February 2nd, 2018 - Love Spell

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—1 year, 11 months, and 23 days ago—

Love.

Love is a myth. Love is a lie. Love is nothing but a stupid fairytale that large corporations use to manipulate people into buying chocolates or whatever it is they're selling during Valentine's Day.

In other words, love is bullshit.

Fuck Valentine's Day. I crumple the flyer in my hand into a ball and throw it toward the trash can in the corner of the room, but my terrible aim causes me to miss it by a long shot.

As I mutter a string of curses, the sound of loud footsteps stomping toward the rehearsal room I'm in echoes through the hallway. I swear I can hear Beethoven's Symphony No. 5—which would be a perfect theme song for a horror movie—when the door swings open and reveals a very displeased TJ.

I pull my head back and knit my eyebrows together. "What?"

"Dude." The frown on TJ's face deepens. "Did you seriously just ask me that?"

"What?" I repeat with a shrug.

"I can't believe you even have the balls to ask—" TJ slams a CD case on the table in front of me, making me flinch. A glance at my handwriting on the white cover—Love Spell by The Coolest Guys in the Universe—tells me it's the demo CD I gave to my boss this afternoon. "You're butchering the song, that's what!"

"What are you talking about? I turned that crappy song into a masterpiece, okay?" I try to escape TJ's wrath by spinning my swivel chair around in circles, but he puts his hand on the headrest and glares at me.

"You turned it into a horror movie theme song, Ol."

"No, I didn't." I let out a nervous laugh, my voice rising a semitone.

TJ cocks an eyebrow, and after a few seconds, I hold my hands up in defeat. "Alright, alright. It wasn't my best work, I admit. But in my defense, the song's so cheesy there's nothing I can do about it."

Heaving a sigh, TJ sits on the empty chair next to me and rests his arms on his thighs. "Helen called me earlier, Ol. Said I should talk to you."

Oh, shit. I'm gonna get fired, aren't I? As dread settles in the pit of my stomach, TJ's expression softens, a look of sympathy replacing the scowl.

To be honest, a huge part of me has given up on my job. Three weeks ago, I lost two more clients due to the absurd rumors swirling around the business sparked by my psychopathic ex. As a result, I got kicked out of my apartment for not being able to pay rent.

Even after I retreated from our ridiculous TweetyGram war, Celia and her gang still seem hell-bent on destroying me and my career. One of her minions even spread the false rumor that I was abusive to Celia during our relationship.

I was ready to quit my job and become a shoe shiner when TJ got me this project. I was ecstatic, at first. The song would be The Coolest Guys in the Universe's first single after winning the latest season of the popular British singing competition The Z-Factor, and if I could turn it into a hit, I might be able to get better clients—artists smart enough not to believe those absurd rumors about me.

But what happened during the company anniversary party last week made me want to fly to Timbuktu and become a hermit.

"I put my ass on the line to land you this job, Ol." TJ taps his forefinger on the CD cover, reminding me of how hard he persuaded the boy band's manager into hiring me. "If you don't wanna do it for yourself, do it for me will ya?"

Guilt seeps into my consciousness when I realize TJ's reputation is on the line too. After all that he's done for me—getting me this job, allowing me to stay for free in his bungalow, giving me free food—the least I can do to thank him is try my best on this project.

"Fine." I pick up the CD case and throw it into the trash can. "I'll see what I can do about it."

"Thank you." TJ claps his hands together and leans back against his chair. "What's wrong with you anyway? It's unlike you to do a crappy job like that."

"It's the song, Teej."

Suspicion flickers in his eyes. As he casts a glance around the room, his gaze falls on the flyer I threw earlier. He scoots his chair toward it and bends over to pick it up. Uh-oh.

"Oh . . . I see what this is about." He shifts his gaze back to me, playfulness twinkling in his dark-brown eyes. "This is about last week, isn't it?"

"What? What are you talking about?" I struggle to keep my voice even.

"Yeah, it is." His shit-eating grin reappears, wider than ever. "It's about Vanessa, isn't it?"

"No." My voice flips into falsetto.

"Oh, come on. Talk to me, brother." He scoots his chair in front of me and props his elbows on his knees. "If it's about the whole bro-zone thing—"

"You're damn right it's about the whole bro-zone thing."

