Broken Records by Bree Bennett

Chapter 7

The late afternoon sun glowed through the cracks of his curtains when Jack woke up next. His chest was tight and his joints sagged with fatigue, but he was in his right mind at last.

And Lucy’s apartment smelled fantastic.

Like a toucan mascot, he followed his nose to the kitchen. A pot simmered on the stove, filling the air with the delicious aroma of chicken soup. Lucy bent over the counter, chopping carrots and swaying to a Queen song. The entire scene was so comfortably domestic that it made Jack’s heart ache.

“I’m alive,” he said, and she jerked her head up. She put down the chopping knife and settled her wrist against his forehead.

“Your fever broke. Probably why you’ve been asleep so long. Do you want to try some soup?”

She dished out a tiny serving for him to try. Not only was it good, but after days of barely keeping anything down, his body’s natural urge was to devour it like a starved panther.

“This is delicious, Lucy. Marry me.”

She shook her head, not even responding to his proposals anymore. “I’m glad you like it. I’m making vegetable soup as well. I’ll pack them up for you when you leave.”

But Jack didn’t want to leave. He liked this moment out of time, where the real world didn’t matter—an oasis in a desert of boredom and irrelevance. He drank the soup as she dumped the carrots into the soup pot with a splash of steam, washing her hands afterward.

“How many band shirts do actually you have?” He gestured at her Led Zeppelin shirt. It clung just perfectly to her figure. He may have been half-dead from the flu, but he could still appreciate the way her waist dipped in and the slight curve of her breasts.

She reached for a zucchini, slicing it into thin discs. “Forty-two. And a half.”

Of course she knew the exact number. “A half?”

“My Aerosmith one has a hole in it.” Her bottom lip curved downward.

“Any Jack Hunter ones?”

Her responding ‘hmph’ answered that.

“Well, that needs to be fixed.” He made a mental note to have Kim send a few over.

She shook her head again with a faraway smile and rewashed her hands before moving on to another zucchini. Her hand flew over the cutting board, dicing and slicing like a pro. When she finished that zucchini, she cleaned her hands again, and realization struck Jack.

Grilled cheese eaten with a fork. A pile of napkins on a Formica table. Constant hand washing while cooking.

Lucy didn’t like her hands to be dirty.

He sprang up and went to the table, grabbing all the napkins from the holder and thumping them down next to the sink.

“Marry me,” he said, motioning to his offering. “I’ll buy you napkins.”

Her chopping stalled, and she frowned at the napkins first, then him.

“That’s a new one,” she said. “Finish your soup.”

“Come on. We get along well.”

“We barely know each other.”

“Look, I’m not stupid. I know how crazy this sounds.” He tugged at his hair in frustration. “Isn’t there anything in the world you want?”

He should just give up and stop pushing her. Kim could send a courier with a dozen dossiers of potential fake spouses within the hour, and he could have his pick. But for some insane reason, his stubborn heart was set on Lucy.

“I want to say yes.” Her hand shook when she finally spoke. “I like helping people. I like being helpful.” She nipped at her lip, clearly distressed.

“Luciana,” he said, drawing out her full name like a rollercoaster car on his tongue, wild and thrilling. “No editing your words here. Just talk. Or don’t. But don’t practice everything in that big brain of yours ahead of time. Not for me.”

She drummed her hand along the underside edge of the counter. “Honestly, this marriage of convenience thing could be nice.”

“Nice?” Jack had never heard any relationship with himself described as nice, and he wasn’t sure how to take it.

“But I can’t do it.”

“Lucy.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to just be remembered as a drunken one-hit wonder.”

Her expression softened. “That won’t happen.”

Jack cast an askance glance at her. “Go through that big music catalog in your head. I’m sure you can name a hundred musicians whose behavior overshadowed any talent they ever had.” Her guilty silence confirmed it.

“It’s not really fair, is it?” she said after a moment. “Yes, you’ve done some idiotic things. I mean, that thing with the kayak in Norway—”

“Lucy—”

“—or the raccoons on Yom Kippur—”

“Luciana. You’re not helping.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “What I’m trying to say is, it’s not really fair that you have to work really hard on an album and also prove that you’re not a hot mess. You should just be allowed to be a hot mess and leave it like that.”

Even though his head still throbbed a little, he threw back his head and barked out a laugh. “From anyone else, that would not be a positive statement, but from you…”

She nodded, her face lighting up. “Exactly. You understand.”

“And I wouldn’t ask you to marry me if I weren’t so desperate,” he said.

She joined him in laughing, a peal of bell-like giggles that elevated the atmosphere of the entire room. The sound thrilled Jack even more than her smile.

“So romantic,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

His heart flipped like a pancake at her sunny grin. It had been hidden the entire time they’d known each other, and now that it was out, he never wanted her to hide it again.

“I am serious, though,” he said. “Who am I if I’m not Jack Hunter?”

