𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, cobain

one.

JULY 1993, SEATTLE

          THE SOFT PITTER-patter of rain against the car window formed a calming melody, a lullaby that soothed my frayed nerves. I stared through the misted glass, impatience thrumming in my veins. There wasn't much in life I truly hated. If anything, I usually calmed myself by making mental lists, weighing pros and cons to dissect a situation rationally. Unfortunately, there was no pen and paper in Ash's car—I'd already rummaged through the messy piles of junk in the backseat, hoping to find some. At that moment, though, I decided: sitting in my brother's car at midnight for an hour and a half while he loitered inside his ex-girlfriend's house was the very first thing I genuinely despised.

I flipped down the sun visor, light from the mirror cutting through the dark and sharpening my reflection. Wiping away smudged lipstick, I glanced out the window, straining for a glimpse of Ash or the sound of his footsteps. I'd been repeating this for an hour and a half, as if habit could summon him. Sighing, I propped my feet on the dashboard and chewed a hangnail, waiting.

Raindrops distorted the world outside, but I was sure I saw the faint silhouette of someone moving beneath the glow of the streetlamps circling the cul-de-sac. The driver's door flung open, letting a rush of rain-laced air into the car. Ash slammed it shut, water clinging to his messy chocolate-brown hair, droplets sliding down his face in shimmering trails. His dark eyes shot me an irritated glare.

"Get your fucking feet off the dash, Erin."

He'd always been ridiculously protective of his car. I figured if I'd lucked into a Range Rover from our parents, I wouldn't want my little sister leaving dusty footprints all over the pristine interior, either. But that didn't stop me from pushing back.

"Oh," I said sarcastically, "forgive me for getting comfortable, but you took forever in there. I thought you were just grabbing your things from Anna's place."

Ash turned the key in the ignition, a smirk creeping across his lips. "That, among other things."I frowned, realizing his polo shirt hadn't been unbuttoned when we first arrived. My mouth fell open in disgust, but I wisely chose not to press the matter further—my brother's sex life was one topic I never wanted to touch.

"Anyway," he muttered, "sorry, sis. Didn't mean to keep you waiting. Just lost track of time."

"Yeah, sure," I shot back.

Even in the dark, I could feel him rolling his eyes. It was typical of Ash to be so blasé. I slumped in my seat, tuning into the soft hum of the engine as we sped down the rain-slicked road. I stared ahead blankly, watching trees blur past in dark streaks of green.

Ash swerved slightly to avoid a pothole overflowing with rainwater.

"I hate Seattle," I grumbled under my breath. "It's always so cold and rainy."

We were still new here, only a few months in. Washington's gray, storm-laden skies were a jarring contrast to California's sunny warmth.

"Beats one-hundred-degree summers," Ash replied easily. "Remember how brutal it got back home?"

A wistful smile tugged at my lips—my first of the night. "It wasn't so bad. I miss being tan. I miss the beach. People here are as bitter as their coffee."

"So you should fit in perfectly," he teased.

"Maybe I'd like it more if I had friends here."

"You know," he said pointedly, "you could try being a little less bitchy. Might help you find someone to hang out with."

I sucked in a sharp breath, biting back the retort burning on my tongue. It wasn't just pettiness; I was still adjusting. Being uprooted after the divorce and moving in with a father I'd never been close to was a lot to absorb. Ash, on the other hand, had slipped easily into Seattle life, already dating girls like Anna and building a friend group. I felt like I was still catching up, mourning the loss of our old life, like a little kid clinging to the past.

The car slowed as we neared home—one of the few upsides of the move. Tucked into a quiet corner of Seattle, Matthews Beach offered peace, with houses lining the shore of Lake Washington. Unlike our cramped San Francisco townhouse, this place felt open, surrounded by gardens and nature. From the living room, I could watch sailboats drift across the shifting hues of the lake. A bonus: it was a short drive to the University of Washington, where I'd start in the fall.

I stepped out onto the wet concrete, slamming the door shut behind me. As I tilted my head, my eyes landed on the lamp post at the corner, where I'd taped up a hopeful flyer offering my babysitting services. It was now a rain-soaked relic, clinging to the pole flimsily with the melted ink making all the letters bleed into each other.

"Shit," I muttered.

Ash followed my gaze and laughed. "Maybe it's a sign," he said. "You'd probably make better money flipping burgers at McDonald's."

"Now that we live here, you can't talk about rich people like they're part of a different tax bracket," I grumbled, nudging at a puddle with the toe of my sneaker. "We're one of them now. And they'd pay well."

"They'd treat you like the help," Ash shrugged. "And people with money call it a nanny, not a babysitter."

At the front door, Ash fumbled with his keys, missing the lock a few times in the dim light. I snickered, but he shot me a warning glance, pressing a finger to his lips.

Inside, we tiptoed past our father, asleep on the couch, his jaw slack and glasses slipping down his nose. The TV flickered in the corner, casting moving shadows over him.

"Go turn it off," I whispered.

"You do it."

"You're quieter." 

Ash gave me a look and headed upstairs. "Night, sis."

I sighed, now alone in the darkened room. I crept over, careful not to disturb the cluttered coffee table with its scattered newspapers and empty beer cans—my father's way of coping with the divorce. After switching off the TV, I slipped upstairs to my room.

In the mirror, I stared at my own tired reflection, noting the puffiness under my eyes. Only then did I feel the weight of my exhaustion. So far, my summer had been little more than moping—an irritated, restless mess of a woman, stuck in her own head.

The soggy babysitting ad was probably a lost cause. But I remembered a snippet from one of the newspaper clippings I'd seen downstairs—a job posting at a local coffee shop. I padded back down to retrieve it, then retreated upstairs again.

Gnawing at the skin around my nails, I shifted my weight from foot to foot as I read the words carefully: Barista wanted. Opening shift only. Flexible hours, friendly atmosphere, competitive pay. See us at Brew Bistro for more information.

I decided then and there I'd take Ash's car downtown and hand in my résumé. Enough moping. It was time to fill my summer with something new: distraction, and maybe a steady paycheck.