The grin on TJ's face becomes as big as the Cheshire Cat's.

Clicking my tongue in defeat, I bang my head back against the headrest and huff. "Can you believe she bro-zoned me right when I was about to ask her out?"

Ever since what happened last Christmas Adam, the strange feelings I have toward Nessa keep growing stronger and stronger. Last week, after a whole month of not being able to sleep without thinking about her, I decided, what the hell. We'd been friends for over three years. It was about time I took our relationship to the next level.

But just as I was about to ask her out? Bang. She bro-zoned me.

Again.

TJ cackles. "Yeah, that was funny."

"It was stupid," I mutter.

"She was drunk, Ol. Surely it doesn't count."

True, Nessa was as drunk as the day she bro-zoned me the first time. That racist bully Taylor—or whatever her name was—and her minions were sniggering at us and saying all sorts of awful things about us all night long. Finally, Nessa snapped and confronted her. To everyone's shock, Taylor—who was drunk—jumped onto Nessa's back and tried to claw Nessa's eyes out. A catfight ensued, and Nessa ended up punching Taylor in the face.

It was an awesome punch. Broke that racist bully's nose too. But what she shouted afterward broke my heart into pieces.

"Of course it does." I chew my inner lip, trying to numb the excruciating pain in my chest. "People say their deepest, darkest secrets when they're drunk. And every time she's drunk, she says I'm just a brother to her. So that's it for me."

TJ's forehead scrunches in confusion. "People don't say their deepest, darkest secrets when they're drunk, Ol. I, for one, talk some nonsense shit when—wait." Realization dawns on his face. "Is that why you never let yourself get drunk?"

"No." My voice flips again. Oh, dammit.

He breaks into chortles again, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth. "Just talk to her, alright? I'm sure she's got a pretty good explanation for why she bro-zoned you. It's probably because she thinks she doesn't have a chance with you. People do it all the time. Brainwashing themselves to avoid heartbreak."

Pikachu peeks out from under the bridge. Yes, he's become a homeless creature after Nessa destroyed his bedroom last week.

"How'd you know that?" I narrow my eyes at TJ.

"Look, I'll deny ever saying this, but . . ." He pulls out a small but thick black book from his back pocket and holds it up.

Encyclopedia of Love: Guys Edition

As I smother a laugh, TJ continues, "It's all here. I'm lending this to you. Study it."

Pikachu encourages me to accept it, and I murmur my thanks to TJ.

"Good luck, brother." TJ winks at me before strutting out of the room.

Skepticism fills me as I observe the book cover. "Written by Cupid himself, huh?"

A huge part of me wants to chase TJ and return this book to him right this very second. Yet for some reason, I find myself reading the contents page. To my surprise, there's an entire chapter dedicated to The Bro Zone.

Hmm. I guess there are a lot of people out there in a similar situation as me, huh?

Pushing my lower lip forward, I nod to myself and check the chapter out. The first sub-chapter contains a short description and a checklist of something called The Denial Stage. According to the book, the reader has a chance to get out of The Bro Zone if the person they're attracted to does at least half of the things listed in the checklist—and Nessa ticks all the boxes.

The knowledge serves as a delicious dinner to Pikachu. As he lights a spark of hope inside me, I'm about to read the next sub-chapter—How to Get Out of the Bro Zone—when a knock on the door stops me.

As quick as a fox, I slide the book into my jacket's pocket and clear my throat. "Come in."

The door is pushed open, and Nessa walks into the room with a tight-lipped smile on her face. "Hey. How's your ankle?"

I drop my gaze to my left ankle. The doctor removed the cast yesterday, and although it's still a bit swollen, I'm beginning to feel my leg again. "Better. How's your skin?"

Last week, Nessa's attempt to get a fake tan at a cheap beauty parlor nearby ended in a trip to the ER. Her allergic reaction was so severe she had to take a sick leave for a few days until the rash on her skin disappeared.

A pang of guilt hits me when I remember how it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for me.

Although Nessa would never admit it, the hateful messages Celia's followers left on Nessa's social media accounts were the reason she tried to get that stupid tan.