Her smile fell so quickly that he winced at its loss. “Marrying somebody isn’t going to help with that.” She tossed the last of the zucchini into the pot, added a dash of seasoning, and covered it before stifling a yawn. “This needs to simmer. I’m going to watch television.”

Jack gave her some time alone before peeking inside the room. Lucy had burrowed herself in an oversized comforter on the sofa like a sleepy hedgehog, watching an old sitcom on the television. He gestured at the opposite end of the sofa, and she gathered up the folds of the blanket, allowing him a cushion’s worth of room.

He shifted his attention to the television screen. “Are you watching Full House?” he asked in dismay.

“It’s my favorite show. There’s a marathon.”

He groaned at the dated studio audience’s laughter. “I take back all my proposals. This is a dealbreaker.”

The edge of her mouth tipped up, but she didn’t take her eyes off the screen. They watched in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Jack couldn’t take it anymore.

“There’s no way these men are happy,” he said, pointing to the three leads. “Look at them. If this was real life, they’d all be at each other’s throats.”

“They love each other. Like brothers. So they make it work.”

“No. They secretly want to kill each other. I bet the dad is plotting Uncle Joey’s murder every time they talk. And the catchphrases! Jesus.”

To punctuate Jack’s point, Uncle Jesse strutted across the stage with a growly Have mercy! which was answered by catcalls from the studio audience. “So corny. There’s no way he’s working that into everyday conv—” He halted, catching sight of Lucy’s face. Her cheekbones were tinged pink, and she was biting her plump lower lip.

“Luciana?”

“Yes?” Her voice rose an octave.

“Do you have a thing for Uncle Jesse?”

Her cheeks flushed further from pink to ruddy red, and she twirled a tendril of hair that had escaped from her messy bun. “Everyone has a thing for Uncle Jesse.”

“I don’t have a thing for Uncle Jesse.” He raised an eyebrow.

Lucy turned to him with the most solemn of gazes. “You should. Now just watch the show.” She nestled further into her blanket burrow, but he could still see her blushing face above the comforter. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

Until Uncle Jesse strode onstage with a guitar, and she made a noise like a chipmunk on acid, clapping her hands together. Jack glared at her, and her eyes rounded before she hid her hands.

“So how is it,” he began, “That I, the greatest musician ever to walk the earth—”

“That’s debatable,” she interrupted, but he held up a single finger for silence.

“As I was saying, the greatest musician ever to walk the earth can propose to you a dozen times and you don’t blink an eye, but a fictional guy from the nineties picks up a guitar and you sit there and squeak at him?”

“He just—” Her eyes glazed over as the character broke into song, barely paying attention to Jack as she continued. “He induces squeaks.”

“I’ll induce some squeaks from you,” he growled, but she didn’t even acknowledge him. He glowered at the screen, reduced to jealousy over a made-up character. He rubbed his hand over his face and accepted the truth.

He couldn’t go through this crazy scheme with anyone else but her. She was the weirdest, most fascinating creature he had ever met. Blowing out a sigh of resignation, he started browsing through charities on his phone, trying to find one that might take on a drunken has-been as their new representative.

She watched the screen with her hand pressed over her heart, her face enraptured. When the show was over, though, she glanced over at Jack with a rueful smile.

“You’re feeling better now, aren’t you?” she asked, but it wasn’t a question. “I’ll pack up the soup and you can head home.”

“No, wait, I might get a fever again,” he protested, trying to maintain their little pit stop away from reality for a little longer.

“You’ll be okay.” She stood, folding up her blanket into a neat square. Her dismissal was obvious in the curt way her hands wrapped the blanket into itself and laid it across the back of the couch, as if she were resetting the entire room.

“Thanks for doing all of this,” he mumbled. “Not a lot of people would do that.”

She looked at him with a grave expression. “But they should.”

“Is there something I can do to repay you?” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and he clarified, “Not marriage-related. Just as a thank you.”

Her fingers twitched and danced at her side, and Jack wished he could peek inside her mind. She reminded him of a computer, constantly processing and calculating.

“There’s one thing,” she said as if it pained her to vocalize. “Will you go look at apartments with me?”

Jack blinked. “You want me to help you find apartments when I’ve offered you a free place at my house?”

She flushed. “You’re right. It’s silly.” She ducked her head and went toward the kitchen area.

“Lucy.” He raked his hands through his hair. “Yes, I will help you look at apartments.”

“Really?” She brightened. “I’ll meet you at your place tomorrow then. I’ll text you a time when I’ve got an appointment set up.”

“See you then,” he said, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest. Lucy put together the soup canisters within five minutes, and then she was pushing him out the door, and the real world came back to roost at last.

* * *

Hands down, searching for apartments with Lucy was one of the worst experiences of Jack’s life, and that was coming from someone who had once been sequestered in a broken elevator at the Grammys with rival opera singers.

