Page 144 of Broken Lines

“Obviously.”

“Well, by all means, then.”

“You’ve got a little money saved up, right?”

I make a face.

“Somebeing the operative word there.”

“Give it to me in terms of your half of the rent.”

“About three months?”

She shrugs. “Hey, better than me. So, here’s what I think you should do.”

“Lay it on me.”

“You don’t have a job.”

I nod.

“Judy is going to be everywhere you look for a while, with this new book of hers, right?”

“Unfortunately,” I mutter.

“And, mystery man he may be, there’s a lobsterman or a lumberjack in Maine with a dick that seems to put a smile on your face, make you glowier then I’ve seen you maybe ever, and. Also, a dick thatliterallymakes you sing.”

My face heats as my eyes roll.

“June—”

“You’ve got nothing tying you down here. In fact, with Judy on a media rampage, there’s actually a fantastic reason for you to be someplace that doesn’t get cell or internet service. And if that place happens to come with some quality dicking?”

“You didn’t seriously just say ‘quality dicking’, did you?”

“Wildthat I’m single, isn’t it?” She sighs. “Mel, there’s just the one obvious question here.”

She looks at me pointedly, raising a brow.

“Why on earth are youhere, when you could bethere?”

32

Jackson

I exhale slowly.My eyes narrow at the blank page in front of me, my fingers drumming the guitar on my lap impatiently. Waiting for lightning. Waiting for genius.

Mad, or otherwise.

But I might as well be waiting on a miracle, or Oasis to get back together, or for someone to find Jimmy fucking Hoffa.

Because that shit is not happening.

A day ago—one single day ago—I had it. “It”: that magical, mythical spark, or energy that all creative types crave. The flow of greatness coursing through you. Ideas exploding like fireworks in your head.

Yesterday, for the first time in almost a decade, I had it. Today, it’s gone. And I’m very much aware it’s no coincidence that my creativity isn’t the only thing missing today that was here yesterday.

The plain, biting truth of it is, my muse left, and with her went the creative juices. With her, also apparently, went my ability to look at a blank page and see what’s supposed to be written on it. To strum though chords andhear—in my fucking soul—the melody line that’s supposed to go over them.

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