one Max I remember exactly what song was playing when I started my car on the night I got my heart broken. I cranked the key in the ignition. The radio came on-Joni Mitchell's "The Same Situation" filled the interior of the used Camry I'd gotten for two thousand dollars when I graduated from high school. Feeling foolish, pretending I was fine, I let the song play, even while I knew it would entwine itself with the day's sad memories. I drove home on Los Angeles's silent freeways, recognizing in the pit of my stomach how Joni's voice would haunt me from then on. Which is why a decade later I find myself hovering my finger over my laptop's space bar, unable to press play. Open on Spotify is Riley Wynn's new album, framed on my screen in the small office I share with my sister in Harcourt Homes, the senior assisted-living facility I run with her help. It's just me in here right now, waiting for myself, ignoring the spreadsheets printed out on my desk. January is the coldest the San Fernando Valley gets. The California chill surrounds me, invading my fingertips, expectant, urging. Listen, Max. Just listen. I know what will happen when I start the first song. If I start the first song. The voice of the country's new favorite pop prophetess will steal into my soul the way only she can. I should listen, I know I should. Hit play. Let Riley's music-her magic-ensnare me. Especially "Until You," the undisputed song of the year. I've had to work to escape hearing it because it hides around every corner in the labyrinth of the same songs every radio station plays. I haven't entirely succeeded, instead hearing snatches in the supermarket or when I'm changing stations. Then there are the billboards, Riley looming over my commute on Sunset. She stands in the wedding dress she's wearing on the album cover, looking caught off guard while fire licks the edges of her veil. The Rolling Stone email with her featured interview hit my inbox a week ago. Yet[?] I've resisted Riley's new music until today, when I suddenly knew I could hold out no longer-gravity was pulling me. Of what heavenly body, I don't know. Stars have gravity, but so do black holes. Like one inside the other, Riley's eyes stare out from my laptop screen. My hesitation is sort of pathetic, I know. In fairness, however, not many people in the world face the question I do when it comes to Riley Wynn's new album. How do you listen to The Breakup Record when one of the songs is about you? Maybe we should form a support group-me and the eleven other people Riley's immortalized on her chart-smashing second LP. It's the gripping, genius conceit of her new collection of songs-each one centers on a romantic split of Riley's life. Which means our nine months together in college is presumably included in the company of Hollywood-headline relationships, of short-lived flings, of her notorious divorce. Nine months when I dated the woman who would become one of the most famous musicians in the world. Nine months in which I felt like I'd found the chorus to my verse in Riley Wynn-whose lips made me ignite, whose smile looked like stage lights, whose laughter played secret chords on my heartstrings. There's a chance I'm not included, some hopeful part of me whispers. What if our relationship didn't register enough to make the cut? On second thought, that might be worse. Riley is known for her breakup songs. Renowned or infamous, depending on the source of the judgment. On her first album and EPs-when she was popular, just not yet the most loved figure in the contemporary music industry-the songs of heartbreak were the hits. It was easy to understand why. When I listened to them once or twice, out of nostalgia or masochistic indulgence or some combination, Riley's preoccupation with the pain or pleasure of romantic endings was evident in the power of her voice, the sharpness of her structures, and the keenness of her lyrics. Her reputation was made. "The Breakup Queen," the music press calls her. The Breakup Record is her meta-manifestation of her own reputation, self-commentary and self-realization in one. It's ingeniously Riley, making masterpieces out of misadventures, conferring ironic honor on romantic failures memorable enough to spawn songs. While I'm pretty much the opposite of fame-hungry, even I would prefer Riley Wynn's songwriting scalpel over the ignominy of being the forgotten ex. I know there's only one way to find out whether she wrote us into song. It's just-how do I prepare myself for what feels like walking into the fire on the album's cover? Melodies hold memories. Like nothing else on earth, they recall feelings, places, moments-the needle dropping into the groove of the soul's record player. I remember what song was playing when I had my first kiss, what I put on while having dinner alone the night I moved into my first apartment, what was on the radio while my father stiffly said I would