Chapter 3
___
Nate
I follow Bev down a long, dank hallway with concrete floors and cinderblock walls. There’s an attempt at joy in the colorful posters placed at random. But this is not a place I want to be like a hospital or a Target on Black Friday.
My eyes keep finding their way to the back of her body. The way her ponytail swings like a pendulum, hypnotizing me into not turning around and sprinting out of the place. And she wears her forest green work polo untucked, so it hangs down over her Spandex shorts, nearly covering them. Her tan legs are long and lean and lead down to yellow Converse.
She walks the same way as I remember. A walk I’d know anywhere. It’s something about the way she moves her hips. Unnecessarily. Why does she move them that much? Sway, sway, sway. What’s with all the swaying? Can’t she just stay more stationary? It bothers me. It really bothers me.
I suddenly feel hot and regret wearing the black jeans .
But what else am I going to wear? Shorts?
Nope, absolutely not.
I just have to make it through the day. I remember back to the most stressful part of the tour when we played back-to-back nights, and I had to rest my voice for hours a day, not even able to talk with my buddies, which is how I unwind. I’m a lucky guy, but it was hard. Very hard. So I broke up each day into three parts: morning, afternoon, and night. And I decided I just had to get through each part of the day. Which seems like something I’m going to have to do now.
So just get through the morning, I tell myself as I stare at her annoying ponytail. Her hips, her hair, why all this movement? Why can’t it all just stay still and boring? Maybe all the movement is revving up my prey instinct or something.
“And that’s why we don’t let him foster any of the bunnies, okay?” she turns, glancing over her shoulder, presumably checking to see if I’m listening.
“Don’t foster bunnies to him,” I repeat the last few words.
She spins, turning to face me. Her bourbon-colored eyes flash something fierce.
She knows I wasn’t listening. Maybe I sounded too uncertain about what she’d said. I’ll have to up my game.
“This is important,” she says between clenched teeth.
“Don’t forget Dr. Harley’s words of wisdom: if you grind, you’re in a bind,” I remind her, flashing a kind smile, which I know will annoy her. Dr. Harley was her orthodontist in high school who treated her for bruxism.
“And don’t forget Dr. Patel,” she counters. Dr. Patel treated me for heart palpations. “Steady as spaghetti. ”
Fair point. Although the spaghetti reference never made sense to me.
In fact, at the memory of Dr. Patel, I realize my heart is hammering hard. It sounds so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if it echoed off the cinderblock hallways, a steady beat, Get me out of here, Get me out of here.
“I’m practicing my managerial skills for the promotion,” she says in a smooth voice like she’s somehow emotionally reset. “So would you like to work primarily with cats or dogs?”
“Which is easier?”
Her eyes narrow. “We’ll put you with cats then.”
The way she says it, I realize this is not good. It’s like a trap. I’ve walked into a trap. Don’t cats decimate local bird populations? “Actually, I’ll take dogs.”
“You just asked which was easier. So we’ll give you cats.”
“I’m not sure cats are easier.”
She smiles widely. “I’m sure the cats are going to love you.”
I know she doesn’t mean this as a compliment. She means it like a sacrifice. Like I’m the human sacrifice the shelter has to perform, so the cats don’t take over the world with their crazy eyes and their instinct for knowing when you’re on an important Zoom meeting. Or at least that’s how it seems from the other side as a non-cat owner on a Zoom. I never got the people who laughed, “Haha, your cat is stepping all over your keyboard. He might even knock over your mug!”
Work is serious. It’s about focus. And dedication. Hours spent learning chords, perfecting hand placement, a way to escape the cruel world. Not like the chaos at the Melody Bay Animal Shelter .
I have a lightbulb moment. “What if I were to say I’m allergic?” I ask.
“I’d say take a Claritin.”
And then somewhere from the dank innards of the building, there comes a cry, “Ohh yes!” It sounds strangely sexual. Orgasmic even.
“In fact,” she continues, seemingly unaware of it. “We have a cabinet in the break room that has multiple allergy brands because we’re a…”
I’m trying to listen, but all I can hear is the “ohhh yes” which is occasionally varied with a sharper “oh yes.” Am I going insane? Where am I? Doesn’t she care if two people are fucking in the break room?
“Do you want to go split that up?” I finally ask. “I don’t think it’s a task for an intern.”
She stops talking. “Split up what?”
“The people fucking in the break room.”
There’s a moment as she listens.
A hearty “ohhhh yes” echoes down the hallway. And it’ll probably continue echoing all the way down into the inferno’s various rings of hell below. Because we can’t be that far from tier one. Maybe we are tier one.
She waves her hand as if unperturbed by it. “That’s Pepper.”
“Pepper?” I repeat.
