At 7:49 in the morning I walk into Pine Manor Assisted Living for the 1,487th time. Sunday mornings are always the easiest because, unlike all the other days, there are smiling people everywhere. They sit in their wheelchairs or on the leather wingchairs in the lobby, waiting with a gentle smile. Sunday mornings hold so much promise. Promise that someone will visit them and make them feel important again. Make them feel loved. They’re hungry for their families, for stories of the outside world, for the sweet grip of a real and much-needed hug. And for most of them, Sundays are the only days it comes. If it comes at all.

You can tell the ones who don’t have any family left or family that lives far away. They seldom wear a smile. Not even on Sunday mornings. They know they’re going to have to sit here all day with nothing to do but watch. They’ll see all the visitors come and go, and it will make them feel like they’re a little less important than the ones that “get company.” But I know better. I know they’re all important to this world. They all matter. They all mean something. Even if it’s just to me.

I head through the lobby, past all the wrinkled faces, and give a bright hello to each and every one of them. I pat Mr. Rauch on the knee and ask him how his shoulder is feeling. I fix Mr. Toftree’s misbuttoned shirt. I straighten Mr. Ledbetter’s tie and remove Francis Boyer’s glasses to wipe the lenses clean. I do all this before my shift even starts. Then, I turn right, walk past the reception desk, and head down the hallway.

Ms. Sinclair is sitting there, her wheelchair parked just outside the door of her room. She’s smiling. But with her, it’s not because someone is coming to see her. It’s because she doesn’t know any better.

We have twenty-six residents, but Ms. Evelyn Sinclair is my favorite. Most days, she sits for hours at the picture window in the lobby, watching the birds at the feeder outside. I bought the feeder a few months ago, right after she moved in and told me about how she used to have pet birds when she was young. I buy the seed myself and refill the feeder whenever I’m scheduled to work. Sometimes Ms. Sinclair doesn’t know who I am, but she always knows the names of all the birds. She points out the cardinals and the chickadees, the nuthatches and the mourning doves. I don’t know about the other aides, but I always feign ignorance and pretend I’m hearing the information for the very first time. It makes her happy. And Ms. Sinclair needs that. Because she doesn’t “get company” on a Sunday, or any other day, for that matter. I’ve never seen anyone here to visit her. Not even once.

“Would you like to go out and see the birds this morning, Ms. Sinclair?”

Her eyes brighten at the suggestion, and her hands clasp in front of her chest. “Why, that would be lovely. Yes, dear.”

I release the brakes on her chair and wheel Ms. Sinclair out to the lobby. We pass Sondra on the way. She gives me a knowing little smirk and shakes her head.

Everyone knows that Evelyn Sinclair is my favorite. But Sondra is the only one who knows the reason why.

* * *

As the day passes, I enjoy seeing so many visitors walk in and out of Pine Manor, giving smiles and hugs as they promise to return again next Sunday. After dinner, I wheel several of the residents back to their rooms and turn on their TVs, tuning them to the local news or Wheel of Fortune reruns or ESPN. Just before my shift ends, I peek into Ms. Sinclair’s room one last time. She’s sitting in her recliner, watching a cooking show and unwrapping a peppermint candy with her slender white fingers. When she sees me standing in her doorway, she turns and smiles. It’s beautiful and warm and genuine. I smile back.

“Oh my,” she says, happiness filling her eyes, “you look lovely today. Your mother did such a nice job ironing your school jumper this morning. Do you happen to know when Bradley will be back?”

She’s doing it again, and it tugs at my heart. She’s forgetting I’m not one of her students. And that there’s no Bradley. At least not anymore.

“No, Ms. Sinclair, I don’t. I think he must have stepped out for a bit.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, if you see him, will you let him know I’m waiting?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You go on and leave now. I’ve got things to do.” She waves her hand at me dismissively and goes back to unwrapping her peppermint candy.

* * *

When I step off the bus, Jarrod is sitting on the steps of my apartment building, leaning back on his elbows, a cigarette pinched between the fingers of his right hand. He looks tired.

“Hey.” He straightens his back and sits up when I get to the bottom of the steps.