need to run Harcourt Homes if I wanted it to stay open because my parents could no longer manage the property. Whenever I listen to them, I'm there. The same will happen here. When I play whatever Riley's written for us, I'll find myself reliving a part of my life I'm not sure I'm over, even ten years later. "Did you listen yet?" The sound of Jess's voice has me snapping my laptop shut. Instantly, my furtiveness embarrasses me. It's not like I was watching porn or something. Sure enough, my sister smiles. She's opened the door just a little to poke her head into the office. The loose curls of her chestnut hair hang past her collarbone. The sparkle in her green eyes says she knows exactly what hell I'm presently in. We're obviously siblings, matched in every significant physical characteristic-the perfect pair for, say, the "About Us" page on retirement home websites. "I've heard it," I say neutrally. "Liar," Jess replies. She slouches in mock desperation. "Come on. I need you to listen and tell me which one is about you." "You don't know if any of them are about me." Hearing my own lack of conviction, I wince. Jess rolls her eyes. "Um, you and Riley were obsessed with each other. I'm one gazillion percent certain there's a song about you." She shrugs, pretending she's indulging in casual speculation, which I know she is not. "My guess is 'Until You,'" she says. I frown. Surely Jess is messing with me now. I probably have a song-not the song. The lead single. No fucking way. I'm surely relegated to the second to last track or something. The filler. The one that barely made it onto the album. "I'm sure 'Until You' is about that guy," I say. Jess looks incredulous. "Her ex-husband, Wesley Jameson? He's an Emmy-nominated actor, collective crush of the internet. He's not 'that guy,'" my sister informs me witheringly. "Whatever. Him," I say, feeling my face heat. I definitely know exactly who Riley's ex-husband is. I don't know why I insinuated otherwise. "The song is about him. Isn't that what everyone is saying?" It's not like I seek out gossip headlines. When it comes to Riley, however, they're hard to miss. Riley has shot to the kind of stardom that makes speculation about her love life a national pastime. Everyone online is saying the biggest hit on the album is about Wesley, Riley's husband of three months. Had it surprised me when Riley married one of prime time's hottest stars? No, absolutely not. Riley is . . . everything. She's gorgeous, smart, quick-witted, uncompromising. She'd want someone who could complement her. Who could keep pace with her own relentless incandescence. Jameson made sense. He's machine-pressed handsome, with sharp, planar features, his eyes squinted ruggedly in every one of his numerous photoshoots. Like Jess remarked, he's undeniably internet-crushable, with his wavy dark hair, his sinister somberness. He's captivating onscreen, launching himself from a conflicted criminal on HBO to the leading man of fans' fantasies. His relationship with Riley captured the public's obsession instantly. Photos of them close, of him whispering in her ear, found their way online from one charity event or magazine party or other. They weren't world news, not yet. Riley wasn't famous like she is now. In fact, he was the famous one then. Rumors followed his potent combination of popular and prestige, of roles in consideration, of other women. The photos of them together were what caught fans' imaginations-the dazzle of Riley's delight, the glint in Jameson's eye. The dark prince who snared the sharp-tongued starlet. Each garnered more and more retweets and comments until Riley Wynn and Wesley Jameson were iconic "main characters" on the public stage. Two months later, they were married. Three months later, they were divorced. It was the perfect reflection of the differences in the lives we'd led. Obviously I wasn't just home on the couch swiping through photos of Riley with Wesley Jameson-I've had relationships of my own, some of them serious. They're passages of memory unnerving in their finitude, disappearing from my life so completely it's hard to remember how much of it they once occupied. Kendra, who had her MFA in design and worked on the new progressive mayor's campaign, and loved herbal tea and her sister. Elizabeth, one of our residents' granddaughters, who worked in employment law, never liked Los Angeles, and dreamed of living in France. In the year I spent with each woman, I meant it when I said I loved her. It just . . . never worked out. It wasn't right. Or, I wasn't right. I can claim fault for the end of each relationship. The same thing happened-when the idea of moving in arose, I withdrew. Not immediately, yet unmistakably. Dinners got quieter. Futures faded into uncertainty. I could feel something missing, or I convinced myself I could. Either way, it scared me, and I ran. In the meantime, I've enjoyed myself well