“Our parrot. Pepper’s owner dropped her off here because Pepper mimicked the owner’s ex-girlfriend, and well, the new girlfriend didn’t like the constant reminder. So.” She pulls her phone from her pocket as if this is perfectly normal and that conversation is finished. “Back to what I was saying. Look at this photo.” She gestures at her phone’s screen as if I don’t know where to look. “Do NOT adopt bunnies to him. At all costs. Okay? ”
I glance down at the photo as a particularly loud “ohh yes” reverberates. “Okay,” I say.
She turns and continues her walk. Sway, sway, sway.
I stand for a moment, looking at the cinderblock wall. Where am I? What stupid decisions have I made to lead me here? And how can I reverse those and get the fuck out of here as soon as possible?
___
We stand outside the cat room. There’s a big glass window, presumably where the misguided people who hope to adopt one of these little bundles of dander can look in. Nearly all the cats are doing their own thing: sitting on some kind of carpet structure or in these little hide-away boxes that are spaced every so often. The cats are minding their own business. Sleeping or scratching some carpet pole or drinking some water. But one, perched the highest, stares directly at me with cold, calculating eyes.
It startles me, and I jump.
“That’s Louise,” Bev says, seemingly noticing my reaction.
“What’s she doing?” I’m scared if I take my eyes off her, she’ll suddenly move closer like in a horror movie.
“Plotting your murder.”
I side-glance at Bev. “Seriously.”
“Who knows?” she says. “I think she just wants attention. ”
I couldn’t disagree more. I think she wants to kill you, so she doesn’t have to look at you anymore.
“Come in,” she says and gestures for me to follow her, which I reluctantly do. She opens one door into a small little foyer space. “We have multiple doors leading into the room to minimize the chance of any of the cats escaping,” she explains.
“Right.”
She steps into the room. “Good morning, cutie patooties!” she exclaims happily.
I fight not to roll my eyes.
“So this is your task,” she says, pointing to some kind of door in the corner.
“Okay?”
“You’re to open the door and close it.”
“Why?”
“Do you see the tabby over there?” She gestures to the orange cat closest to the door.
“Yeah.”
“That’s Alberto. He loves it when you open the door, and then he pretends like he wants to go ‘outside,’ but then when you are about to shut the door, he runs back ‘inside.’ But then he immediately wants to go ‘outside’ again, so you open the door again, so he can go back ‘outside.’”
“I thought they couldn’t go outside.”
“The door doesn’t lead anywhere.” She demonstrates by opening the door, which just leads into the corner of the room.
“Okay, then what? That’ll take like thirty seconds.”
“Oh no,” she smiles wickedly. “You do that over and over.”
“So sixty seconds?” I ask .
“Hours.” And the evil gleam in her eye shines bright and forceful.
A shiver twitches down my spine.
Her eyes, when they gleam like that, look like autumn leaves in the sun. As much as I remember about her, I’d forgotten that. Probably intentionally. And I really wish I hadn’t been forced to remember.
___
After ninety seconds of opening and closing the door for Alberto, I nearly go insane. Sure, he seems oddly delighted by this game we play. And, sure, Louise thankfully stays on her perch, plotting my demise from afar. But I just can’t do this.
I pull out my phone and text my manager.
Me : Get me out of here. I’ll never survive six months.
___
I drive up the long driveway to my parent’s house. A house I bought for them five years ago. They’re not home and won’t be while I’m in town. They’re on a luxury cruise around the world; something I also bought them long before I knew I’d be home .
I guess there’s no love lost though, them not being home while I’m home. If there’s one thing I know more than anything, it’s how to be alone. I know how quiet an empty house can be. I know how the sound of your own movements echo off cold marble. How at first you long for others, especially as a kid, but then you grow used to it. You grow used to your own shadow, inner-dialogues, appreciating the nuances of nature around you, and there’s a thankfulness for anything else, however small. A butterfly fluttering past the window; a bird perched on a branch. I’ll take it. And appreciate it. Even if I am a man and it’s not as expected of me as changing the oil in my car or whatever else men are supposed to do.
Thankfully, I have my sister too. Growing up, my parents took her to various dance competitions spanning weekends, or even full weeks, so she wasn’t around as much either, but we still became close. And I have my friends, my chosen family.
Plus, you wouldn’t think—since I spent so much time alone—but I’ve become an excellent reader of people. Microexpressions are my language.
And they’ve helped with fame. I know what people want, and I can tell if I’m veering away from it—a quick eyebrow hop or a pulling in of the lips—so I know when to get back on course.
It’s exhausting. Obviously.
Always reading people, always adjusting.
But life isn’t just me and the cold marble anymore. Now, there’s more, even if I’m not entirely sure what there’s more of. Yes, money. Yes, people. Maybe not close relationships. But there are more people around than I could have ever dreamed of before.
