Sound Bites

I shrugged. “Maybe. So what’s the second reason?”

“Well, the second reason is that maybe she’s in love with him. And I don’t mean some sort of sexual infatuation, I mean serious love, as in marriage. If she doesn’t have jealousy issues with you, then that’s the only thing that would make sense. I can’t picture her ruining a friendship, especially a friendship like the one you guys had, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this guy.”

That was the more logical explanation, the one I had been leaning towards all along. But the thing that bothered me even more than the thought of Justine and David getting married was the fact that Beth used the word “had” when referring to my friendship with Justine. The friendship you guys had.

And even when I returned home later that evening, I still couldn’t get those words out of my head.

Chapter Four (#ue6596bfd-b712-54f1-b59e-ad3fe3ba99d3)

I’m not sure who came up with the brilliant revelation that college freshmen are mature enough to choose their own majors and career paths because – and I can pretty much guarantee this – eighteen-year-olds do not have the mental capacity to make such a life-altering decision. And in the city of Los Angeles, if you decline to enter into the world of wanna-be model/actresses, that doesn’t leave you many job options.

Five years and three major switches later, I didn’t find my calling. It found me.

I was browsing the classifieds for internships when I saw it.

“Pace Magazine is looking for interns to assist with our new music column, ‘Sound Bites.’ Responsibilities will include article fact-checking and assisting with weekly music reviews. Journalism and Communications majors only. All interested candidates should send their resume to Karen@pacemagazine.com (mailto:Karen@pacemagazine.com).”

The words danced before my eyes. Bright lights and heavenly choir music engulfed me.

A music writer. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of this before? For all the years I’d lived and breathed music, it had never occurred to me that there were other professions inside the music industry besides those solely performing music. I’d long since come to terms with the fact that, in light of the many things I was good at, singing was not one of them. Writing, however, was something that had always been a passion of mine.

My eagerness had clearly shown through on the day of the interview, when the entertainment director hired me on the spot. I’m not sure if she hired me because no one else had applied for the job or because she saw the undying love for music glowing from my eyes, but either way, I was told to report to the lobby on Monday at nine and bring two forms of ID.

When my first day arrived, I was sitting in the lobby, pretending to be engrossed in the latest copy of the L.A. Weekly, when I noticed him. He strolled across the room steadily, his white polo hugging him just tightly enough to show off the outline of his biceps.

“You must be Renee Evans,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m David Whitman, Pace’s sports editor. It’s nice to meet you.”

I stood up and shook his hand, still stunned by the beauty of his dark, deep-set eyes and perfectly chiseled frame.

“The HR team is in a meeting, so they’ve asked me to bring you up to the conference room to get started with your new hire paperwork,” he continued. “Follow me.”

I grabbed my purse and followed him down the corridor. I had to increase my speed to keep up with his brisk pace. One of my college professors had taught us that, when in a business environment, there were three things you should always remember: make eye contact, have a firm handshake, and walk with confidence, “with a purpose,” as he’d called it.

David Whitman walked with a purpose.

After recovering from the initial intimidation of his beauty, I felt instantly at ease with him. By the end of my first day, the budding feeling of lust had already started to form in the pit of my stomach, and I found myself humming on the way home from work like a smitten teenage schoolgirl.

By the end of the second day, he had already asked me out.

I can remember our first date as clear as you’d remember anything else of significant importance in your life: your first kiss, your first love, your first heartbreak. He picked me up in a black Lexus RX, wearing a white baseball cap and a light-green shirt that showed off the tanned tone of his skin. He took me to dinner at Bandera in Brentwood, then for a walk down the Santa Monica Pier. When he leaned in and kissed me, all I could think of was how long it had been since I’d felt like this.

Naturally, at first, I thought it was love, as everyone does when they’re blindsided in the initial relationship stages. I even withheld sex for as long as physically possible, because I was “waiting for the right time.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Justine had asked. “Singing angels to come down from the sky?”

“Hey, we don’t all put out on the first date like you,” I’d joked, but in truth, I really did want it to be perfect, just like everything, up until that point, had been.

But after the honeymoon stage fizzled out, a few concerns emerged. For one, if things didn’t work out between us, I knew the inter-office romance drama at work wouldn’t go over well, and could possibly cost me my newfound dream job. And I had also slowly started to come to the realization that David and I didn’t have a hell of a lot in common.

I had just been assigned my first research piece at Pace, where I was instructed to review the album charts for the past decade and compile a list of the most popular rock bands of the twenty-first century. After coming up with a pathetically weak list of bands not even worthy of mention – it was of no comparison to the bands like Nirvana and Radiohead that had severely impacted the music world a decade prior. I began to wonder if the entire music scene had gone downhill in the last ten years.

When I presented my frustration to David, his lackluster attitude gave way to the realization that we were definitely lacking in the common-interest arena. David’s only passion in life was sports, which was like a foreign language to me. For the first time since we started dating, I began to question our relationship’s shelf life. Common goals and passions may not be important to some people, but they were to me.

“Cornell is still around,” he’d argued when I vented about my article.

“My point exactly. Cornell was one of the talented artists who evolved in the nineties. Name at least one of your favorite bands who evolved over the past ten years.”

Silence.

“See?” I pointed out. “It isn’t easy, is it? I literally sat at my desk for hours today trying to come up with some great bands that have formed in the last few years and I ended up having to include bands that I don’t even like. The only one worth adding to the list is Muse.”

“Who’s Muse?”

***

The lobby to my apartment building was lined with a horizontal row of silver mailboxes, each of which held a small lock in the center. Every afternoon, like clockwork, I’d spend at least ten minutes trying to force my key to unlock the damn door, which usually resulted in my fist beating it repeatedly until it swung open.

Which was exactly what I was doing when Dylan came strolling through the front door.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss California herself,” he greeted, sidling up next to me. His mood seemed to have slightly improved since our last encounter.

I groaned and continued to toy with the lock. Dylan watched me for a good thirty seconds before reaching out and taking the key from my grasp. “Allow me,” he said, unlocking the door in one swift move. I stared at him in bewilderment.

“Try turning the key to the left and then to the right,” he explained. “Works every time.”

I nodded and scooped a pile of junk mail into my arms.

“A thank you would be nice.”

I feigned a smile and mumbled “thanks” before turning to walk away. I could feel his glare as I began to ascend the stairs.

“Why are you such a bitch all the time?”

I spun around to face him, but said nothing.

“Christ, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he continued. “But I’m trying to be cordial and say hello. The least you could do is reciprocate.”

I felt like I had suddenly teleported back to middle school, back to when the class bully would poke fun at you in front of everyone, and instead of coming up with a wise comeback, you’d be too frazzled to think of a good response. I remember racking my brain for something, but I always ended up sputtering off at the mouth and sounding like a complete idiot.

Which reminded me that in most circumstances like these, it’s better to keep your mouth shut.

Without another word, I turned around and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Somehow, I could feel Dylan laughing at me as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t hear him, but I could feel him. And the bastard was laughing.

Chapter Five (#ue6596bfd-b712-54f1-b59e-ad3fe3ba99d3)

Being unemployed whisks you into this magical world where you lose all concept of reality. You never know what day it is, what time it is, and you can’t understand why you’re still constantly late for everything when you have no job. People have a tendency to blame everything on work: the reason they’re behind on chores, the reason they’re late to events, the reason they need to go home early after a few cocktails. Ironically, all these things still take place when you’re jobless, except now you have nothing to blame it on.

My life, up until a few weeks ago, had consisted of cramming in school work, actual work, and time with my then-boyfriend and then-best friend.