Tracy Martin
What if your devastating break-up became this summer’s hit single? In this rock-and-roll retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, music can either bring you together or tear you apart.
At her dying mother’s request, Claire dumps Jared, the only boy she’s ever loved. Left with a broken family and a broken heart, Claire is furious when she discovers that her biggest regret became Jared’s big break. While Jared is catapulted into rock-star status, another piece of Claire’s heart crumbles every time his song plays on the radio.
The summer after her senior year, it’s been months since the big break-up, and Claire is just trying to keep her head down and make it through a tense trip to the beach with her family. But when Jared shows up, and old feelings reignite, can Claire and Jared let go of the past? Or will they be stuck singing the same old refrain?
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I have been fortunate enough to receive an ecopy of Another Little Piece of My Heart from Netgalley. Although I haven't written a decent review yet (what I have here are just random notes and ideas), I can tell you that this book is as good as it sounds. The feeling while reading the book was a mix of lightness, humor, frustration and angst. You'll feel the sweetness, the occasional tingles, and sometimes, a little tightening of your chest. It's not your ordinary contemporary story wherein the plot is focused on the gradual development of the love story. With this one, they were the couple, it ended, and now the question: Will they get back together?
Another Little Piece of My Heart is like a fun ride; like a sweet drive; and like a potential hit song. It may not be the best I have read and there were a few things that I had issues with, but it did leave something behind.
For those who have read Another Little Piece of My Heart, and even those who want to read it, Tracy Martin has a special treat for us - a bonus scene from Jared's point of view and a giveaway.
BONUS SCENE
(Jared's POV)
“Dude, I can’t believe
you’re doing this.”
Mike’s shaking his head
at me from the doorway. Ignoring the disbelief in his voice, I toss my empty
Coke can in his recycle bin and grab my guitar. “You’ve said that like five
times now. I’m doing this. Let’s go.”
Let’s go before the
event is over. Let’s go before Mike’s asshole roommate, Zach, shows up. Let’s
go before I decide trying to win my ex-girlfriend back using the very same method
that made her hate me is not the best decision I ever made.
Let’s fucking go.
Mike unlocks his car,
and I carefully strap in my guitar case on the back seat. Smacking a mosquito,
I climb in the front. Let’s go before I contract Lyme Disease or Triple E.
Neither of us say much
on the drive to Eliot Beach. I don’t know what Mike’s thinking as he plays with
the radio, but my mind is so far away I can barely hear the music. Connecticut,
New Hampshire, Connecticut… My memories ping pong back and forth until I’m
dizzy with them.
For the past two years,
my last memory of Claire was the way her lip trembled that day in the mall, her
brown eyes wide and almost eerily unseeing. Her face vacant and distressed. It
didn’t make for a good last memory, not for a girl whose smile used to make my
heart stop, and whose one-liners used to make me wonder how I’d duped her into
thinking I was smart enough to hang out with her, and whose lips on my skin...
I should stop there.
She’s not mine to kiss anymore, and if I follow that line of thought, I’ll just
get depressed.
Point is, that scene didn’t
make for a good last memory, but I’m the one who made it my last memory. Until
a few weeks ago, that is, when I ran into her in the strangest, most unlikely
place in the entire country. How does that happen? What kind of twisted deity
arranged for that?
I hadn’t wanted a
second chance. I’d told myself I’d moved on. But her constant presence was too
much.
I didn’t deserve a second chance. So I told
myself she was better off. But the way she played that day in the park was too
irresistible. I knew then I had to have her back anyway. She’s either my muse
or some demon sent to torment me.
So here I am, either
about to do something really romantic or something incredibly stupid. With my
luck, probably stupid. If I hadn’t been an idiot two years ago, I might not
have lost all that time.
My stomach twists
thinking about it, and I consider that downing that Coke so fast was not a good
move. I close my eyes, concentrating on my new song and playing air guitar with
my seatbelt. It helps relax me, but it’s not performing the song tonight that’s
making my insides roll like the waves.
Finally, Mike parks under
a streetlamp by the house where Claire’s family is staying. I force myself to
breathe. I inhale the scent of the beach through the open car window and
realize I’m about to spin my thumb ring off.
Mike realizes it too.
“You sure you—”
“Yes, damn it.” I pry
my fingers away from the ring and open the door. “Don’t ask me that again.”
But he asks me that
again when we reach the coffee shop, too.
I shoot him a nasty
look, and he laughs, and now I know he’s just trying to bug me. “Come on.” I
push him into the crowd.
The shop is packed, laughing
and whispering people spilling onto the boardwalk. Over the ocean, the sky is
already turning dark and the temperature is dropping as fast as the light is
fading. But inside the store, it’s barely brighter.
The show’s begun and
the lights have been dimmed. I follow Mike to the counter, grateful that no
one’s paying any attention to the guy the with the guitar case for a change. That’s
because some other guy with a guitar is already performing, regaling everybody
with my least favorite Dylan song. I tune him out, just like I always try to
tune out Dylan whenever anyone puts on his music.
