I miss my car.
Not necessarily the car—it's a huge piece of shit—but the freedom it brings.
It's been three days without it. The money isn't piling up nearly as quick as I had hoped it would, despite working three jobs, and it's starting to seem like I may have to rely on Halston for the foreseeable future. As much as I hate it. At least, I'm trying to convince myself I do.
Halston somehow fell off the face of the earth after he dropped me off on campus yesterday morning, and I haven't seen, or heard from, him since. Not that I expect him to be at my beck and call, or devote all of his time and attention to me, but it seems odd after he spent the better part of the last week going out of his way for me.
I took the bus from campus to Biggins Tavern yesterday afternoon for my long, Friday-night shift. I hate that place, and the people in it, but I make the most in tips there by far, so it wouldn't be smart to let it go, not now anyway. As the end of my shift crept closer, and with no word from him, Halston's words haunted me—"it's dangerous to be alone after dark"—and when two a.m. came around I decided to splurge for an Uber ride home instead of taking the bus again.
His truck was in the lot when I got home. I slept until mid afternoon, catching up on all I had missed out on during the week, and when I headed out for a jog after I awoke, his truck was still in the exact same place, as if he had been home all along.
I've been trying to convince myself that I'm not bothered by his sudden lack of presence. I barely know the guy. He knows more about me than I know about him, and that's kind of unnerving. But there's just something about him, something I can't quite shake, and though I tell myself otherwise I really do miss him.
I almost forgot what it's like to miss someone.
Saturday evening rolls around quickly. Being holed up in my room all day has proven to be quite boring. I cleaned, finished a paper, showered, curled my hair and did my makeup just for the hell of it—not something I usually do for no reason, that's how bored I've been- and now I just sit, staring at my copy of The Catcher in the Rye for the thousandth time, running my fingers over the worn pages and the highlighted passages I know by heart.
My phone rings, an unknown number, and I decide to answer it, against my better judgment.
"Hi, is this Ms. Ryan?" A mans voice asks.
"It is." My reply is short.
"My name is Joel, I'm calling from The Anchor over on Main Street." I immediately spring out of my bed, my eyes bulging wide. I'm trying not to get excited prematurely, but what other reason would they call? "We had someone drop out for our open mic night tonight and you were on the list as a possible replacement. Any chance you're free to come perform?"
"Yes, absolutely!" I reply without hesitation.
"Wonderful. Your performance will be at eight. One song. What equipment do you need?" He asks.
"It'll be acoustic. Just an amp, a stool, and a mic stand." My body is doing that fluttering thing again, but for a completely different reason.
"Okay, we'll get it done. If you could be here about half an hour early that would be ideal. Check in with the bouncer at the door and he'll point you to where you need to go."
That's only forty-five minutes from now. I'll have to bust my ass. But nothing is going to get in the way of this.
"I'll be there. Thank you, sir. I appreciate it!" I'm giddy. So giddy. I've never felt giddy before. Not like this. Not even with cheer.
I shuck off my lounge clothes and pull on a pair of jeans and a plain black tee, step into a pair of boots, and look myself over in the mirror. I'm smiling, really smiling, and it feels so foreign. But this is my chance at everything I've ever wanted.
I hurry around, gather up my guitar case and my bag. I grab my keys and head for the door and stop dead in my tracks.
"Fuck!" I shout, tossing the keys across the room. In all my excitement I somehow managed to forget that I don't have a way to get to the bar. I pinch the bridge of my nose, working to settle my anger and figure out an alternative plan.
The bus wouldn't get me there on time. I could Uber, but that would cut in to my grocery money, which is already tight.
Who knows what happened to Halston. It's Saturday night, after all, and he's likely got plans.
But I have to try.
I retrieve my keys from the floor, grab my guitar case in my other hand, and trudge across the hall to 4B. I lift my fist to knock, but the door swings open before I even make contact.
The person I'm met with is not Halston, but rather a girl with long blonde hair and thick black glasses. She leaves the door open and squeezes by me, her fake smile being replaced by a sneer.
"Call me later, Hals," she says, and I watch her prance to the end of the hall before she disappears. I turn back to the open door in time to see Halston approaching, slipping a t-shirt over his bare torso, his hair a rumpled mess, the button on his jeans undone, the zipper down.
My eyes rake over his inked skin down to the trail of hair that disappears into his pants before the fabric of the shirt hides it all again, and I'm suddenly overcome by something that feels a lot like jealousy.
I have no reason to be jealous. I, too, have had a few random hookups over my time here. I don't know why I'm assuming she was just random or just a hookup. She could be his girlfriend, after all. I know nothing about him. Though it kind of seems unlikely he would be carting me all over town if she was.
"Ryah." My name falling from Halston's lips pulls me out of my haze and I peel my eyes off the worn carpet below me and meet his gaze. His hand is rubbing the back of his neck again, and I can swear there's a hint of embarrassment in his heavy eyes.
"I, uh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." My voice comes out shaky and weak, completely unlike me, but I can't for the life of me get it together.
"You didn't," he begins, his voice lower and smoother than usual. "It uh, she-" he stops, clearing his throat into his fist rather than finishing his statement. He holds eye contact for a while longer, but something causes him to look down, to where my guitar case is resting against my leg. "Uh, what's up?" He points at it and I look down too. I had almost forgot what I actually came over here for.
"Well, I uh, this is probably a long shot. I'm sure you have plans and stuff. But I got a call that a spot came available for the open mic night at The Anchor tonight. They want me there by seven-thirty. Any chance I could snag a ride? I can pay for gas."
He runs a hand through his hair, looking back up at me, and gives me a sad smile.
"Of course," he finally says. "Let me get my shoes and we'll head out."
