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. 

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

"What?" I asked.

"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 verge of spinning on my heels and slipping out the front door, but something about Courtney held me in place. There was an intensity in her bright eyes, a flicker of energy I couldn't look away from. As I stood silently, watching her, she clasped her hands together.

"Let's keep going with the tour," she said.

She led me down a cluttered hallway, where crumpled wrapping paper and random junk littered the floor, forcing me to step carefully to avoid tripping. Taking in the chaotic state of the house, I asked, "Did you guys just move in?"

"Kinda," she mumbled, chewing on a fingernail. "We're just lazy, honestly. Actually, we keep all our shit packed so we can move out faster if anyone finds our address again," she added with a laugh. I parroted her chuckle, though I wasn't sure what was so funny.

We stopped at a door left slightly ajar. "This is my daughter's room. She's asleep."

Peeking in cautiously, my eyes widened. The walls were painted in soft pastels, adorned with wallpaper of birds gliding across open skies. A warm light hung above a wooden crib at the center of the room, where a tiny infant lay quietly dozing. I'd expected an older child — not a fragile baby requiring constant, careful attention.

"That's Frances," Courtney said with a note of pride.

I opened my mouth to admit I had no experience with infants—that she and her husband should probably hire someone trained in baby care—but she cut me off before I could get a word out.

"She's a sweet baby. Really easy, hardly ever cries."

"Courtney, I'm not sure if—"

"What, she's already scared you off?" Courtney asked with a tinge of sadness. "We've driven off a few nannies before, but at least they lasted a few weeks. Never had one bolt this fast."