My Hallowe'en Heartbreak: Holiday Hat Trick, #2

By Melanie Ting

"Melanie Ting can always be counted on for laughs, sexy romance, and unusual heroes that you end up falling in love with." USAToday bestselling author, Kate Willoughby.

"Every time I read a story by this author I'm impressed with her ability to combine exciting hockey with genuinely likeable characters." All About Romance

 

My Hallowe'en Heartbreak

 

It's officially the worst Hallowe'en ever.

 

First, Sophia Ando gets a demotion at her big law firm. Then she discovers her boyfriend making out with another woman at a Hallowe'en party. The cherry on top of her disastrous evening is when her rideshare home is driven by Henry MacDonald—her childhood friend and secret crush. Dejected and dressed as a goofy anime character was not the look she wanted when she saw Henry again.

 

Henry MacDonald isn't thrilled to see Sophia either. He's just quit the indie rock band he spent the last decade with. He's turning thirty, has zero career prospects, and worst of all—he's lost the spark that inspired his music. Being her chauffeur won't impress the most accomplished person he knows—even if she is currently a rain-soaked Pikachu. 

 

As a distraction from her disastrous life, Sophia decides to make Henry her next project: helping him find work, a recreational hockey team, and even a girlfriend. The only problem is that Henry prefers the matchmaker to the matches.

 

My Hallowe'en Heartbreak is the second book in the Holiday Hat Trick trilogy, but can be read as a standalone. This trilogy features three close girlfriends, crazy hijinks in the pursuit of love, and beer league hockey—all set in the wintry capital city of Ottawa. Each story is set around a holiday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Ting
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999192624

Book preview

1

Brother Down

Henry MacDonald

---

You guys suck!

Sure, everyone’s welcome to a musical opinion. What wasn’t so welcome was hearing those opinions during a performance. Because what were we supposed to do? We played rock and not the fiddle music that this Maritime bar crowd was calling for. Believe me, if we could magically transform into a Celtic folk band, we would have done so half an hour ago.

I caught Rod’s eye and mouthed the word, four. He nodded. We were calculating the minimum number of songs before we could call it a night. At the beginning of the evening, people seemed to like us. There’d been cheering and dancing. But after more alcohol consumption, the vibe turned surly, and now everyone was a rock critic.

I put my head down and focused on my keyboard. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something fly by.

Fuck, squealed Mo amid a cacophony of cymbals and drums. Some threw a bottle of beer and caught our drummer right between the eyes.

Jesus. Are you okay? Rod asked. I was the first to Mo’s side. His nose was already gushing blood, so I peeled off my t-shirt and used it to staunch the bleeding.

Shit. There was so much blood. In the dim light of the bar, I saw a lump already forming on the bridge of his nose. The only good news was that the bottle hadn’t broken and cut him.

He should go to the hospital, Carly our bassist said.

The rowdy crowd was quieted by having injured one of us. When the musical critique escalated to a beer missile, that was enough for us.

Rod walked up to the mic. Okay, you assholes win. We’re out.

We hustled off the stage to a mix of boos and applause.

The bar manager came running up. You can’t go yet. You haven’t finished your set.

We stared at him, incredulous.

Look at Mo. He can’t drum with blood rushing out of his head, Rod pointed out.

The manager mumbled something about not paying us. I was ready to tell him where he could shove his fee, but Rod laid a hand on my arm. We needed the money badly.

Ace and I will load out the gear. You and Carly take Mo to the hospital. Rod turned to the manager. Is there an emergency room here?

Clinic’s closed now. Nearest hospital is about 20 clicks away, the manager said.

Fuck. We can’t afford a ride that far. We’ll have to take the van, I said. But a crowd that threw beer bottles would trash our instruments if we left them. We were trapped in Nowhere, New Brunswick.

A beefy man pushed through. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt the young fella. I’ll drive you.

Apparently, this was the beer flinger. While this was a nice gesture, his swaying posture and red face hinted that he wasn’t sober enough to drive anyone anywhere. The manager finally came around, possibly because of Mo’s incredible bleeding talent. My t-shirt looked like a crime scene. I’ll get one of the staff to drive you.

Carly eyed my chest. You might want to put a shirt on.