I enter the code for the house’s alarm and push inside .
I’m relieved to be home, even if it’s not exactly home. I’ve barely spent time here, so it feels foreign like a hotel room, even if there are the occasional photos of the family.
It’s a modern space, floor-to-ceiling windows, ocean views, concrete floors, everything sleek and slightly metallic. It’s the type of place where if you drop something, you hear it. You really hear it. The echoes could go on for days. Some might find it lonely. I find it reminiscent. Maybe even peaceful, or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I grab a beer from the fridge and head out to one of the patios, overlooking the ocean.
There’s a glass-calm infinity pool with a few chaise lounge chairs, all cushioned up and comfy. I plop down into one, and its cushions are still warm from the sun. Although that warmth fades with the sunset, it’s still there like a whisper of the heat it’d been before.
I tug off my shirt to better feel what’s left of that warmth and lean back against the chaise.
I inhale the salty breeze, a luxury after the shelter’s stale air all day. I close my eyes and listen to the seagulls, the beer hops fresh on my lips.
Buzz-buzz! At first, I don’t hear it. I’m used to the sound of my own doorbell at home, or the place I stay most often when not on tour. I’m not even sure I’d call that place a home either, but it’s more of a home than here.
I jump out of the chair. I figure it’s Arjun, one of my best-friends on the island. I take my beer with me, sipping it on the long trek to the door, which I finally swing open.
And there, standing on my front stoop is Bev. At first, I’m confused, but then I realize she doesn’t have my number, so this is the only way she could talk with me. She’s still in her work polo, which makes me sigh. Her eyes widen as she takes in my shirtless body, and then her eyes whip back to mine, as if to say, “Didn’t even notice!”
“I thought you were Arjun, so I didn’t bother with a shirt.” I find it weirdly satisfying that she noticed my body. A strange excitement races through me.
“Not Arjun.” Her voice is a full octave higher than usual. And that’s not a figure of speech. I know an octave when I hear one.
“Have you come to beg me to bail Louise out of jail?”
The joke doesn’t even faze her. It’s like she didn’t hear it. She seems very much in her own mind, preoccupied with her own thoughts. “Can you serve your mandatory volunteer service at another shelter?” she asks robotically like she practiced saying it on the drive over five hundred times or something.
I’m a bit stunned. To buy myself time, I take a lazy sip of beer. I can feel her eyes trail downward when she thinks I’m not looking, but oh, I’m looking. “You don’t enjoy my company?” I finally say.
She frowns at me, as if I should know the answer to this, as if things could never change between us.
I hold up my hands defensively. “Look, I don’t want to be there either.”
I swear she recoils like my words stung her too. “The animals at MBAS,” which she then seems to feel the need to explain the acronym, “Melody Bay Animal Shelter are very sweet,” she says defensively. “They’re cutie patooties!”
I could almost laugh. “Alright, fine, but I don’t belong there.”
“ Everyone belongs there,” she says firmly. “It’s a family for misfits.”
“Except you want me to…leave?”
She reaches for my beer in a surprise gesture and takes a sip. I watch her silky neck as she swallows. There’s something strangely alluring about sharing a beer, about her lips just touching what my lips just touched. In fact, I can’t quite believe she did it. She hands it back, distracted again, like she’s lost in those thoughts that seem to be preoccupying her. “You know why,” she says with a shrug.
“Well, the judge ordered it,” I say. “There’s not much I can do.”
“A judge?”
“A judge,” I confirm.
“What did you do?” She looks horrified.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“It does concern me. What if you’re a threat to the animals?”
I sigh. I can’t tell if she means it. “Bev.”
She throws up her hands. “Seriously.”
“What if Louise is a threat to me?”
Her cheeks redden, and I know I’m pushing her to that point, that maximum frustration point, which is so on the edge, I just love it.
“Ugh, seriously, Nate!” she cries.
“I am serious,” I say, very seriously.
“You’re the opposite of serious. You’re a rock star…ugh, even the words are so ridiculous.”
“Uh, okay. Do you know how much work it takes to become a musician?”
She takes a big gulp of oxygen. “Fine, I recognize that,” she says calmly. “But why us? Why did the judge choose us?”
“Hell, if I know. Maybe for maximum punishment.”
Her eyes flare, that delicious bourbon fire. “He wouldn’t know our history. ”
“I don’t know,” I say, waving a bug away. “Karma then.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring off into the landscaping. “My dad’s already sick. What more could karma want?”
There’s a strange tug on my heart. Sadness? No. Pity? More like it. “Want a beer?” I offer.
She looks at me like I offered her an animal carcass. “I’m good,” she says.