enough with the one-night stands the right combination of tousled hair and glasses will earn. Jess is watching me with skeptical wonderment. "You really haven't listened to it, have you?" she asks. I stand, knowing it's confirmation enough. "I'm late," I say instead, struggling to keep annoyance out of my voice. The problem with working with your family is that you can't hide from them, even when you want to. "I'm due in the dining room." I pass Jess in the doorway, hoping she'll let the subject drop. Of course, she doesn't. "One of those songs is about you, Max," she says. I don't reply, heading into the hallway on the second floor. My sister's inquisitiveness is expected, honestly. Everyone who knows me personally-which, okay, isn't very many people outside of Harcourt Homes, where the residents don't exactly listen to the SiriusXM hits station-has asked me eagerly which song is about me. I've found refuge in saying I don't know. I don't want to know. Ten years isn't enough time to get over Riley Wynn. Maybe twenty years will be. What is it Springsteen sings? In twenty years, I'm sure it'll just seem funny. I head down the wide staircase into the lobby, ignoring patches of peeling paint near the carpet curling up from the floor. Details our residents don't notice, or I hope they don't. They stand out sneeringly to me, though. Guilty indications of places where I couldn't keep up with the demands of the property. Once our parents' business, now our own, Harcourt Homes is the legacy I carry proudly despite its heavy weight. In the Valley's flatlands, only minutes outside of, yet unmistakable for, Los Angeles, we keep residents' lives from changing. It's the point of what we do, conserving health, comfort, consistency. It's the business of waiting, of holding on. Holding on despite what I found in the spreadsheets on my desk, the monthly financials I've printed out, no different from last month's. I've pored over them, searching for costs to cut or secret efficiencies to exploit, struggling to do right by this place. There's nothing-except for the outright cruelty of raising prices on our residents, which we would never do. Planning for retirement is nearly impossible. When someone doesn't correctly calculate how many years they need to save for, we work out new rates with their family based on what they can pay. Unfortunately, it's left Harcourt Homes on the edge of bankruptcy. I wanted to help. It's why I changed my major from music to business. I even did help, for the first few years, keeping the home running. Only when I faced the ongoing downward spiral did I realize I couldn't find the fixes we needed, which left me in this precarious position, learning habits for cost-cutting wherever I could. I know the real conversation is coming. The one where we face the music, so to speak. Where I gather everyone and admit Harcourt Homes cannot continue. I just can't dwell on it right now. Not with the piano waiting for me. In minutes, I'll play for everyone, our residents and their families. I don't want my stress over the home's finances to bleed into my performance this evening, but of course it would if I let the harsh realities preoccupy me. Everything I feel finds its way into my music. Music is the life in the lungs of Harcourt Homes, the sustaining spark in these walls. Whether it's old standards I let echo from the record player into the halls, or me playing for residents during dinner, music helps us forget life's peeling paint. Since high school, I've hardly ever missed my Sunday piano revue. The dining room is full of familiar faces when I enter off the main hallway. The four octogenarians who always wear Navy hats occupy one corner. Keri eats with Grant, the pair having become inseparable since they realized their names combined into one old Hollywood star. Imelda regales her indulgent daughter with resident gossip-of which, make no mistake, there is plenty. I cross the room, nodding to the residents. When I sit down at the ancient upright piano, I feel like I'm home. "Finally, Maxwell." I smile, hardly surprised. The voice is Linda's. Of course, my favorite Harcourt Homes resident is seated right next to the piano. "My potatoes are already cold," she remarks, playful petulance in her eyes. "I'm sorry," I say earnestly. "How about Sinatra to make up for it?" Linda smiles magnanimously, satisfied, and I start playing. The home's upright is the piano I learned to play on. It's not the nicest piano I've ever played, not by far, but it's my favorite. The rich sound, the worn feel of the keys-it's perfect. Part of the reason I never went on to pursue music despite initially majoring in piano performance is this wonderful instrument's unwieldy logistics. I can't just pack the piano up and haul it to gigs with me. Excerpted from The Breakup Tour by Emily Wibberley, Austin Siegemund-Broka All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
