This Is Our Love Song Read online

  This Is Our Love Song

  By Ryan Loveless

  Pop Life: Book Two

  Sixteen years ago Keelin Nolan’s face was plastered all over tween girls’ bedrooms. Now almost forty, the former Irish boy-band star gives singing lessons in New York City. Knowing how much his friend Jordana loved Keelin, Travis Deak, twenty-seven, buys a set of lessons for Jordana and her fiancé, Malik, as a wedding gift. Travis figures Jordana will meet her teen idol, and Malik will be happy Jordana is happy. However, Malik knows his tone-deaf fiancée isn’t up to the difficult song she wants to perform at their wedding. He needs Travis’s help to save her from embarrassment, and Travis agrees to intervene with Keelin.

  Keelin, though, refuses to change the song behind Jordana’s back. Travis leaves feeling chastised, intrigued—and impressed with Keelin’s integrity. Likewise, Keelin admires Travis’s loyalty to his friends. An apology becomes dinner, which becomes the start of a relationship. But an unexpected visit from Keelin’s ex, Paeder Brogan, and his troubled teenaged son resets Keelin’s priorities. Now the new couple must navigate Keelin’s past to compose a harmonious future.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  More from Ryan Loveless

  About the Author

  By Ryan Loveless

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  To Stephen—

  “May the Irish hills caress you. May her lakes and rivers bless you. May the luck of the Irish enfold you. May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.” —Irish Proverb

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU, Carolyn Gray, for being my first reader and loving this from the start and all your encouragement when I most needed it.

  Author’s Note

  THIS BOOK occurs approximately sixteen years after the events in Pop Life.

  Chapter One

  PEOPLE WHO don’t live in Manhattan think of it in the same sentence as noise, overcrowding, and bad tempers. But there are quiet places, and you don’t have to look hard for them. You just have to look. In the Meatpacking District, where I lived, I’d found my perfect home. I pedaled onto my quiet street and rolled to a stop in front of my brownstone. After shouldering my bike, I jogged up my wide front stoop. I had a little time before my new students arrived for private singing lessons. I didn’t know too much about Malik and Jordana, except that they were planning to sing at their wedding. My NYU work-study assistant, Angie, had been short on the details.

  “Ange? You here?” I called as I opened my front door.

  In answer, my own voice sang back to me.

  “Girl, you neverrrrr told me whyyyyy. Girl, you alwaysssss made me tryyyy,” my fifteen-year-old falsetto warbled from the top of the stairs.

  “Shut that shit off,” I yelled. “Who told that kid he could sing?”

  Angie appeared, clutched her hands over her left breast, and belted along, “Girl! I’ll always love youuuuu!”

  I threw my helmet at her. It hit the cherrywood steps in the middle and bounced down. Angie roared in laughter. She had devolved into a coughing fit by the time I parked my bike in the foyer. I hung my messenger bag on the doorknob of the front closet, retrieved the helmet from the floor, and mounted the stairs.

  “All right, congratulations, you found Icon’s first album.”

  “And I’ve been listening to it all day,” she said brightly. “I can practically hear puberty setting in on the fourth song.”

  I grimaced. “Actually, it kind of did. That was not a fun song to record. We were in a race to get it done before I couldn’t hit the high E anymore.”

  Melvin, my gray Persian cat, appeared from wherever he goes every day and glared at both of us. “Melvin hates it too,” I said.

  “Melvin hates everything,” Angie retorted.

  “Just please not while I’m in the house, okay?”

  “You got it, boss.” She turned it off.

  “How long do I have before my new students are here?”

  “About half an hour.”

  That would give me enough time to wind down. Bicycling through city traffic was fun, but man, it got the adrenaline pumping. “Is the piano set up with my music sheets?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said brightly.

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure which of us was the actual boss. But then I remembered that I signed the checks. So it was me. I didn’t mind that Angie played my old cassettes, but I also made a concerted effort to not be like that. I didn’t decide to turn my life around, get a bachelor’s and master’s degree in vocal pedagogy, and start a new career so I could be the kind of sad-sack former celebrity who basked day and night in his greatest hits and made sure all his friends could name every album.

  Totally not thinking about my ex-bandmate Paeder. Paeder had a solo career, so I couldn’t be thinking about him, see? I’m not a negative person, not deep down, but sometimes I indulge a little and then immediately feel guilty. And then I feel guilty about that, because seriously? Paeder? Fuck him.

  And that’s a healthy attitude to have toward him, isn’t it?

  I entered my teaching study, a cozy room off the front of the house, to prepare for my new students. Through the wrought iron bars over the windows that held my climbing vines in the summer, you could see a historic part of the West Village, Jane Street, and if you leaned just right and used your imagination, a bit of the Jane Street Hotel, at first famous for being the place where survivors of the Titanic stayed when they reached port in New York, and later for being a sleazebag hotel, and later still for being home to the first production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

  The room itself provided home to my baby grand piano and music library. When Angie showed my new students in, I was reviewing the sheet music and vocal worksheets she had set out. My gaze went to Malik first—hard not to, as he towered over me, Angie, and his fiancée. Despite his height, he had a slender build—a runner, not a linebacker. His collared white shirt was open at the neck, revealing a fetching Adam’s apple, and the end of a patterned necktie hung out of the pocket of his gray sport coat. His head was shaved. Jordana, who had the same dark brown skin tone as her fiancé, wore a peach business suit with a skirt. I guessed that they’d come directly from their work.