In all the chaos, I’d forgotten I was half-naked. Ace handed me a merch t-shirt. Now I was wearing the t-shirt of my own band. How lame was that? We bundled up against the cold September night and crowded into someone’s beater. After a two-hour wait in Emergency, Mo’s nose was declared unbroken, and we left with an ice pack and some pain pills.

Rod and Ace showed up in the van to pick us up.

We got paid, Rod said. That was the first good news tonight. I was hungry and exhausted. We found an all-night truck stop and squeezed into a booth.

This tour is sucking ass, Mo said.

Rod winced. It wasn’t his fault that our label was currently circling the drain and had cut all the staff who normally did our booking and promo work. Rod had cobbled together a tour of Atlantic Canada because we needed the money. But this trip was reminiscent of our early days when we played anywhere that said yes for exposure.

You’re right. It’s pointless. We should pack it in and go back to Toronto, Rod declared.

I knew my line here. I was the optimist of our band, the sunny McCartney to Rod’s mercurial Lennon. I opened my mouth to offer reassurances, but instead said, Yeah, let’s quit.

There was a shocked silence. Playing together for so many years meant we all had roles. We each reacted according to a predictable script, and I had missed my cue.

Quit? Rod asked. For how long?

For good, I replied. It was an idea I’d been considering for the last few months.

Rod sucked in his breath, then reversed himself. Oh c’mon, Mac. It’s not that bad. We’ve been through worse.

But had we? When we first started out as a band, we were young and full of optimism. And we had been successful, selling out small clubs, headlining smaller festivals, and playing bigger ones. Taking a step backwards hurt.

Carly De Vries flipped her dark blonde hair and sighed. We all looked over at her. She was the only new actor in this play. A bass player who had joined the band for this tour, and everyone had taken turns crushing on her. Everyone except me. My current apathy made even desire too much effort. But I appreciated Carly’s common sense and her tolerance for dirty jokes and farts. Van life was intimate and adolescent.

What do you say, Carly? I asked.

Her blue eyes met mine. How many more gigs do we have lined up?

Rod pulled out his phone. Three more. Two places in Halifax and one in Sackville. But I have calls in at a bunch more places.

I shook my head. I say we cancel them.

I felt twice my age, like a man of 60 whose very bones were fatigued. Touring the Maritimes in the fall was playing Russian roulette with the weather. So far, the driving conditions had varied from decent to death defying. Even when she was running well, our van wasn’t the easiest vehicle to a manoeuvre when there was a skiff of snow on the road. Summer touring was one thing, when we could camp outside. But it snowed in October here, and we were trapped in a bone-chilling, stinking van. All the inconveniences seemed like a lark when we were younger, but now I craved a few creature comforts.

Rod Bell and I founded Shawville eleven years ago. We had a small but faithful fan base, and we made music I was proud of. But that golden orb of fame and fortune kept receding. We always believed we were close to breaking wide, but now our hopes were embers in a rain-pelted campfire. Sure, a few bands had made it, but so many of our peers had disappeared.

The first signal of the end was when Ricco, our previous bassist, left. He wanted the normal things in life: a wife, a paycheque, and sleeping in the same bed every night. Or maybe just sleeping in a bed.

Hey guys, what are we gonna do now? Ace motioned to our van, which was full of musical equipment and our meagre personal possessions. Ace was a superfan of the band who had become our roadie, merch promoter, and procurer of recreational substances.

I motioned to the rusty bloodstains on my clothes and Mo’s. Some of us need a good shower. Let’s get one motel room for tonight and flip for who sleeps in the van. We can start the drive back tomorrow. Of course, where was home anyway? Nominally, we lived in Toronto, but all of us had given up our leases for a long tour.

Jesus. I gave up a job for a one-month tour, Carly said.

How about this, Rod suggested. We’ll do the last three gigs. Then we’ll at least have a little money to divvy up.

I nodded. If we didn’t make enough, selling the van back in Toronto would help. There were always bands looking for a not-so-finely tuned touring machine. New musicians full of optimism ready to take our place. It would take five minutes for us to be forgotten.

Besides, a few last gigs were a chance to end on a higher note than being bullied off the stage in a crap bar.

