Jenson

 

She picks up on the third ring, her familiar voice like dropping into a vat of warm honey.

“Hey, baby.”

Her relief, such a simple thing, brings an automatic smile to my face. “Hey, Ma. How’ve you been?”

“Good, good, no complaints. Just on my lunch break at the diner. Slow today.”

“Yeah? How’s your car doing, you get it fixed?”

“It’s still at the shop. They tell me every few days it’ll take a few more days. Same thing over and over again. You know how that goes.”

I scratch my head with my thumb, take a long drag of another cigarette. One of my first big purchases was an SUV for my mom, and some asshole ran a stoplight and T-boned her. “I’ll call Pete and see what the deal is. He told me he’d take care of it.”

I hear her chuckle in the background, the same one she always used when I’d do something silly as a kid. “Don’t worry about me, I’m just fine. What about you? Tell me what’s going on in your neck of the woods.”

It’s a question I know to expect yet am never prepared for. “Same ol’, same ol’.” She won’t be satisfied with that answer, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“Mhmm. Carter keeping an eye on you?”

“Yeah. You know how he is.”

“Well, he did promise me he would, last time I saw you two. You think any more about getting your own place?”

I swallow hard, flick the ash off the end of my cig. “Nah. I’m in no hurry.” I play it casual, but the truth is, I fear what’ll happen if I’m alone. I basically do what I want here, but at least I have an added layer of accountability with Carter living right above me.

“Well, don’t rush it. Stay as long as he’ll have you.” I hear the layer of concern in her voice, but she won’t prod me—she knows it won’t help. Somehow, she’s learned to tread the line between uncaring and overbearing. I’m ashamed she ever had to learn. “I hope you’re helping him out some around the house.”

“Thanks, mom.” My sigh ends in a short laugh. Always mothering. Always.

“Any news with the band? Shows booked?”

“No.” I hold the phone away from my face and take a long pull of liquor. I’ll have to face the music one of these days, literally. The longer I wait, the more rabid my fans get. At first, it was more of a supply-and-demand thing, my canceled shows immediately putting me on the radars of thousands of fans. Now it’s just getting old. People are getting angry, claiming my “issues” are all a publicity stunt. Like I’d purposely set my own goddamn house on fire and risk killing myself all in the name of staying relevant.

“You listen to me, Jens. You take all the time you need, all right? You come first. Not money, not albums, not taking care of your old mother. You.”

“I will, Ma. I just need some inspiration and I’ll be back in the saddle.”

“You know how you get inspiration, right?” she asks, pausing for effect. “By living. You won’t be inspired by the four walls of a house, or even inside a studio. Experience life, and love, and food. Try all the food.”

For someone who’s worked at a diner for almost thirty years, she’s pretty damn wise. “I know. I’ll do that.”

“Do it for me, I don’t need all the calories.” She laughs. “It’s all I want for you. Then plan your epic comeback.”

This time, my laugh rolls through my belly, surprising even me with its vigor. Ever since she caught on to the word epic, she hasn’t stopped using it. “I will. I promise.”

 

 

Lindsey

 

“I just got in here!” Isaac. The answer is as disappointing as I assumed it would be.

“Yeah fucking right!” I pound the door again for good measure, but he’s drowning me out with his shower radio. He takes longer than anyone I know to bathe. “Just please hurry,” I groan back.

I dart to the tiny shoebox bedroom I share with one other person, Anika, to grab a change of clothes—a barely-clean set of Rhythm and Beans’ finest. I didn’t remember to take off Jenson’s shirt when I covertly called an Uber to pick me up. All I was focused on, more so than the cost of a ride, was avoiding more unnerving questions and an awkward good bye.

Adding to my haste, Jenson’s situation is sadder than I expected. I stumbled across him purely on accident while I was hiding out at Tripp’s, but the surprise I felt upon seeing such a notable face just two stools to my left was erased by the sight of the glass in front of him. This is my world, the industry I’m trying to break into, so while I’m not one of his adoring fangirls, it’d be hard for me to ignore the buzz surrounding Jenson King. He did go to rehab for “undisclosed health reasons,” but I assume alcohol isn’t on the list of recommended treatments for any of the main offenses—drugs, depression, alcoholism, affinity for prostitutes. While I think my bubbly, somewhat cynical, demeanor is something he could use a lot more of, I’m not sure that’s even enough. I feel shitty just admitting he’s hopeless to myself.

I sniff myself and cringe. Beneath the faint laundry scent of Jenson’s shirt, I still smell like stale coffee and paninis from my shift last night. And I have to go right back in today. Someone called in, and I wasn’t about to turn down the extra hours. Plus, I see it as an advantage when I don’t have to spend more time than necessary in this apartment.

