs come from lame-ass poets sitting in the parks under trees?” He shakes his head. “They come from real people writing about life and what matters to them. And those”—he points to the book—“are awesome lyrics because they’re real and they’re heartfelt.”

My hand grips the notebook until it scrunches. “My fucked-up personal shit is not making it into a song.”

Still digging into a white takeout container with his chopsticks, Sam comes to stand next to Romeo. “He’s right. Fucked-up shit usually makes the best songs.”

I glare at Sam.

He shrugs. “Just saying.”

Romeo leans across the table. “How about this? After we work on the music, give me three practice rounds with it, then on the fourth we’ll record. Then if you say no, I’ll let it go.”

I’m trying to ignore their hopeful faces when from across the room, Gabe says, “Quit being a pussy and just sing your pussy shit.”

“Fuck you,” I say, glaring at Romeo. “Four times. That’s it.”

“Give me the notebook and your pen.” He reaches for his chopsticks. In between shoveling in food, he writes out an arrangement using the lyrics. Feeling nauseous like some nervous schoolboy on his first date, I toss my half-full container of food in the garbage, then stare at the wall while drinking pop to wet my suddenly dry throat. I can’t believe I agreed to this shit. And I’m all too aware of the words he wants to use for the chorus. Words from my mutilated heart I’ll have to belt out in front of everyone.

We head back into the studio and my nervousness intensifies. I watch them learn the song over the next hour. Romeo was right. His simple melody matches my lyrics perfectly.

But when I join them, I can’t sing it. Even after three times through.

Romeo glares at me. “Are you kidding me? Are you doing that shit on purpose? Everyone else has it but you.”

My jaw clenches tighter than his. I’m not kidding, singing this is killing me. I’m not sure I can do it. “I said I’d sing it. I didn’t say I’d do it well.”

“We all know you can sing way better than that. Get your shit together or I’m going to assume you’re screwing up on purpose, especially since this is not only the fourth time but our last session.”

“Lovesick pussy,” Gabe sneers from behind his drum set, and Sam snorts.

“Just start the song,” I snap.

Snickering now, Gabe hits his sticks together.

They play through the chords twice. I take a breath and start singing. This time I let myself think of Allie while I sing, and the words somehow come easier with the vision of her in my head. They’re about her, and I sing them to her. My voice comes out not only clear and in tune but also wrapped in emotion.

The studio is quiet once we’re finished. Even the two guys behind the soundboards, whom we pay a ridiculous hourly rate to, are quiet. Finally, Romeo says, “That will work. He glances at the clock above the glass. “We should be able to get two more in. Let’s do ‘Trace,’ then ‘At the End of the Universe.’”

We’re all shocked by that. Romeo had planned four more songs. Dropping two songs without a Romeo tantrum is unheard of. Since we’ve done the next two songs so many times, it only takes a couple of plays for each before we call it good. While we pack our stuff, Romeo goes into the sound room, playing back and reviewing the stuff we did for the day.

We all pause when the new song comes on. I almost don’t recognize my voice. It sounds raw and emotional, and completely different than I ordinarily sound. I usually work hard at hitting all the right notes and that’s about it. Hearing myself so emotional kind of sucks. Essentially, it really sucks because now I can hear how I feel like shit.

“That is going to go viral,” Sam says, clasping his bass case shut. “No doubt. That one is blasting us onto the charts.”

At the thought of my heartache turning us into real rock stars, I snatch my guitar case and a snare drum from the floor, then march out to load up the van. I should have never agreed to do the song. I’m going to have to relive that shit every time I sing or hear it. The album comes out in a couple of weeks. That song might not be on it. The rest of the band will be pissed at me, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to sing about Allie over and over again if we’re through.

The ride home is quiet as usual. Sam sleeps on the bench. Gabe sleeps in the passenger seat. Romeo drives. And I lie in the back surrounded by equipment, scrolling through pictures on my phone. I have three of Allie. One from the beach on the day of the nature walk. Another of her at the coffee shop. And the last is of her at her apartment the night she made dinner. I look at each long and hard as the highway rolls under me.

She wanted time. She wanted space. But it has been six days since she asked for space, and all we’ve shared is one short phone call during which we talked like strangers muttering hellos. The longer I wait, the more it feels like her needing time and space will last forever. I want so badly to see her, to know what she’s thinking, yet I want to respect her wishes even though they’re killing me.

Back at the dorm, I’m left alone staring at four walls when Romeo heads over to Riley’s. I never used to hang out in my dorm room. Lately I don’t leave it. I clean some of my shit up. Something I never do. Try to read ahead for my communication class for spring term, which starts this week. Toss a tennis ball at the wall. Stare at the wall. Resist the urge to punch the wall.

Feeling caged, I grab my keys—and without realizing it, I’m driving on the highway, driving home. The two- hour drive takes me a little over an hour and a half, but lucky for me I’m not pulled over. I just listen to music and let the drive empty my turning mind.

My parents’ home, just north of Grand Rapids, overlooks Lake Michigan. The house is empty of course. It’s large and professionally decorated, the only warmth inside coming from the sight of the sun setting over the lake framed by the floor–to-ceiling windows.

Ascending the steps to my old bedroom, I dial my mother.

Surprisingly, she answers. “Justin, we’re in the middle of a charity dinner. Please make it quick.”

Miss you too. “I was wondering what time you were getting home.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m here.”

“Here?”

“Home.”

“Oh…we should be home a little after eight. See you then,” she says quickly, and hangs up.

Though my room’s the same as it was when I left for college almost three years ago, it’s always strange to come back to it. Except for once freshman year when I saw my parents for all of five minutes, I don’t come home on weekends. Yet as I lie on the bed and watch the waves roll onto the beach, I feel less confined than I did in the dorm. Still, the solitude eats at me.

Eight o’clock comes and goes without my parents returning home. Desperate for someone to talk to, I call Olivia. The one true love from my childhood. My nanny.

“Hello, Justin,” she answers in a bright cheery voice.

“Miss Olivia.” Though she’s been married for over six years, this will always be my name for her.

“Well, this is a lovely surprise.”

“Not too late to be calling?”

“Never too late for you, love. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I religiously call my former nanny on