Once we’d checked into a shabby motel, Rod cornered me for a private talk. We sat outside beside a glowing vending machine in decrepit lawn chairs.

What’s really wrong, Mac? he asked. After so many years together, he was the human being I knew better than anyone else on earth.

I hesitated over the secret I’d kept for months now. Saying it aloud would make it true.

It’s about the music, right? Rod’s voice was gentle. Are you going through a creative block or something?

I nodded, still not able to say the words: I can’t write songs anymore.

What began as a dry spell had morphed into creative death. My music had always come from an emotional well deep inside, and now there was nothing to draw upon. I still wrote songs, but when I looked at them later—all I saw was repetition and insincerity. I wanted to move my music forward, but my feet were trapped in a quicksand that sucked away everything positive.

The worst part was this emotional detachment. I was the boy in the bubble. My compassion and sensitivity were trapped inside an almost visible shell. I saw life through a fog of indifference. I longed to feel something.

Rod nodded. I figured. Usually you come to me with ideas, especially when we’re playing. That was one of the reasons I wanted to come on tour—to see if it got you going.

His kindness made me feel worse. Of course, he knew. Not talking about my problems didn’t make them disappear. I’d been fending off questions about our next release from the whole band.

I’ve never experienced anything like this before, I confessed. I’m still writing, but it’s all crap. Nothing that I want to show you. Nothing with any meaning. This was almost the worst part—getting ideas and working hard, then tossing them. I couldn’t recognize truth and substance anymore.

Rod patted my shoulder. Mac, it’s okay. I mean, I should be writing more. I’ve let you take on the responsibility all this time.

But it wasn’t hardship because creating music was what I loved doing. The torture was not being able to write.

After the tour, I think I need a change.

The future yawned dark before me. I hoped that once the pressure was off—if there were no deadlines, no looming new album, no tour dates—I’d be able to write again. Lately the idea of going home to Ottawa appealed to me. It was where my love for music had begun, and I wanted to recapture that early inspiration.

Rod and I had been living in Toronto for the last decade, usually in the same shared house. Right now, I wanted some mental and physical distance, not just from Rod but from everyone I knew in the music scene. Sure, I’d prefer to fly to Bali or Kyoto for an exotic retreat, but on a zero-dollar budget that wasn’t happening.

I was thinking of going home, I said. That was as exotic a retreat as I could afford.

Ottawa? That was where we’d met, and Rod was not impressed. For how long?

I sighed. I don’t know. Until I get over whatever this is.

Rod was a planner, so that answer wasn’t enough. But he could see how frustrated I was, so he didn’t push.

It’ll come back, Mac. It always does.

But I’d never been this blocked before. It was going to take something big.

---

Our final show in Halifax was packed. Rod got on social media and promoted our indefinite hiatus, which created more buzz. Or buzzards, hovering over the corpse of Shawville. People liked to witness beginnings and ends. Our friends and families had been there to see our beginning in a coffee shop in Ottawa, but none of them were here now.

From backstage, I peeked out at the crowd. Nostalgia hung heavy in the room—there were older, original fans as well as the usual younger crowd. Our first fans had young families now and didn’t make it out to bars or clubs anymore. It was the cycle of life we had avoided. Being in a band was a form of perpetual adolescence.

Rod clamped a hand on my shoulder. You ready to do this, Mac?

Born ready. This was our routine. Rod and I had been through more emotional highs and lows than a couple celebrating their silver anniversary, but we both loved this moment before a show. A droplet of time filled with potential.

Carly was right behind Rod, decked out in rock-chick style with her black jeans, leather cuffs, and cat-like eyeliner. The rest of us dressed like regular Joes. Guys you lined up behind at Canadian Tire. Carly rolled her eyes at our nondescript jeans, worn shirts, or faded t-shirts. But our fans expected nothing more by now.

Morris peeled a Hello Kitty bandage—the only thing left in our first aid kit—off his nose. It was still red and swollen. Maybe nobody would notice behind the drum kit.

Huddle, Rod declared. Maybe it was dumb, but this was the final time. We draped our arms around each other’s shoulders.

Our last night. Let’s kill it, said Rod.

Yeah, we called out in unison. And then we broke, stood tall, and strode out to the cheers of the audience. Performing was the best part, the high that I was addicted to. I wanted to bottle this feeling and keep it forever.