The next day, Lucy showed up with a neatly printed list of Brooklyn-area apartments in hand. When she gave Jack’s driver the list, he grimaced and flashed Jack a suspicious look. He shrugged, unable to combat Lucy’s palpable good mood. The driver shook his head and drove them to a whole new world—a world that didn’t adhere to building codes.

The first apartment they visited was tiny, plain, but possibly livable.

“My record player could fit there,” Lucy plotted. “And my desk over here. I could get a pull-out couch. What do you think?”

“It’s small,” Jack said with an attempt at diplomacy. “But the neighborhood seems quiet.” Her eyes brightened at the observation.

“Let’s go look at the bathroom,” she said, walking an uncomfortably short distance to the room. The door stuck, and when Jack finally forced it open, they found an inch of tepid standing water.

“Oh, look, it comes with a pool.” He poked in a finger and found it much more viscous than water should be.

Lucy’s face fell. “This is only the first one. The next one will be better.”

At the next apartment, the landlord recognized Jack. He gave him an autograph, winking at Lucy as she frowned at the paper in consternation. While she examined the room, the landlord elbowed him in the ribs.

“Nice,” he said, openly ogling her ass. His jocular expression dropped when Jack fixated him with a murderous glare.

“Lucy,” he called out without breaking his death stare. “We need to leave. I found a cockroach.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointment coloring her tone. “Well, don’t hurt it. Maybe we can catch it and put it outside.”

Jack rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wasn’t sure if Lucy wasn’t ready for New York, or New York wasn’t ready for Lucy.

At the third apartment, a scruffy man opened the door. “Lucy?” he asked in a voice decimated by cigarettes.

“Yes,” she said with a clearly artificial smile. “Are you the landlord?”

“Landlord,” he said, flopping down on the couch and indicating to an armchair for her use. “And roommate.”

“Oh,” she said, her lips thinning as she pressed them together. She nudged herself a little closer to Jack, who placed a protective hand on the small of her back, tamping down a zing of triumph when she didn’t pull away from his touch.

“I didn’t want a roommate,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“We can move on,” he whispered back. The landlord/roommate jerked his chin up as some sort of mute acknowledgment, then pulled out a pocket knife, picking at his toenails while staring intensely into Jack’s eyes. Lucy gulped, and they backed out of the door one by one.

By the time they got to the last place on the agenda, both were in foul moods. Jack had snapped at the driver twice, and Lucy looked as if someone had stolen her puppy. The landlord met them outside a ramshackle piece of architecture that could have been called a building at one time in its existence. He led them up three flights of stairs—no elevator—and had to jiggle the key in the lock for two whole minutes before the door finally opened.

“Just your basic studio apartment,” the guy said, chewing on a worn toothpick.

There might have been just enough room for a twin bed and a dresser in the living area. The kitchenette contained a banged-up mini-fridge straight out of a fraternity house bedroom, a rusty sink, and a microwave yellowed with age and who knew what else. Exposed piping lined the room, disappearing into a bathroom the size of a telephone box. The air was somehow both chilly and humid. Lucy shivered, looking around the room with a heartbroken expression.

Jack stalked the perimeter of the apartment, surveying the pipes, examining the electrical outlets, and running a finger over a water stain on the floor.

“No.” He crossed his arms and glared at the landlord.

“Hold on a minute,” Lucy said. “Stop shooting down each place. You’re not the one living here.”

Jack stared at her. The landlord peered between them and rolled his eyes. “I’ll let you two talk.” He tapped a cigarette out of its carton and headed through the creaky front door.

“I could make this work.” Her jaw jutted out in defiance.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Really. I don’t have much stuff I’d bring here, and I could save up for a bigger place later.”

Jack inhaled several times, scratching the bridge of his nose. “There’s exposed plumbing everywhere.”

“It gives it a modern feel. Like a hipster brewery.”

“There’s loose wiring in the ‘kitchen.’”

“I can tape it up.”

“That outlet,” he indicated, “isn’t even real. It’s just a faceplate screwed into the drywall. And there’s more mildew visible than actual grout.”

“Then I’ll get some bleach.” She tried to smile, but her lips trembled.

“You are not living here.” He enunciated each word in a low voice. “Let’s go.”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “This is what I can afford. It’s not as bad as you’re making it.”

“Lucy!” Jack exploded, her name reverberating across the vacant room. “This place is a firetrap waiting to happen! Which, hey, at least you’d be warm because the thermostat doesn’t work! There’s black mold everywhere, the lock barely works, and if you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen the fucking junkie laying in the hallway four doors down! There’s no way in absolute hell you’re living here, so let’s get the fuck out and go back home!”

They stared at each other in the ensuing silence. Jack’s breathing was choppy, roughened with aggravation that surprised him.

“I’m—” her voice warbled. “I’m going to check out the bathroom.” Before Jack could apologize, she dashed to the bathroom, slamming the door. The false outlet cover fell to the floor with a metallic clang.