Love Struck (Miss Match #2) by Laurelin McGee Page A

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    Another day, lightning striking
    Life happening, high-speed passing
    Everything around me
    Chaos
    In motion
    And then you …
    I hear you in the noise
    I hear you in the noise
    This disarray was unexpected
    Advancing, closing in around me
    But years I’ve waited for this take off
    Breath held and I’m
    Soaring
    In motion
    And then you …
    I hear you in the noise
    I hear you in the noise
    Then there’s stillness
    Silence
    Peace of mind
    I hear you in the noise
    And I remember
    What I’m fighting for
    I hear you in the noise
    He half paid attention to the movie and her responses to it for the duration of the time it took to write down his song. The first song he’d really written for her . Jesus. Eli had to admit it—this girl, this anonymous girl, was so much realer to him than anyone he’d met in person.
    He looked back up, finally, to see the main character surrounded by DVDs in her bed, Say Anything being the closest to her. Eli wasn’t normally a man of faith, but this had the “coincidence” of a Higher Power written all over it. Love was commenting on it as well in the browser. He set his instrument aside and wrote back.
    See, it really is one of the best music movies ever.
    He smiled to see the little line turn into dots, indicating she was writing back. The dots disappeared then reappeared a bunch of times. So that struck a chord. Figuratively. Or literally. Who could tell the difference these days between those words?
    Crybaby.
    Ah, another music movie. Point to Love. That one was amazing.
    Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.
    He gave himself a point. The Carrie Nations was his favorite fictional band. Plus that movie was so bizarre, every time he watched it he was startled all over again.
    Her next response came quickly. Spiceworld.
    What is wrong with you? He didn’t really mean it, but kind of he did.
    No one has answered that question yet.
    And he hoped no one ever would. This chick was into John Waters, Glen Hansard, and the Spice Girls? She was probably the biggest genius he’d never met.
    The Punk Singer.
    Her dotted line was absent for five minutes after that. Had he said the wrong thing? That documentary was the most glorious celebration of women in music he had ever seen. He assumed Love would feel the same? Maybe he should have typed Searching for Sugar Man , another brilliant doc, less edgy.
    This time when he picked up his mando, it was for comfort. Something had gone wrong somewhere in the conversation. Then the dots picked up again.
    You’re hot.
    He laughed out loud. So it was the right answer. You are.
    He thrilled a little bit. Or a lot. They were nearly flirting. It was … nice.
    Not for the first time, or fifteenth, he wondered what she looked like. There was an image in his head, but who could say if it was accurate? When he imagined LoveCoda, he pictured someone beautiful and capable. Tall-ish. Intense. Her eyes would be captivating. Beyond that, though, things got fuzzy. Blonde or brunette? Redhead, even? No idea.
    He hummed a few bars of the song he’d just written for her. Wow. Of all the songs he’d worked on in their partnership, this was the first one directly inspired by her. It was also one of his best.
    This was so stupid, this charade they were keeping up. He wanted to play her this song. His fingers hovered over the keys, trying to figure out how to ask her—what, exactly? He let his fingers drop. He didn’t even know what he wanted, except that she be involved in whatever it was.
    But then she was writing back: Folx? I know I’m not supposed to ask …
    His heart rate quickened. Could she really be so in tune with him that she was thinking the same thing? Go ahead …
    He hit return and tried not to be hopeful. She probably just wanted to find out the name of his band, or something like that.
    Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend? It’s the twenty-first century, I shouldn’t assume.
    He felt like pumping his fist in the air, but, even though they