“Hey, Jar.” I sit down next to him, taking the cigarette out of his hand and sucking a flash of nicotine into my lungs. “So…how was blondie?”

He shrugs. “Half brilliant and half boring.”

Jarrod leans forward and rests his right elbow on his knee, dropping his chin onto the heel of his hand in a posture that screams resignation and monotony. I don’t understand why he keeps hitting repeat, screwing the-same-woman-with-a-different-face every weekend. It never gets him anywhere. It’s like his life is dissatisfaction replicated over and over again, only he can’t figure out why. But he’s not a stupid guy. Someday he’ll see it. Someday he’ll see that happiness doesn’t wear stilettos and leave with a stranger.

“Just like the rest of them, then?” I draw another breath of smoke into my body.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” He shrugs again and takes the cigarette back. I turn my head to look at him, and he immediately switches his line of sight in the opposite direction, looking down the street instead of at me. He’s avoiding eye contact, and that always means the same thing—he’s afraid of showing me too much. He would never admit it, nor would I ever point it out, but it happens a lot. I always pretend not to notice, because it’s easier that way. He doesn’t need to know I can read his emotions like a book, whether he’s looking at me or not.

“So, I guess you didn’t ask for her number then?”

“Nope.” He keeps staring down the street, as if something there is worth watching.

“Maybe you should find yourself a nice, quiet librarian or a kindergarten teacher or something. You know…someone who prefers not to have her ankles bouncing around her ears ten minutes after you meet.”

“Very funny, K’acy. Very funny.” He turns back to me with a snarl on his lips and a playful flicker in his eye. “You really should stick to bass playing and skip the stand-up.”

“Then stop making it so easy for me to get my licks in.”

“Don’t think I won’t kick your ass just ’cause you’re a black girl. I don’t mind making the six o’clock news.”

“You won’t kick my ass, Jar. But it isn’t because I’m a black woman. It’s because you know I’m right. Even though you’re never gonna admit it.”

“Admit what?” he says, lifting his palms in mock confusion. “That you’re a woman?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Never mind. Go with the ankles-to-her-ears women for as long as you want. No skin off my back. It’s probably better for the kindergarten teachers of the world anyway.”

“And the librarians.”

“Especially the librarians.”

He looks away again, down the street. We sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette between us, each stuck in our own thoughts, mine focusing on why he refuses to acknowledge that he deserves more than a never-ending chain of superficial one-night stands. He deserves a perfect life. Just like I do. Just like everyone does. Until it’s proven otherwise. Crackerjack Townhouse may have saved him from wasting away, but now he has to put his balls on and save himself from everything else.

“Stevie called me today,” Jarrod says eventually. “He said we got the gig.” He’s changed the subject enough to look at me again, his light hair vibrating in the wind.

“The one at The Upstage?”

“Yep. He says the promoter’s gonna set us up with an opener. Apparently the guy knows some funk players from Jersey. Says they’re worth hooking up with for a show.”

“We’re headlining though, right?”

“I asked the exact same thing. Stevie says yes. He put in for a demo to make sure they’re a good fit.”

“Do you trust him to make the call?”

“Absolutely.”

Jarrod drops the cigarette on the bottom step and snuffs it out with the ball of his foot. Something in the gesture makes me want to hug him and tell him everything will be all right, assure him that neither one of us will fall off the edge again. I’ve never said the words out loud, but he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Or ever will have. And that includes my big sister, Charlie.

“You wanna go get something to eat?” I ask.

“No, thanks. I gotta go to work. I’m pulling an eight-to-four at the call center. Cross your fingers for a slow night.”

I intertwine the first two fingers of each of my hands and raise them up in front of my face. “Fingers crossed that no one’s cable goes out in the next eight hours.”

Jarrod lifts a pair of closed fists out in front of his chest, and a second later, a double fist-bump echoes between us, vibrating with unspoken understanding and love. Just like my bass strings.

Right after Jarrod rounds the corner onto Barberry Street and I walk inside, my cell phone rings. I don’t know the number, but I do know 985 is a Louisiana area code. My heart rises in my chest.

I slide my finger against the screen and lift the phone to my ear as I close my apartment door behind me.