I treated myself to a couple lonely shots of whiskey last night when I got home from the hospital. I stopped to grab a bite to eat, had those couple shots of whiskey, and spent the night sitting on the couch convincing myself not to drink anymore, because that was a road I didn’t feel like walking, alone and in the dark.

So I spent hours thinking about Rose. Thinking about Frank and all the conversations we had in life. The times I’d get taken to another family and then run away to see Rose or see Frank. He’d always talk to me. He’d always say the right shit and then tell me go the hell home before he had to call the cops. I think somewhere in my heart I dreamed of Frank wanting to take me in, but he knew better. That would be trouble putting me and Rose close like that. And Frank knew that if he was in control of me, it would ruin the relationship we had. By talking to me and then kicking me in the ass, he taught me more about life and survival than anything else in life ever did.

I ended up passing out on the couch and waking the next morning with one foot on the floor and my neck feeling like someone had twisted it all the way around. I swung my hand in the direction of the table and grabbed my phone. No calls. No texts.

It was almost nine in the morning.

I hadn’t slept that well in a while. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was because I’d had a chance to help Rose without breaking her heart.

I lived in a cheap studio apartment. One gigantic room with a little section that I considered to be a bedroom. There were three doors in the apartment. One being the front door. The other two being a closet and the bathroom. The walls were old stone and I had some vintage music posters framed and hung up. It was a total bachelor jam pad looking thing, even though I couldn’t remember the last time another person was in the apartment.

When I got the place I had visions of hanging with friends, jamming all night, sneaking up to the roof in the middle of the night with a beautiful woman to look at the stars… in her eyes… and live in that dream of music that had been burning inside me since I was a kid.

Hey, Rose. Sorry about that time I slipped away. Left you waiting on another day. Leaving the ashes of forever spread around, my footprint in the middle. Of your heart.

I ran a hand through my hair and went to pick up my guitar case and my bag. Some men wore suits and carried briefcases. Not me. The same jeans from yesterday. The same flannel. I had changed my t-shirt and brushed my teeth, which was enough self-care for the moment. I kept a bag packed out of habit. I learned as a kid to keep anything important with me at all times. You never knew when the cops were going to show up or when some social worker was going to want to pick me up and take me somewhere safe.

I left the apartment and went to the café. The sign hanging above the door read The Jonesy, a tribute to Stephanie’s father, Cheeky. I wasn’t sure of his actual first name, but his last name was Jonesy.

My day was pretty much open as far as guitar lessons went. I had a few calls to return which were going to be conversations about songs that weren’t quite good enough for what they’re looking for. All that blah, blah professional talk bullshit.

The coffeehouse was bustling with people. A mix of casual people looking to grab a coffee and bite to eat and chill while there was a line of people dressed for work, ordering something to go. I just slipped through the crowd with a quick wave to Beth that made her blush. I went to the back room and Stephanie was there, hustling around in a sweaty mess, trying to get something off the top shelf.

I dropped my bag and guitar case and reached up, easily able to get what she wanted.

“Thanks,” she said, blowing hair out of her face.

“Busy?” I asked.

“You can’t imagine. No idea why.”

“That’s good though.”

“Hey, want to earn free drinks for a week?”

“Oh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I need help out there.”

“I’m not running a register, Stephanie.”

“How about just bring stuff out? Do what I say for about an hour? Beth is getting slammed and she moves so slowly.” Stephanie rolled her eyes at so slowly.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m not wearing an apron or anything.”

“Put a hat on at least,” Stephanie said.

“Backwards.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it and for the first time in a long time, I had a real job.

I stacked up some boxes and carried them to the front of the building. I ripped them open and started to stock some empty shelves, and then I set my sights on the coffee machines that were getting a hell of a workout. I moved fast, tossing dirty filters and replacing them with new ones. I turned and grabbed empty trays of food from the glass case. Stephanie told me where the fresh baked goods were and I got that stocked back up for her.

The line was impressive. The tables were all full.

A really busy morning.

I had nothing else to do and I wasn’t going to touch the damn register.

So I picked up my guitar and walked to the stage. I sat on the edge of the stage and pulled the mic down as far as it could go.

Then I began to serenade the morning rush with some acoustic tunes. Just me and my guitar. My fingers plucking the strings, telling the story of the song through the notes. No words needed.

I only played for twenty minutes or so, but it was enough that when I finished, I won myself a little bit of a round of applause. Which I didn’t expect.

“That’s Foster,” Stephanie called out. “If you haven’t seen him really sing and play, come back! He has a gig Thursday night! Starts at seven!”

I walked to the counter and eyed Stephanie. “I have a gig Thursday?”

“You do now,” Stephanie said.

I took my guitar and went to the back room. I grabbed my stuff and finally went down the basement steps to the long and creepy hallway. The musty old carpet smell would forever be tattooed in my mind - just like the sweet and perfect clean smell of Rose’s skin…

I opened the door to my office and sat down. I took my laptop out of my bag and started going through emails and other garbage. The business side of music was shit sometimes, but that was life. I had been working with a producer named Carl. He was an old school kind of guy with a wild looking beard, big black glasses, and he recently traded his ponytail for a shorter, messier hairstyle. I told him if he was trying to reinvent himself, his face gave away his age. He called me a prick and said to send him some new music.