"Still itchy." Nessa scratches the side of her neck and sits on the chair next to me. Glancing at the trash can, she pulls her bag over her head and sets it on the table. "Heard you turned Love Spell into the new theme song for Halloween, huh?"

"The song's super creepy, Ness. Listen to this." I pull my notebook from my back pocket and flip to the page with Love Spell's lyrics. "I keep thinking 'bout you day and night. All I want is to be by your side?" I slam the notebook on the table. "Tell me that doesn't sound like something Michael Myers would sing to Laurie."

Nessa chokes back a laugh. "What? Of course—"

"And here." I point at the second verse. "There's something 'bout the way you look that got me so hypnotized. Tell me that doesn't sound like how a creepy, obsessed serial killer would choose their victims." As Nessa opens her mouth to protest, I add, "Besides, people shouldn't be attracted to someone just because of their looks. This is setting an awful example to kids and teenagers."

"Okay. You have a good point there, but—"

"And this. Oh baby, say you'll be mine." I tap a finger on the fourth line of the chorus. "My what? My next victim?"

To my annoyance, Nessa snorts, cackling a bit. "Ol, what's wrong with—"

"Oh, you need more proof? Here. When you look into my eyes, you melt up my insides." I gesture at the second part of the chorus before shrugging a little and raising my hands, palms up to express my bewilderment and disdain at the silly lyrics. "It sounds like Evil Superman singing about how he wants to use his laser eyes to melt Lois Lane's insides!"

Nessa chortles, leaning forward to read the lyrics. "It's melt me up inside, Ol."

"Whatever. There's no way anyone can turn that shit into a hit." I slump back against my seat in hopeless resignation.

"Oh, come on, Ol. I'm sure you can do it."

"I can't. It has a catchy melody, but there's just something wrong with the lyrics."

"So rewrite it then."

"I tried." I flip to the next page of the notebook, revealing my first and second attempts to fix the lyrics. "But you know me and words. We're not exactly match made in Heaven."

"Hmm." She peeks at the handwritten lyrics. "May I?"

"Be my guest."

Nessa picks up my notebook and starts reading the lyrics I rewrote a few days ago. Only three seconds pass before another snort of laughter escapes her, pink blush tingeing her cheeks.

"What?" I mutter.

She bites back a giggle. "Ol, you can't insert these kinds of innuendoes into a teenage-friendly song."

"Exactly!" I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. "How am I supposed to turn something that is meant for teenagers into a work of art? The answer?" I allow a short dramatic pause. "I can't. No one can. I'm telling you, those guys deserve better. They're too talented to have to sing that crap."

The Coolest Guys in the Universe may have the worst boy band name ever, but no one can deny the amount of sheer talent they possess. Right now, they need the right song to propel them to international stardom. Unfortunately, they're stuck with this crappy teenage love song.

"Ol." Nessa places my notebook back on the table and folds her arms before it. "A bubblegum pop love song may seem easy to write. Some may consider it to be cheesy, but it also speaks about the most innocent kind of love. The key to a good bubblegum song is how relatable it is. And you have to feel it, or else you won't be able to understand the beauty of it."

Curiosity tingles inside my gut. "What are you talking about?"

"Supposed you're a thirteen-year-old with a crush on the prettiest girl in school. What kind of song would you like to sing to her?"

Her question unlocks the rusty box I've kept in the deepest, darkest part of my mind for eighteen years, eleven months, and nineteen days.

I was only eleven—not thirteen—at that time, but I would never forget what happened during that awful Valentine's Day. I would never forget how the pretty girl I had a crush on threw away the chocolate I bought using the money I'd worked hard for like it was trash. And I certainly would never forget the insults that she and the whole school hurled at me afterward.

I hate Valentine's Day.

"You wouldn't want to sing a horror song to her, would you?" Nessa's voice snaps me back to the present.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I snarl.

"O-kay." She raises her shoulders, her lips stretched in an awkward smile. An air of uneasiness fills the room for a moment, and I'm beginning to feel bad for putting her in this position when she's trying to help me. I'm about to break the ice when she says, "Why don't you think about the woman you love?"

"Huh?"

She licks her chapped lips, hesitation crossing her eyes. "You've been in love before, right?"