  “Keelin, this is Jordana and Malik.” There was something pointed in the way Angie said Jordana’s name first. There was also something pointed in the way Angie stood slightly out of their line of sight and gestured with her head and eyes toward Jordana.

  I got up from the piano and moved to her first. “Hi, I’m Keelin. It’s nice to meet you.” Jordana squeezed my hand, hard. Her mouth opened and closed. No sound came out.

  Oh. A fan.

  I offered my most calming smile, the one that showed I was just as happy to meet her, that if our situations were reversed, I would also be speechless. “Can I get a hug?” I asked. Hugging people tended to unlock them.

  “Oh my God.” She closed the inches between us and squeezed me like she was trying to test my lung capacity. “I told Malik the whole way over here I was going to play it cool.”

  “She loves you,” Malik said.

  “Not as much as she loves you,” I said.

  He looked doubtful but pleased. I’d seen the same expression on numerous boyfriends.

  “So”—I extracted myself with a move I’d perfected twenty years ago—“Angie
tells me you guys are here because you want to sing at your wedding. Let’s sit down and talk about your plans.”

  I gestured them over to three fleur-de-lis armchairs arranged in a triangle in the curve of the window. Malik barely fit. His legs stretched out to almost touch mine. He held Jordana’s hand. I could tell from her perfect hair, manicure, and sharp skirt-jacket combo that she was normally a woman who had her life in control, but here I was getting to see the excitement that bubbled underneath. Malik seemed a little cautious, but when he looked at Jordana, he was caught up in her wonder too, and I asked myself if he’d ever seen her like this before.

  “I know it’s cliché,” Jordana started, “but I’d really like to sing ‘All I Ask of You.’”

  “From Phantom of the Opera?” I asked, even though I knew. She nodded. So I continued, “You’re right, a lot of people use that song, but it’s because it’s a beautiful song, and if it holds a special meaning for you, that’s what matters.” I kept her eye contact as I spoke, glancing over to include Malik now and again. Jordana nodded. I soaked in her full focus. I wondered if this was what people felt like when they met me. Christ, that sounded conceited. What I mean is, it’s not that common to meet someone who treats eye contact and focus with as much importance as I do. But Jordana clearly did.

  On the other hand, when I wasn’t looking at Malik, I could sense him checking me out. Not in the attraction sense, but more like he was sizing me up like he would an ex-boyfriend. I got that a lot too, especially now. Sixteen years after Icon was plenty of time for our fans to grow up, get engaged, and get their kids started on our music too. If we were another group, we’d have reunited and broken up again by now.

  Any other group would have listened to the demands of fans and the dollar signs of the record company and done it. Except NSYNC. Paeder’s solo career was nothing to laugh at, but he was no Justin Timberlake. Our reasons for not reuniting were more personal than practical. I imagined working around Timberlake’s schedule was a logistical nightmare.

  “We saw Phantom on our first date,” Jordana said. Beside her, Malik made a supportive grunt. I wondered if he hadn’t enjoyed it. Sit me in front of any musical and I’m happy as a clam.

  “That’s awesome,” I said and meant it. “I know Angie explained the logistics, but I’ll go over them again. You have six lessons, and you’ve asked to do them once a week, starting today. Does the schedule Angie suggested work for you? I’m sorry that I’m not able to be flexible. My obligations stretch me pretty thin.”

  “It’s fine,” Malik said. “I mean, well, you know.”

  “You have to be ready for the big day,” I said, and he looked relieved I’d given him an excuse not to say what he really meant. We shared a look of understanding. He was doing this for Jordana, but saying so would go beyond his boundary for sap. He seemed to soften a little.

  “So today we’re not going to touch the song. I’m going to lead you through some vocal drills to get a feel for where your voice sits and what we need to focus on, and then we’ll take it from there. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” Jordana said.

  “Have either of you sung before?”

  Malik shook his head.

  “I’m in my church choir, but the past few years I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to participate much,” Jordana said. “They figured out I’m a whiz at organizing, so now every week I’m in charge of fundraisers, outings, you name it.”

  “That sounds like it takes a lot of time.” I winced in sympathy. She winced back. Solidarity. Then I turned to Malik. “Okay. Malik, let me start with you. Jordana, stay here. Malik, come to the piano with me.” The chair protested when he stood because he clamped down on the arms to lever himself up. I fought the urge to ask if he played basketball. I figured he probably faced that question down daily anyway.

  I slid onto the piano bench and motioned for him to stand in the curve of the baby grand. “I’ll sing first—then you repeat.” I ran the scales. He followed me from ah to ee to eh to la to lou. Hit the notes perfectly each time. His vibrato was even on target.