After signing some paper
and buying some over-priced coffee, I worm my way to the back. Mike’s head is
swiveling around, searching for Claire and company, I guess. I let him look out
for friends. I have to look out for my guitar. There’s not enough room for all
of us.
“Found them,” he
whispers at last, just as the guy on the makeshift stage finishes. Mike motions
with his cup to the other side of the room, and I push hair out of my eyes,
squinting through the mass of bodies that block my view.
It’s Claire that I find
first. Of course. It could be that crazy orange hair—what the hell was she
thinking dyeing it orange of all colors?—but I think it’s just that my gaze
will hone in on her no matter what. Especially with that hair, she’s like a
flame. I can’t not stare.
But she doesn’t seem to
notice me. She’s not noticing much if I had to guess. Her face is strained. She
looks nervous. I can’t tell from here, but I’d bet she’s gripping her case
strap with white knuckles.
Poor Claire. I used to
tell her all the time she shouldn’t be nervous about performing because damn,
she’s good. But I don’t think she ever believed me.
If she’d let me, I’d
make her believe it. But I’m not sure she will.
My hand runs to the
Buddha charm hanging around my neck, a tiny silver thing that she once gave me for
my birthday. Although I’d stopped wearing it because it was too painful after
we split, I kept the charm in my guitar case this whole time. When I finally
put it back on tonight, I was thinking I needed the Zen. From the looks of it,
though, Claire might need it more than me.
That’s it. I have to go
to her now. I have to say something.
I pick up my case,
ready to risk clocking a bunch of innocent people with it in order to cross the
shop, but then the guy at the mic calls out her name. Too late.
As usual for me.
I settle back against
the counter instead, drinking coffee I don’t really want.
“You coming?” Mike asks
while Claire gets settled up front.
There’s only one seat
open at the table since she got up, so I shrug. Not worth assaulting people to
get to it. “I’m good.”
As soon as Mike moves
away, I return my attention to Claire. She’s tuning her guitar and saying
something to the owner. Even from this distance, I can feel the spark in her—the
heat and the life—and I wonder if other people can too. It’s this crazy way she
lights up a room that make my lips dry, as though needing her to wet them for
me. Her wide nervous eyes and that smile filled with self-doubt only add to her
presence. It makes her charming too. And it’s making me crazy.
Some girls think they’re
the hottest things on the planet, and I’ve met way more than my share of them.
But they have no idea.
She is, without
question, the hottest thing on the planet, and she doesn’t even know it. And if
she did, she wouldn’t care. That’s part of what makes it so true.
Claire’s talking, and I
have to refocus to hear her. “But I did have an ex who wrote more than one
unflattering song about me. So this is the song I wrote about the experience.”
I cringe and drink
more. If that’s the worst she has to say about that whole ordeal, she’s being
too nice. I’m guessing “Romeo Must Die” is one of the least angry songs she
wrote in retaliation. Not sure I want to hear the others.
Then she starts to
play, and even though I’ve watched videos of her performing this song online,
watching her live is amazing. She’s changed so much. Gotten so much better.
And right there I
decide she’s the hottest, most talented girl on the planet, too. I might be a
bit biased, but screw it. I’m allowed to be. She sounds damn good. Someone else
can play critic.
I can’t drag my gaze
away until she finishes, and then I assess the audience. They’re smiling and
staring at her like I was. That’s my girl,
I start to think, except she’s not.
“Um, yeah. New song,”
Claire’s saying. “Let’s hope I don’t forget it like I’m forgetting what I’m
saying, you know? It’s called ‘That Girl.’”
I lean forward with
interest until I hear her lyrics. The words wrap around my chest like a rope,
pulling me toward her and crushing the life from me at the same time. I’m not
sure what to think, what to make of this plea that she’s singing. But it’s
directed at me. I can sense that through and through.
At one point I almost
catch her eye but she quickly looks away, and for a half beat, she fumbles. I
hear the rhythm crash like the breakers on the rocks. Then she recovers, almost
seamlessly.
I don’t, and I close my
eyes.
“So
why can’t I make you see?
That
girl is gone
This
girl is here
That
girl’s a ghost
This
girl is near
That
girl hurt you
This
girl hurts too
This
girl’s sorry for what she did to you”
As her clear, silky
voice fades, the room bursts into applause, but I can’t move. Why is she
apologizing? I’m the one who’s supposed to apologize. She did that years ago.
I’m the one who refused to listen.
I’m the one. And she’s
the one. It’s my job to make her see,
not the other way around.
For the first time
tonight, I feel a little less crazy about what I’m going to do. Not any less
nervous because there’s probably never a time when telling the girl you love
that you need her in your life is not going to be vomit-inducing, but less
crazy. Hopeful even.
I remain by the
counter, finishing my coffee for several more performers, but I don’t hear a
damn thing until my name. When the owner calls out “Jared Steele,” sounding
hilariously confused, I’m ready. Inside, I know I’ve been ready for longer than
I care to admit. Claire’s been stuck in my head and heart like the catchiest
damn tune ever, so it’s time to make good on this unexpected second chance.
What music hurt, it
must also be able to heal.
THE GIVEAWAY
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