The answer is a definite no. Yet for some reason, the word gets stuck in my throat.

"Think about her. Think about the person who makes your heart go"—Nessa stretches her head forward and glances at the rewritten lyrics on my notebook—"boom boom boom."

We burst into chuckles. Nessa's face lights up with a bright smile, and suddenly, Pikachu goes wild in my head. Whoa, whoa, whoa—

"Think about the person that makes you smile," Nessa continues.

The first face that appears in my mind is . . . hers. And it's not because she's sitting next to me right this very second.

Before Nessa walked into my life, I hadn't smiled or laughed as much as I do now. There's something about her that never fails to bring my best, most genuine smile to the surface.

"Think about her when you write the song. How does she make you feel? What would you say to her? "

There's a note of wistfulness in Nessa's voice, and I swear I can see the longing in her eyes. Maybe she's thinking of someone she was in love with. Her first crush or one of her douchebag exes.

Or maybe . . . she's thinking of me.

I know it's crazy. But right now, I just want to hold her and tell her how much she means to me. And for a minute, I think—no, I can tell she feels the same way.

As my hand moves by itself and reaches for hers, she jumps onto her feet and avoids my gaze. "Y-you know what? I'll sing it for you."

Right. What was I thinking? She only sees me as a brother.

Nessa shuffles across the room and picks up the acoustic guitar before taking a seat on the piano bench. Her forehead creases as she strums a few chords and hums a few notes, having trouble finding the right key for her voice.

"Try D-flat," I say.

Her mouth forms an awkward grin, telling me she doesn't know how to play the chord.

Chuckling, I pick up my notebook and walk toward her. I place the notebook on the piano's music rack and joke, "Move. Let the pro handle this."

She scoots across the bench to give me space, her mouth pinched into an adorable pout. As I plop next to her, our arms brush against one another.

"Sorry—" We say in unison, and our eyes lock.

Pikachu bolts to my chest and lights up a set of torches inside my heart I didn't know exist. My pulse races out of control, and my gaze is drawn to Nessa's perfect lips. Soon, the desire to kiss her becomes almost unbearable. No, no, no. She doesn't want—

Pikachu flicks my eyes to Nessa's, and I swear I can see that wistful longing again. Does she want me to kiss her?

I'm about to try my luck when she drops her gaze to her guitar and stutters, "S-so, what was it again? D-flat?"

Her trembling fingers strike a few false chords, earning a hearty chuckle from me.

"Just play it in C." Smirking a little, I arch an eyebrow at her and tease, "You do know how to play that, don't you?"

She hisses like a snake at me. "Just play the damn piano, Mr. Dumpy."

Before I start, I follow her advice and think about the woman that never fails to bring a smile to my face. The woman that makes me feel like I'm going crazy. The only woman that has ever made my heart go wild.

The one and only, Vanessa Hayes-Wong.

Inhaling a deep breath, I let my heart guide me and play the song in an upbeat, optimistic style—a total opposite of my earlier arrangement. Nessa's guitar playing soon joins me, and although it's far from perfect, she adds a certain crunchy feeling to the melody that makes the song much more cheerful and uplifting.

"I keep thinking 'bout you day and night

All I want is to be by your side . . ."

Nessa might not have Mariah Carey's voice, nor can she play the guitar like Jimi Hendrix. But there's something in the way she sings that inspires me more than anyone ever did. For the first time in my life, words flow into my head like a river.

And then I realize something important.

Spending time with Nessa has always been the highlight of my day. Her words of encouragement, her quirky antics, and her ever-present smile never fail to turn the worst days of my life for the better. She brings a bright light to my otherwise dark world, and I think . . .

I'm falling in love with her.

"You make me wanna scream and shout
I love you."

It takes me a few hours to finish rewriting the lyrics, but by the time I do, I've managed to turn it into a decent song. I jot down the last of the revision in my notebook and put my black pen on the music rack. "So? What do you think?"

"I love it," Nessa answers with a nod of approval.

"Yes!" I pump my fists before closing the notebook and sliding it into my back pocket.

As Nessa and I tidy up the room, Pikachu hops out of his newly-built bedroom and drags out the whiteboard I thought had been destroyed last week. Written on

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