Love Notes, page 1
LOVE NOTES
AIMEE BROWN
Thank you Andie Newton for being awesome.
(Didn’t think I’d do it, did ya? *I feel it in my bones* LOL)
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Note From the Author
Playlist
More from Aimee Brown
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
BROOKS HUDSON
Six months ago…
‘Ugh,’ I groan, rolling over and grabbing my ringing phone from my nightstand. I finally get to sleep and someone interrupts me. ‘Yeah?’
‘I had a dream,’ she says, exaggerating each word.
She had a dream? Fucking hell. I thought divorce meant you didn’t call your ex-husband anymore after dark. Business and emergency calls only.
‘I also had a dream,’ I say, rolling onto my stomach and resting my head on my left arm. ‘It was great too. I had an ex-wife that didn’t wake me up to tell me about some stupid vision she’s had.’
She laughs into the phone. ‘You’ll never escape me; we have a child together, so like it or not, you get me for life.’
‘This is what our parents meant when they said we were too young to get married. I get it now.’
‘Will you listen? This seems important.’
‘You talk, I’ll sleep.’
‘Fine. I was in this room. It was all white. White walls. White floors. White rugs. White curtains. White—’
‘It was white,’ I interrupt her. ‘Yeah, I’m following, continue.’
‘An-y-way, grumpy, you were there, and besides Alijah and me, you were alone. Nobody else was there, not your parents, not Ty, or Oz, none of your friends. You were alone alone, Brooks. And it was one of those life-changing moments. Like, your death.’ She says it dramatically as if this is absolutely factual. A real Nostradamus moment.
‘Dun dun duuun…’
She laughs, but I’m sure it’s less because I’m funny and more that she doesn’t enjoy me making fun of her ‘supernatural’ gifts from the universe. Her reading people’s aura and drawing tarot cards in high school was a fun party trick that we all enjoyed. I’m no longer at that point in our relationship and haven’t been since she decided I wasn’t her pre-destined star-crossed lover. Aka: ‘the one’, soulmate, twin flame, the Ryan Reynolds to her Blake Lively, the Ben Affleck to her J-Lo.
‘After death, you can’t call me. Sounds nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Relaxing, even. Where the hell do I sign up?’
‘Funny,’ she says, not laughing. ‘This is serious, Brooks. I think you might die alone.’
‘OK, well, I appreciate the warning…’
‘Wait!’ she says, somehow sensing the incoming blast of silence that is me disconnecting our call. ‘There was a woman that walked in as I was leaving. She was beyond devastated. I think she might have been your soulmate.’
This makes me open my eyes, now staring at the ceiling, and not because I’m constantly searching for ‘the one’. After marrying and divorcing Norah, I know there is no such thing as soulmates. I don’t think anyone on this planet is meant for anyone else. Everything we do is the result of whatever choices we’ve made. There is no destiny. No fate. No karmic influence taking names and kicking ass. Bad things happen to good people, and evil, more often than not, gets away with it.
I have just one question.
‘Please tell me it wasn’t you?’
She heaves a sigh into the phone, clearly irritated with my apparent disinterest. ‘It wasn’t me. She had dark hair, emerald-green eyes, and heels higher than I have ever attempted.’
‘I like her already. Now I just need to hop on my trusty steed and search the world for this dark-haired, emerald-eyed, stiletto-wearing damsel and convince her to fall in love with me. I’ll do this, of course, in all the spare time I have between work, Alijah and you.’
‘You’re missing the point. She’s your literal soulmate. You won’t have to look for her. You’ll just find one another. That’s how fate works, Brooks. I can’t believe we were married so long, and you learned nothing.’
‘I learned how not to be married. It’s not so bad. A little lonely. But I’m surviving it.’
‘I forgot how irritating you are when awoken from a dead sleep.’
‘Glad I could remind you. Bye.’ I tap the end call button before she can say anything else and flip my phone onto silent.
My soulmate. Like I’m going to run after a woman my ex-wife sees in her dreams. No thanks.
1
MERCY ALEXANDER
Present day
‘Most boring couple ever,’ I whisper, glancing around at the guests.
This wedding looks like a last-minute backyard barbecue, but I know it’s not because this couple booked us a year ago. The whole place is casual. Besides the wedding party, the only man here wearing a tie is Dylan. Some of these people are in jean shorts.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a last-minute casual wedding. If it were me, though, and I’d spent this much money on a party to declare my love for some guy, people better wear ties and tiaras. Plus, I prefer dressier events because I like clothes and shoes. It’s like window shopping – a happy distraction from my mind spiraling that I’m playing my five hundredth wedding, and with each one, I’m reminded I’ll likely never find this happily-ever-after crap. Nor do I want it – or at least I didn’t think I did. But now that I’m thirty and helping my best friends plan their wedding, something inside isn’t settling into my usual bury-your-feelings ways. My head is trying to revive my heart that’s been in a decades-long coma, and believe it or not, it’s responding – and it’s painful. I’m certain I’d rather focus on who’s wearing what so I can describe it well enough to google and find it online later than continue listening to my insides whispering about something I’m terrified of.