I must confess I feel a bit hurt by her rebuff. If I were mature, I’d just tell her. But I’m not. We seem to bring out the worst in each other. “Let me walk you to your car,” I say, hoping she’ll see the subtlety in my insult, in trying to get her to leave, yet also not being too over-the-top about it.
“It’s right there.” She gestures at the used sedan parked nearby.
It’s only a few yards away, and I start to wonder if my insult was even an insult at all. Did I just want to spend more time with her? Did I realize that she was going to leave anyway, and this would have bought me a few more precious seconds?
I take note that I’m probably lonelier than I thought. I’ll call Arjun after she’s gone.
She turns to leave, and I hold true to my offer and follow next to her. “It’s a death trap,” I say as I study her car as we grow closer. It looks like there’s peeling paint on the hood.
She seems suddenly embarrassed, and I know I said the wrong thing.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
She glares at me as she swings open the door. It lets out a horrific creak, which we both decide to ignore .
In tuning out that grating sound, I drop my eyes and notice the book on the passenger seat. REBECCA by Daphne du Maurier.
She climbs in the car without saying goodbye and swings the door shut, wincing a little at the sound.
A strange moment of panic whips through me, and I want to cry, “Wait!” But I can’t think of what I’d say after that, so I let her go.
She pulls out of the driveway, driving faster than she probably should in that car.
For a few minutes, I poke around at the landscaping she’d been looking at, trying to figure out if she saw anything in particular or what she’d been thinking. Because what better way to annoy her—than to get in her head?
I slowly make my way back to the lounge chair and the view. Her presence lingers though. It’s not even like her smell—beach roses—but it’s like she leaves this residue, this mark on you. And you can’t quite shake it off.
I distract myself by texting Arjun and then I rest my head back on my chaise, closing my eyes, enjoying the slight rustle of the breeze. Except she stays, that damn residue.
I grab my phone and search for her book. It’s a Gothic novel, which I wouldn’t quite peg her for with her yellow Converse and regular use of “cutie patooties.” I read its opening section and order it on a whim.
I’m nearly done with my beer by the time Arjun arrives. The sun has completely set, and the fire pit is lit. One solo star shines in the lonely sky.
He pulls another chaise closer to mine, and it shrieks against the specialty imported Tuscan tiled floor. He wears blue framed glasses, which he never used to in high school, and it’s been taking me a moment to get used to them now that I’m back. His dark hair flops over his glasses’ upper frames as he adjusts the chaise so it’s not awkwardly close. We’ve been best friends since first grade though. Can’t get much closer than that.
After his chaise is near perfectly parallel with my own, he plops down in that laidback way that is classic Arjun. He’s a fascinating blend of “everything ordered” and laidback.
In fact, I wish I had half his chill. Especially now with whatever is happening with my stage performances. I’ve never thought of myself as an anxious person. Anxiety was something that happened to other people. Hives, heavy breathing, pre-test jitters, never been a problem. My parents were stage parents to both myself and my sister. And it was their life goal to iron out any kink that might have gotten in the way of their plans for us. Of course, performance anxiety was a part of this.
My mom said I was a calm baby, but in nearly every family photograph—and there aren’t many of that time—I look remarkably alarmed. I sometimes wonder if she says this as a way to absolve her of any guilt for being a little checked out. And that’s okay with me. Absolve away. It encourages me to take note though. Maybe I can get to the heart of my performance anxiety mystery if I go back to my roots. Look at old childhood photos and try to find clues there?
“How’s MBAS?” Arjun asks, startling me from my thoughts.
“How does everyone know that acronym?” I say, glancing over at him.
“It’s the only shelter on the island.”
“I don’t remember it from high school. ”
“I think we were doing other things in high school,” he says with a wicked smile.
“Beverly,” I use her full name for some reason, “works there.”
“Yep.”
I was hoping he’d say more, so I wouldn’t have to say more. But here we are. “So I’m going to have to see her every day.”
He adjusts his legs and crosses one ankle over another. “Yep.”
“And that is hell for me.”
“Yep.”
“For fuck’s sake, Arjun, can you say something else?” He sighs heavily. After a moment, he says, “I never know what to say about her. I like her. And I feel like you want me to join you in hating her.”
This is absolutely true. I realize it in a flicker, but then the flame is snuffed out. “That’s not true.”
He pinches his fingers together in front of his eye, as if he’s trying to squeeze that single star in the sky. “Just be on your best behavior, okay? Don’t start that bullshit high school war again. You know what that lead to. Legendary levels of bullshit.”
“Of course.” I act insulted. Although, to be honest, it hadn’t really occurred to me it could be any other way. “You’re a good friend, Arjun,” I say and mean it.
“I know,” he says, and we clink beers.