  “That was amazing.” I rested my hands back at middle C. “You’ve really never sung before?”

  “He doesn’t think he has a nice voice,” Jordana called from her chair.

  “You have a nice voice,” I assured him. “And it sits great for Raoul’s part.”

  Malik looked sheepish. I hopped up and hugged him. After a moment of confusion, he hugged me back. I didn’t have to pull my well-practiced move to break away from him. He stumbled over to the chair bearing an expression of delighted shock, which I assumed was because of his newfound talent and not my embrace.

  “Jordana, love, your turn,” I said.

  She swept into place, grinning as she leaned her elbows on the closed piano lid.

  “Ah-ah.” I shook my finger. “Posture is everything. Keep that diaphragm open.” She took a deep inhale and straightened. “As before,” I said and started the scales again.

  How to describe what happened next? Stepping on a cat’s tail creates a more tolerable sound. As I climbed to the higher end of the scale, her singing grew worse. The distance between the note I played and the note she sang grew exponentially. She didn’t seem to know. She sang with her eyes closed and with a slight sway. She was feeling some kind of music, but I wasn’t sure what. I kept my focus on her. I didn’t dare look at Malik. Finally I watched my own hands until I got over the shock. I hadn’t expected her to be amazing, but this? I had my work cut out for me. I refused to let myself think that Jordana couldn’t sing at her wedding, if that was her dream. There had to be a way, but it would take a lot of work. Right now she was as much Christine Daae as I was a blueberry muffin.

  “Okay.” I stopped playing.

  She stopped singing. I stayed silent for a moment to think. Malik shifted, creaking the chair again. He was probably worried I was going to say something.

  I had to get this right.

  “So I think,” I said after a bit, “that you and I should start with head voice versus chest voice and talk about breathing techniques. You’re going after some big notes, and we need to get you a strong support so that you can keep them up where they need to be. Sound good?”

  “That sounds great.” She looked pleased, thank goodness. I anticipated going back to the basics would let me fix whatever had gone wrong to cause that dysphonia in the first place.

  “Malik, can you come back, please? This is for you too. A strong background in breath support never hurt anyone. I could probably use some brushing up myself.” I stood up, and together we formed a standing triangle. “First, we’re going to practice breathing. Stomach goes out on the inhale because you’re filling it with air. Inhale for three, hold three seconds, then let it out to flatten your tummy. Make the exhale last five seconds if you can.”

  We all breathed for a minute before I increased the inhale to four seconds and the exhale to seven. Malik showed no strain.

  “Are you sure you don’t sing? You’ve got great breath support.”

  “He runs,” Jordana said.

  “That explains it.” I grinned. “That’s great for building lung capacity. You’re going to hold those notes.”

  “I keep telling Jordana to come out with me,” Malik said. She gave him a “over my dead body” look. I laughed.

  “Okay, now that we’ve got the in and out down, let’s focus on where the breath is coming from and where it’s going. Jordana, is it okay if you put your hand on my stomach, just here?” I indicated below my rib cage. She slapped her palm on me like I was a raw steak in need of tenderizing. “Feel how I’m breathing? See how my chest and torso expand? My shoulders go back, my spine extends? I’m letting the air fill me.” She nodded. “Now the exhale. Everything out.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  I stepped back and motioned between them. “All right. Practice on each other.”

  “Hey, baby,” Malik said, putting on a smooth voice that would mak
e Barry White fans cream their pants, “you wanna put your hands right… here?”

  “Mmm, do I ever,” Jordana answered with her own sexy swagger. My ears heated. I was getting a kick out of the two of them, but man, it had been a long time since I’d had anyone talk to me like that. I turned to my desk to dig out the diagram I had of air circulation through the body. It illustrated how proper breathing was the cornerstone of singing. After a moment’s thought, I grabbed one that explained head voice and chest voice too.

  “Time’s up,” I said. “I just want to give you these diagrams.” They kept their hands on each other as I walked back over. “So, this one is what we did today, and this is for next time. Head voice and chest voice.”

  “Ooh, homework,” Jordana said. She swiped the papers away and started reading. Yep, this was a woman who liked to stay on top of things. I tried very hard not to let my eyes wander up Malik and wonder if that included him. I avoided eye contact with him for a split second, focusing instead on his hand as he extended it for me to shake.

  “Thank you, Keelin. We’ll see you next time.”

  I shook his hand and looked up to meet his eyes. “Thank you for coming.” I turned to hug Jordana. “See you soon, love.”

  She squeezed me tight.

  After they were gone, I sat at the piano and played “All I Ask of You” from memory. I sang Raoul’s part and modulated down on Christine’s so I could reach the notes in my head voice. It was still difficult. Right now Jordana was nowhere near ready to attempt it.

  I barely had a second to reflect before Angie walked in. “Hoo-boy, you oughta charge triple for that. Are you actually going to teach her to sing?”

  “I’m going to do my very best.”

  She sighed at me. “My God. You really were the idealistic one, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. When I answered the call to audition, I specifically went in for ‘idealistic one.’”