‘Pachelbel’s Canon is a classic wedding song, Merc. Some people enjoy traditional,’ Dylan, my level-headed business partner, says.
‘Traditional would be black tie. This feels more like Elvis in velvet at a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel in Vegas.’
‘Elvis in velvet…’ He repeats my words, shaking his head with each one.
Weddings, we play at least one practically every weekend. Dylan and I run a company called Love Notes. Our shop is in downtown Portland, where we sell and rent stringed instruments and pianos, book gigs, give lessons and do private work for musician hires in our recording studio. Both of us play multiple instruments fluently, and we have a side gig once or twice a month as our stringed duo cover band, Violated. Bach and Beethoven aren’t songs you’ll find Violated playing. We shock the fancy right out of folks with pop, rock, rap and alternative hits. That’s right; I can play Nirvana on five instruments.
‘I don’t understand the world’s need to pair everyone off. Love doesn’t last. At least not for most people. It’s why our country’s divorce rate is through the roof. I think marriage licenses should have ten-year expiration dates, and if you choose not to renew, you’re over automatically. It’d be mostly painless because you knew it was coming, so you’ve probably discussed it. No one is to blame; your license expired, so you went your separate ways. It seems a little drastic, but I’d bet many people would take the easy out.’
Dylan stares at me, blank-faced, except for the you’re weird, and I don’t understand why I like it crooked grin he’s got plastered on his face.
‘You’ve got this romance vibe down,’ he says as he positions his cello.
‘Do I seem bitter?’
‘A tad.’
We get the cue from the wedding planner that our time to shine is now. The bridal party is on their way down the aisle to Canon in D, played via cello (Dylan) and violin (me).
Once the entire entourage of eight bridesmaids, eight groomsmen, a ring bearer named Buster (their Doberman) and a crying flower girl carried by her jean-cargo-short-and-flip-flop-clad father have made it down the aisle our performance ends.
Dylan leans into me. ‘Three years,’ he whispers.
I scrunch my face, inspecting the couple. I’d already guessed low because the groom had no reaction when the bride appeared at the end of the aisle. That’s my favorite part – seeing how the groom reacts to his bride. That one moment can tell me if it’s forever or not. But this guy didn’t shed even one tear. No heavy I’m so lucky sigh. Not even a crack of a smile. He just stood there stone-faced like her father threatened his life just before this moment. He showed more enthusiasm when his best man marched down the aisle, and they fist-bumped as they met. I can’t be the only person who noticed this. The couple isn’t even holding hands, just standing beside one another awkwardly. Not a great sign, so I see why Dylan guessed low.
We have this game we play at weddings. Not out loud or anything, primarily through whisper conversations as we sit at the back of the room watching a couple we don’t know marry and guessing how long they’ll last based on the ceremony alone. Some have the vibe of forever, but most don’t. Dylan is calling it early this time. Usually, he waits until the end so he has the whole picture because that’s the kind of guy he is. He’s careful with his decisions, no matter how big or small. He researches anything he wants to buy for months before finally dropping the cash. The man’s middle name is responsibility. Whereas mine is, maybe, cynical?
‘I’m going eight,’ I whisper back, intentionally guessing higher than him for the first time just for fun.
‘Eight?’
‘They each have at least eight friends, which means they’ll go to every one of them for advice when things start to fall apart, and it’ll take that long for them to agree. I could point out a dozen other faux pas, but considering he’s wearing a white tux with tails and it’s not 1988, must I say more?’
Dyl shakes his head.
‘We should be playing one of Penny’s ballads. Or Phil Collins.’
Penny is my best friend, Hollyn’s, mother. She’s former popstar Penny Candy, who’s actually met Phil Collins. She’s trying to make a comeback, but things are moving rather slowly on that front. Maybe I’ll suggest she switch over to wedding singer. This wedding could’ve used her today.
‘This is why you don’t get to pick the music,’ Dylan says.
‘Admit it, guessing the demise of couples is my one talent. I always win.’
‘You have more than one talent,’ he says, eyeing the violin in my lap.
‘I can sense a pending breakup from miles away. Remember the couple that didn’t even make it to their I-do’s? I called that one the moment we walked in.’
‘How could I forget the wedding where the police were called before the reception?’
Inviting your exes (yes, multiple) who are still in love with you isn’t a great idea, is what I learned that day. Nobody was prepared for what happened when that priest asked the age-old question, ‘Does anyone object? Speak now, or forever hold your peace.’ A myriad of men and women stood, and it was an absolute dumpster fire from that moment on. A train wreck Dyl and I couldn’t look away from, so we played like we were going down with the Titanic.