Rod kicked off the night with the rocking-est song off our latest album. It was a statement: We’re going to kick ass tonight, so jump on! I closed my eyes, and my fingers stroked the keys, knowing every idiosyncratic tic of this aging keyboard.

Rod and I traded off lead vocals and the next song was mine. As soon as I sang the first few lines, I could tell that it was going to be a great night. It was one of our bigger songs, and the crowd sang out like the call and response of a gospel church service. The sweet seduction of audience adoration flowed over me. Whatever insecurities I might carry in real life, right now I was a god.

We’d played together for so long that all it took was a tilt of the head or a look exchanged to add a solo or segue. And Carly was a pro who fit right in. And feeding off the energy of tonight’s audience was insane. Even if we had performed the same set list every night, which Rod’s perfectionism would not have allowed, it would never be the same. Different songs soared off the enthusiasm of the sweating, dancing crowd.

For a moment, I wavered. How could I give up the only lifestyle I knew? But I couldn’t make decisions based on the highs. Tomorrow, when we were back in the creaking van, life would feel like crap again.

The last song of the set was a ballad from our very first album. Moonlight Moves never got much traction, but it was special to me. Besides, we agreed to end on a quiet note. Afterwards we’d planned a rocking encore, but this moment of tenderness and emotion expressed my feelings about our long journey. The lyrics felt new and unfamiliar after all this time.

Can you be what I imagine?

Nobody else can compare.

Are you ephemeral?

My gossamer dream.

Your image on my eyelids

Each time I try to sleep.

Backstage, everyone grabbed a rehydration of choice while Mo pissed; he had a famously small bladder. The audience was stomping their feet and calling out for an encore.

You ready? Rod asked. His face shone, and his voice was high with excitement. Would this be the last time he asked me this question? I reached out and hugged him, feeling the damp sweat of our exertion.

Born ready, I repeated. Mo rejoined the three of us, and we headed out. The roar of the crowd grew louder as we reappeared. Their insane energy shot straight into my veins.

After the show, we closed down the club then went to an afterparty at the house of a local musician we’d once toured with.

Around 3:00am, I ended up sitting on the back porch steps. I needed fresh air and a little quiet. The night was cold but not freezing. There were more stars here than in Toronto, and the air was fresh and salty.

Carly sat down beside me. Jesus, these Maritimers know how to party.

Truth.

The people here were so friendly. My first tour out east, I’d been suspicious when strangers offered us meals, places to stay, and musical connections. Now accepting their kindness was as easy as breathing.

She pulled a joint out of her coat pocket and lit up. After taking a long toke, she handed it to me.

I dragged deeply, feeling the smoke prickle my throat. I passed it back, exhaled, and took a sip of my lukewarm beer.

You guys don’t party as hard as I’d heard, Carly said.

That might be partly because of you. It felt wrong to go off after a show and leave Carly all alone. Of course, she’d have her choice of men, but she never seemed interested. It must be lonely being the only woman in a band.

Smoke trailed from her mouth. What’s the other part?

I smiled. We’re getting old. Shit gets boring.

Carly scoffed. You’re not that old. What are you, 28?

No, 30. Turning 30 wasn’t a huge milestone for me, but we’d never again be called young guns or up-and-comers.

The two of us sat there, passing the joint, and looking up at the sky.

That ballad you sang at the end, she began.

I nodded. The weed was creating a buzz of detachment, that feeling that I was looking down at myself. My mind was a drone hovering above Carly’s blondish head and my darker one. This was the best time for creating, when I could separate myself from the physical world. I patted my jacket to find the little notebook I always carried, but remembered it was tucked in the bottom of my duffel bag. I’d packed it away because its blank pages mocked me.

Carly leaned closer, her warmth reaching me through the layers of wool and down between us. Her face was pale in the dim light, but her lips were rosy. I could kiss her right now. Carly’s vibe was receptive, and my instincts were usually right. But I resisted. How many times had I done something just because I could? I craved the sensation of real desire.

Who is she? she asked.

Jerked out of my philosophical musings, I frowned. Who?

The woman that last song is about.

