The Book of Strings

4

We'd left Phoenix six hours earlier. California was a sight to behold. Los Angeles, in itself, proved to hold more intense beauty than the entirety of Arizona. The city was a blur. Nature clashed with concrete and glass to create an ultimately peaceful coexistence.

The Volkswagen rolled up to the walls of suburb surrounding the city. The radio was off. October sat sullenly in the back seat, feet on the headrest in front of her. Her toenails were painted a Hollywood red color. I discreetly watched as she removed her hoodie, and something stirred hungrily inside me. I shook my eyes away from the newly exposed skin of her shoulders and collarbones. She removed a small notebook from her backpack and began to thumb through it. Her pixie-like fingers crossed the pages, caressing the paper in an almost graceful manner. A section of twine slipped out from between the pages, somehow or other still adhered to the faded paper.

Of course, string, I thought. Only October.

I noticed after a moment that the twine wasn't alone. There were dozens, one per page, some cut, some not, all taped at either end. I couldn't make out the words etched below them. I leaned closer, attempting to catch a glimpse of whatever she had written. Whatever it was promised to be interesting. I could almost smell her.

"Oliver!"

I snapped out of my trance and cleared my throat. Kip cast a suspecting look in the rear view. Don't do anything stupid.

"Where's the nearest gas station?"

I pulled up directions on my phone and passed it up to Lia. The sound of a notification followed. Lia paused. Kip glanced over at her, a look of concern crossing his eyes.

"What?"

Lia handed the phone back to me.

"You got a text."

My stomach dropped.

The light from the screen was shrouded by the California sun.

Oliver,

Call me now.

Byron.

Byron never texted me unless it was an absolute emergency.

"Take a left."

——

"What's going on, Byron?"

The screen felt cool against my ear. I leaned against the side of the Volkswagen. The sound of the news reporter over the gas station television was barely audible over the hum of the pumps. Kip stood opposite me, watching my face for any signs of trouble. He fit in perfectly with the Californian setting; with his devil-may-care blonde hair and tanned skin, he looked as if he could be a diver or a surfer.

"Where are you?"

Byron's voice was lowered over the speaker.

"I'm... I'm in Los Angeles."

"Why?"

Kip dragged his finger across his throat. Don't say anything.

"Job opportunity."

Kip nodded his approval.

"In the middle of the night?"

"It was spontaneous."

That much was true.

The other line was silent.

"Look," his voice was even lower. "We both know that's bullshit."