‘You got plans tonight?’ Dyl asks. ‘I was thinking about making fish tacos like those we had in LA that time. I have enough for you and even River if you want to come over later.’
We can’t usually talk through weddings, but for this one, we’re way in the back of the room, far from any guests, so as long as we keep it a hair above a whisper, I don’t have to melt my mind with pre-written vows I could recite in my sleep.
‘I also have wine.’ He attempts to entice me with alcohol, but I think he’s forgotten who he’s talking to because I rarely say no to free dinner, let alone drinks. I don’t need bribery; free leaves more money for me to add to my shoe collection.
Sadly, this time, I have to decline. ‘Can’t. Ed found a library doing outdoor movies this summer, and tonight one is showing La La Land. I promised him I’d go.’
When Dyl’s eyebrows lift, I know he’s into it. We met while playing the La La Land tour with the Portland Symphony. Dylan’s been one of my best friends for five years, and this movie is how it all happened. It’s our all-time favorite for totally different reasons. Dyl’s in love with the music and the sweeping romantic essence the whole thing has. I love it because it doesn’t end in a happily-ever-after. None of my favorite movies do. La-La Land, Up in the Air, Shopgirl. Watch them. They’re true to life. Yes, it’s sad, but life can be a real crapshoot for some people, and through living that myself, I’ve discovered things don’t often go as you’ve planned, and the romantics hate it. I’ve tried to picture my own happily-ever-after, but real life reminds me it’s not realistic minute by minute. I’m surviving, and only just at that.
‘Want to come with?’ I ask, knowing from the smile on his face that he’s ready to toss the fish tacos to Mozart – his asshole cat – and spend an evening with my brother and me.
‘Yeah,’ he says with a wide smile. ‘Is there anything more fun than mixing a musical with Edie?’
I snicker. ‘He’s going to sing all the songs not quite under his breath, so yeah, I can think of many more fun things. Please, bring the wine.’
After the insanely long ceremony, and as the two of us exit through the cocktail hour, a glass of champagne somehow ends up in my hand. It always does. I’m just lucky like that. Dylan loads our instruments into his car, taking my violin from me and spotting the glass immediately.
‘Mercy…’ he moans.
‘A man just handed it to me as we walked through. It would’ve been rude to reject it.’
Once we’re in the car, I hand him the now-empty glass. ‘It’s plastic. Filled with mid-grade champagne. Either they didn’t want to splurge, or they’re broke, and since money is one of the main fights that break couples up, I confidently stand by my less than eight years, and I may even be leaning more towards your three.’
He nods proudly. ‘When I win this one, you’re paying for lunch at some point.’
‘If I lose, I’ll consider it.’
Just after nine thirty, Dylan and I are walking down the path from the parking lot to an ornately landscaped lawn with fountains bubbling at the back of the brick library building. The property is filled with people lounging under the darkening skies. Some in lawn chairs, others lying on blankets, but all of them chattering to their groups happily. Summer has officially started, and the world seems happy. I know I am, mainly because Dyl drove, so I didn’t have to waste the gas. And when I asked him to stop by the Starbucks so I could grab an iced coffee, he volunteered to pay for his and mine. Win.
Yes, we hang out even when we’re not at work. It would be easier to count the hours I don’t see him. Long story short, Dylan secured the apartment across the hall from his when he learned Edie and Carlos had announced they’d bought the ‘cutest little craftsman home there ever was’ (Ed’s words), and they’d be moving into it together – alone.
Now my best friend’s little brother, River, and I live together in downtown Portland, splitting everything halvsies in a shithole three-story walk-up with hot water for about 65 percent of your shower, so you gotta move quickly. It’s not luxurious, but it’s mine, and I feel safe living with and near two guys I mostly enjoy and trust with my life.
It’s dusk, but quickly moving into nighttime. Lights are wound up tree trunks, providing a bit of a glow so people can see. The starlit sky is the perfect background, and the light of the moon is mesmerizing. It almost makes the entire atmosphere romantic, which is probably what they’re hoping for, considering the movie they chose to play.
‘Mercy, girl!’ Ed waves frantically like I might miss him. ‘Over here!’
His face lights up at the sight of Dylan. I forgot these two are secretly in love. Not really, but they might as well be because Edie adores Dylan. It’s possible he likes him more than me.
‘Edie!’ Dylan says like they’re old friends reunited.
‘Dylan Santiago! Oh, how I’ve missed you at family dinners lately.’ Ed’s gaze darts to me.
I glare. He would say that out loud. Just last week, he suggested I bring Dylan again because I’m ‘more fun when he’s around’. He’s convinced Dylan is the perfect man, and I am somehow too stupid to see it.
