𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, cobain

three.

          MY FOOTSTEPS CREAKED with every prodding step I took, the horrific visage in the paintings on the wall following me as I steered my way through the house. I drew the fabric of my sleeves over my hands, my fingers prying out and creeping toward the artwork, all signed, Kurt.

"Here's our kitchen," Courtney chirped, motioning toward the messy, marble tile countertops. I smoothed out my skirt, gulping hard against the tight collar of my sweater. I looked out at the spacious living room, cluttered with cardboard storage boxes and clothes. In a cushioned chair, a man curled up like a kitten, flicking through a magazine by the lit fireplace. His cheeks were sunken in, and his face appeared to me as if his skin was stretched too tight around his skull. He had fierce eyes that gnawed at me hungrily through stringy strands of long blond hair, making me stir with discomfort. Courtney followed my gaze to him and scoffed.

"Well, Eric, aren't you gonna say hi?"

His lips a tight, white knot, he sheepishly raised a hand to me in greeting. I waved back apathetically.

"That's Eric," Courtney said to me. "He's the guitar player in my band."

"You're in a band?" I asked.

She gawked at me, incredulous. "Well, duh. You've never heard of us?" She trailed her hands down her dress, now sour-faced. I let her question linger in the air, unsure of how to proceed. Her expression morphed into amusement as she peered behind me at Eric, who began to snicker. My cheeks flushed bright pink with embarrassment. Was I supposed to know who this woman was?

"And here I thought I was gonna have her sign an NDA," she giggled.

I was completely dumbstruck. "What?"

"Listen," spoke Courtney, "if you knew anything about me or my husband, you'd know we've been completely ripped apart by the press for the last year. So, if you're gonna be working for us, you'd need to understand that things that happen in this house stay in this house, and if I have to make you sign fucking papers then I will."

I was on the brink of spinning on my heels and heading out the front door, but I found myself captivated by Courtney. I could see her intensity twinkling in her bright eyes, a flickering light that I could not peel my interest from. As I stayed quiet, surveying her, she clasped her hands together. "Let's continue the tour."

She led me down a hallway littered with wrapping paper and miscellaneous junk that I had to step around to avoid tripping over. Upon seeing the disarrayed state of her house, I remarked, "Did you guys just move in?"

"Yeah, kinda," she mumbled, chewing on her fingernail. "We're just lazy is all. Actually, we keep all our shit packed so we can move out quicker if anyone finds our address again," she quipped, chuckling. I parrotted her laugh, although I wasn't sure what was so humorous.

She stopped in front of a door that sat ajar. "This is my daughter's room. She's asleep right now." I peeked inside the room cautiously, my eyes widening in surprise. The walls were painted soft, pastel hues, featuring wallpapered stills of birds soaring over a vast landscape. A warm and gentle light hung over a wooden crib in the center of the room, where a sleeping infant quietly dozed. I expected a child of older age, not a delicate, fragile baby that required throngs of responsibility.

"That's Frances," Courtney said proudly. I opened my mouth to explain that I didn't know anything about infant care, and that her and her husband would've been better suited to find someone who specialized in children that young, but she spoke before I could. "She's real cute. Real easy baby, too. She doesn't cry too much."

"Look, Courtney, I'm not really sure if—"

"What, she scared you off already?" she questioned rather sadly. "We've chased a few nannies out, but that was after a few weeks, at least. Never had one bolt this fast."