Half joking, I decided to email him right then and explain that I’d just played a coffeehouse, elevator music set and it went well. I could become famous by not singing. How about that?

I put on some music and turned in my chair to face three guitars that were there for repairs. Two guitars just needed tune ups. Restring them, balance the action of the strings, make them shine like they were brand new. The other was having issues with one of the pickups, which meant I would have to take it apart and check the wiring.

I got the first guitar unstrung and there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I yelled out.

The door opened and Stephanie slipped into the room. She shut the door. She fought with sweaty strands of hair and let out a long breath. She looked around the room. Sometimes I swore that she thought I was down there doing drugs or setting up a drug lab. Nope. It was just a massive open room that stunk like age, had ugly, scuffed up tiles, and still had a bunch of religious pictures on the walls that I didn’t bother taking down. I had messed with the devil’s side of life for so long, I figured I could use some points for whatever was upstairs, you know?

“You okay?” I asked Stephanie.

“Just wanted to say thanks. For helping.”

“Sure.”

“That guitar thing you did… that was good. We should do that more.”

“Morning sets?”

“Yeah. People were hooked on you.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“I’ll pay you.”

“You don’t need to pay me for anything, Stephanie.”

“You could put your dirty hat out for tips,” she said with a smile.

“We’ll talk about it some other time.”

“Okay. Hey, that kid you teach guitar. Everett?”

“It’s Rhett now.”

“Oh. Sure. Rhett.”

“What about him?”

“He stopped by just now.”

I stood up. “What?”

“He told me to give you this,” Stephanie said.

She handed me an envelope. I opened it. It was a piece of a paper with a few ten dollars bills inside. The money was as messy as the handwriting.

I read the letter. “Fuck.”

“What?”

I looked at Stephanie. “Nothing.”

Rhett wrote to tell me he was getting out of town for a few days. And the cash was for helping with Carrie. That she kept my hoodie but gave it to Rhett. And that he was keeping it.

“What a mess,” I whispered.

“What is? Is that kid okay?”

“No,” I said. I slapped my hand to the paper. “He’s too much like me.”

My mind thought about Frank. Was I supposed to be Frank to this kid? Do what Frank did for me?

“Well, if you think you should call someone about it,” Stephanie said.

“I’ll figure it out.”

I thought about what to do. I had no idea where Rhett lived. I knew nothing about him except that he wanted to play guitar - and that he was in love with a girl named Carrie. I tossed the letter and the cash to the table. One good thing about the way I grew up was that I made friends with a lot of cops and a lot of social workers.

“Thanks for giving that to me,” I said to Stephanie. “I’m going to reach out to some people I know.”

“Think about what I said.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said and waved her off.

Stephanie left the room. I grabbed my phone and found a woman named Betty. I had met her first when I was seventeen. I gave her a run for her money, but she never gave up on me. So I shot off an email to her with everything I knew about Rhett and asked her to keep it quiet if he wasn’t exactly in trouble. Last thing I wanted was to break trust with Rhett and have him go crazy.

With my morning all but shot, I called Rose. I hadn’t heard from her yet and whether she liked it or not, I wanted to know what was going on with Frank.

“Hey,” she said, answering the call.

I shut my eyes and felt all the bullshit of the morning wash off me.

“How’s Frank?”

“Good,” Rose said. “I mean, as good as he could be. He’s awake. He’s feeling okay.”

“Really? That’s the best thing I’ve heard all morning. Hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“No. Of course not. Sorry I didn’t get in touch last night. It was hard to leave the hospital…”

“Don’t apologize for anything, Rose,” I said. “Do you mind if I swing by there and see him?”

“My dad?”

“Yeah. I know it’s been a while but…” I rubbed my chin. “If something happened to him and I never got to say…”

“Okay,” Rose said. “I know. I get it. I didn’t expect you to call. Or…”

Or what, Rose? Say it. Say that you expected me to be in another city. Playing a gig. Writing a song. Ignoring reality. Go ahead, you can say it.

“I did call, Rose,” I said. “I want to see Frank. I want to see you. I want to make sure you’re okay. Which I know you’re not. But I want to know what I can do to help make it okay. Same for Vivian. Need me to get her some clothes or makeup?”

Rose laughed.

Hey, Rose it’s good to hear you laugh again, even through a phone. You don’t need to know where I am right now. Hell can sometimes be cold.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “You know us too well, Foster.”

“I’ve been around a while. Seriously though. What can I bring? Coffee? Food?”

“You want to bring me some of the coffee I sell?” she asked.

“Tastes better than what’s at the hospital.”

“I agree,” Rose said.

“You have to agree,” I said. “It’s your job.”

“Shut up, Foster.”

Hey, Rose I love the sound of your voice. The way you can talk and make time forget about me. But I’ll never forget about you.

“I’m on my way,” I said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. “Foster… thanks.”

“No need,” I whispered. “See you soon, Slug.”

“Jerk.”

The call went dead.

I leaned forward and put my elbows on my knees. I hung my head.

It was dangerous. She needed me. Which meant she was vulnerable. At the same time, I needed her. Sitting in the basement of a church converted into a coffeehouse was wearing me thin. Playing random gigs for beer and crumpled up ones was taking its toll. So was trying to get Carl to help me sell a damn song so I could pay the rent next month.

I ran a hand through my hair and stood up.

At least I knew I wasn’t going to let Rose down.

Yet.