Nobody had ever asked me this before. I’d hooked up with a well-known singer early in my career, and since then everyone assumed that my songs were about her. It was easier to let them think that, because the reality was that I wrote about universal love or heartbreak. My life was too centred on music to spare energy for a real commitment.

It’s about the first woman I ever loved. Well, a girl, really. We were pretty young. Her face came back to me, serious behind her black-framed glasses. Her expressions subtle unless she was very happy, and then her delight was contagious.

Is she your dream? Carly asked. She was in her mid-twenties and still idealistic. Who had dreams anymore? My sole dream was more like a desperate plea: let me feel something.

I don’t have a dream.

You do, she said. Your songs explain everything.

Really? That’s quite an accomplishment.

Carly laughed and stole a sip of my beer. No, they only explain you. Why you’re not too interested in women. Like me.

I leaned away from her. Maybe there had been a chance for a last hook-up, but it wasn’t going to happen now. Not with my head full of memories. I had learned that fucking one woman while thinking of another sucked for everyone involved. Maybe that was my best takeaway from the last decade.

You’re too good for me, I replied, but Carly wasn’t buying that.

Does she have a name?

Sophia. The word tumbled out of my mouth, rusty from not saying for so long.

Carly giggled. Weed made her talkative and giddy. Oh. A sexy Italian.

I smiled. That was the opposite of my Sophia.

And you’re still in love with her? Carly asked.

I shook my head. I looked up at the night sky, trying to discern the flickering lights of airplanes from real stars. Sophia was not a real-world emotion. I barely knew her anymore. I hadn’t spoken to her in ages. I’d put music over everything else in my life, and now here I was, a man without music or a future. What woman would want that?

2

Underwhelmed

Sophia Ando

---

Gotcha!

I shot double finger-guns at the glowing screen of the monitor. Then I looked around to make sure nobody had seen my silliness.

But this find was so exciting! McLaren vs. Franklin Biotechnology was the exact precedent I needed for the Lyon Technologies file. The parallels were uncannily similar, and it helped to close one loophole I was worried about. The only problem was that the judgement was five years old—ancient in intellectual property terms—still, there hadn’t been a similar decision since.

I loved my job. Perhaps I was a little nerdy about the law. But moments like this were as gratifying for me as making the playoffs would be for the Ottawa Senators. And according to my hockey-loving grandmother, that Stanley Cup run wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Legal research could be easily done in my office, but I enjoyed our firm’s law library. I’d loved the library as a kid, and it was no different now. The dusty stacks of leather-bound volumes were seldom opened, but they represented data that was otherwise invisible. Preparing for a case was a game of legal hide and seek. The right answer is here, Sophia. You have to search it out. Touching the spines made me feel connected to all the lawyers who had been here before—both physically and spiritually. Like Eloise Séguin, who was now a Supreme Court justice. She had articled at Forrest, Pakenham, Landry LLP—just like me. If I had posters in my teen bedroom, they would have been of female Supreme Court justices.

Besides, coming here meant talking to our librarian Lottie Handleman. She was better than Google. She knew precedents that even our senior partners had forgotten. I consulted her about every big case I worked on. Sure, I over-prepared, but what was the harm in that? I’d found the perfect career for my personality flaws. Anxiety and pessimism made me a better lawyer.

Thanks, Lottie, I called out as I rose to leave. She was easy to spot today in a tall peaked witch’s hat. Lottie decorated the library for every holiday, but Hallowe’en was her favourite. Around her desk were pumpkin lights, fake cobwebs, and black paper cats.

You’re leaving early, she said.

Yeah. Party tonight, I explained. Early was relative; it was a Friday and well past quitting time for government workers. But lawyer lives at private firms were different. Sixty to seventy-hour workweeks were the norm, and I liked to exceed norms.

When I got to my office, there was a yellow post-it on my desk.

See me, A.

The terse note was typical of Alexander Martin, the senior lawyer on the Lyon file that was currently occupying 62% of my billable hours. But whatever Alexander lacked in social skills, he made up in legal brilliance.

I knocked on his open office door.

You wanted to see me?

He squinted up at me. Each time I walked into a meeting with Alexander, his blank expression made me want to introduce myself again. And I’d worked here for over six years.

"Yeah. Please shut