I grab a bag of salt-and-pepper popcorn from the pantry—what’s left of my latest grocery run—and resume my post at the door. If I’m not here, someone will swoop in and take my place in line. All around me are the subdued sounds that have become my normal since I followed a Craigslist ad to this very address a few months ago. Someone is snoring like a chainsaw in the bedroom beside mine and Anika’s—Sebastian, I would assume. He’s a guitar technician and sleeps the day away when he’s not traveling to shows with the band he works with. Isaac bunks with him.

Adjacent to the bathroom are Yan and Will. I never see either of them unless it’s in passing. I assume they work somewhere for the nocturnal, probably a strip club. Anika and I are the only girls brave enough, or stupid enough, to pay money to live with these slobs. I almost don’t mind it. I’m an only child, and the second I stepped foot in the apartment in the middle of an airsoft war, I was hooked. I love the chaos. I don’t love the suspicious stains that accumulate in the common areas, but I’ve learned to step around them and only sit on surfaces I launder myself. My mom has the address for the odd birthday card, but I warned her never to show up uninvited. I don’t think I have much to worry about. My parents are divorced and busy, my mom dealing with her own setbacks, and there’s the fact I haven’t seen my father in five years. That’s an issue for another time.

Melancholy sets in when I think of my mom. I need to call her. She doesn’t want to infringe on my life, and learning to balance a successful business on top of her health issues has been an uphill battle. An incurable disease has stolen my mother and replaced her with someone with less hope, less confidence.

The scrape of the shower curtain rings brings my thoughts back to my mission, and steam pours out the door when Isaac emerges wrapped in a towel. He nearly walks right past me until I toss another handful of popcorn into my mouth. “What are you doing on the floor?”

I swallow loudly. “Was your spa session long enough?”

“It was sufficient. Though, on second thought, I could’ve used more exfoliator. Be a doll and get some next time you go to the store, okay?” He pauses mid-step and jabs a hand into my popcorn bag, shoving a handful into his mouth.

“You’re lucky you’re so precious or you would be short a hand right now.” I resent him for my dwindling food stores, and also for using all my good personal products. But Isaac isn’t so bad. He attends night school to become a chef, meaning I occasionally get to sample his concoctions, and likes boys as much as I do. He and Sebastian work as roommates because he hates Sebastian as much as I do, too.

Isaac licks his fingers and gives me a wink, and I get a glimpse of the lump I assume is Sebastian—mouth open, snores loud enough to wake the dead—as he strides into his bedroom. Isaac is a saint for dealing with him.

I shower quickly to save time, then tie up my wet hair and hunch over my computer to edit my shots from yesterday. I photographed a band called The Gory Days, and most of the session turned out awesome. I captured the drummer in the throes of his solo, sweat beaded and long hair flying. Passion is written all over the lead singer’s face, held in his knitted brows and down-turned mouth. The band isn’t well-known, but if I saw these photos and had no idea who they were, I’d want to listen to them just to experience those feelings.

I’m in the middle of messing with the contrast on one when my phone vibrates from beside me. I don’t have to check to see who it is. It’s as reliable as a TV program, or a train schedule. Like clockwork, he contacts me. I’m in the middle of flipping off my phone when Anika walks in wearing her polo and khaki shorts, looking perfectly preppy and not at all her usual self.

“What’s with the bird?” she asks, dumping her beat-up Patagonia backpack on the floor.

“Just someone I don’t want to talk to. How was the golf course?”

Anika frees her thick, dark hair from the clip it was in and shakes it out, not bothering to hide her look of disdain. She works to fund her evening graphic design course, supporting herself since the day she was kicked out of her childhood home for rebelling against her parents’ choice of prospective husbands. Not all families are like that, she’d once explained to me, but hers is one steeped in tradition and believed she was turning her back on their culture. I admire the fearlessness that comes so naturally to her yet that I have to work at.

“Same old men drinking the same old beers. ‘Pretty little thang, gimme a Budweiser, wouldya?’ ” I laugh at her imitation of Southern twang.

“Good tippers?”

“Decent.” Anika grabs a towel from under her bed and stops in the door frame on the way to the shower. “Do you know what time it is?”

I glance at the tiny digital numbers on my laptop screen and squeal, leaping up, grabbing my bag, and shoving my feet halfway into my Chucks. If I jog the whole mile and a half, I won’t be late. I’ll just be a hot mess for the rest of the night.

Anika smirks and tosses me a stick of deodorant on my way out. How I found genuine friendship in such an unconventional living situation, I’ll never know.

“Have a good night. And pull your tank top down a little. Don’t you want to make any money?” Her calls trail after me as I jog out into the hallway and skid down the stairs.