Chapter 2
T he mother fucking cold was beginning to fully wear on me. I was no stranger to living on the street. I was twenty-five years old and had been off-and-on homeless since I was fifteen. But this winter had only just begun, and it was already destroying my confidence in my ability to make it through to spring with a good attitude. I thought longingly of the two remaining hand warmer packs in my bag, but I knew I had to save them for tonight and couldn’t spare them for the walk to work. I gathered up my sleeping bag and stuck it on the side of the tent where Myles was still sleeping. At least, I hoped he was just sleeping. I shook his shoulder and said, “I’m going to work, My.”
He grumbled, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was alive.
“Watch my stuff,” I told him.
He mumbled a “yup,” but I knew my sleeping bag and my tent were always at risk of being stolen because as soon as he fully woke up, he would be coming down from his high and be out searching for the street pharmacist asking for another fix, leaving our stuff without supervision. All of my other belongings were in my backpack that I had slung over my shoulder. A backpack was easy to hide at work. A whole tent and sleeping bag? Not so much.
Our tent community was at the very edge of the park, where it backed up to a creek. The creek led to the highway, so for the most part, the town left us alone. It took me twenty minutes to walk around the park but ten minutes if I walked across it. Going across it meant walking through muddy or snowy grass, so most of the winter, I had to walk around the park so I could stay on the sidewalk. I always dreamed of moving somewhere on the West Coast. Living outside when it was warm most of the year would make my life one hundred percent more bearable. But I couldn’t leave Myles, and Myles would never make it on such a long road trip. He’d end up running out of his stash and would go through withdrawals. As much as my dream was to have him be clean, it couldn’t happen in a random town in Utah on the way to California. I also knew who he bought his supply from, and I knew it was clean. Out there, I would have no idea where to even start to find a safe dealer. I kicked a rock out of the way and scuffed up the front of my boot even more. Fuck. I was usually able to snap out of it. I was so good at seeing the glass half full and embracing the good parts of life, even in the suck. But this morning, the suck felt even suckier, so I indulged in a few moments of some fuck this fucking life thoughts as I walked toward my job at Kafe. I knew how lucky I was that I had gotten a job at such a high-end outdoor mall. The tips were great, the location was right near my tent community, and I got free drinks while working and 30 percent off food. It was also right near my gym. The gym I absolutely never worked out at but paid for membership anyway because I could shower there. They also let me rent a locker year-round, so I kept my spring and summer clothes and other important belongings in the locker. As I got to the center of the mall, I glanced around to see if my hottie music man was back, and I felt a twinge of disappointment when I saw that he wasn’t. It was insane how hot he was. I had seen plenty of good-looking men in my day. I’ve even done some questionable things with quite a few of them, but I had never seen a man who was this smoking. He had always worn a big coat or flannel button-up when I had seen him, but I could tell that he was packing some serious muscle beneath his clothes. His face was all angles with a strong jaw covered in a beard that appeared both neat and full at the same time. His eyes were a piercing green, and the pain that laid beneath the surface intrigued me. His hair had always been covered by a beanie, but the part I could see was a mix of blonds and browns. And his voice, god, his voice. It was melodic and emotive. His range was insane, and the tone tickled emotion inside of me that made me feel happy and nostalgic at the same time. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who. I sighed… thinking about him made me mad. I had asked for a song and he had failed to show up ever since. I know I had only barely met him twice, but I could have sworn beneath his somber face and his angry eyes that we had experienced some sort of connection. But it was obvious that music man hadn't felt it. Being part of the homeless community, I was used to people coming and going, but somehow, this one stung a little.
I got to work a few minutes early and went to the bathroom to straighten up. I had showered the night before and then braided my hair, so I let it out, and it swarmed around me in a mess of dark curls. My hair was all I had left of my mom, and I wore it with so much pride. I sprayed it with a detangling spray that one of my very part-time coworkers, Emmie, had brought in for me the other day and combed the ends slightly. Then, I washed my face and applied a bit of makeup. I may live outside but I had pride in taking care of myself. I wasn’t a girlie girl by any means, but a little mascara never hurt anyone. I tied the green apron with brown accents around my waist and then stashed my large bag in the back room. I took a deep breath, shook off all the sucky feelings from earlier, and went to join my coworkers for another wonderful day of making coffee.
Two hours into my shift, a gaggle of women came inside with a rush of cold air following them, and I heard one say to the other, “I would totally fuck that busker out there.” Her friend slapped a hand over her mouth and laughed.
“Maeve, oh my god, you wouldn’t!”
I internally rolled my eyes. Just like I predicted when I first saw them, they each ordered a matcha and a scone. The women who shopped here were annoyingly pretentious, and sometimes I wondered what they would do if they knew the girl making their drink lived in a tent and occasionally peed outside. When I finally finished serving them, I allowed myself to sneak a look out the window to see which busker they were referring to. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was Kian. It was time for my break anyway, so I made two hot white chocolate mochas, grabbed my coat, and went outside. I saw him see me. He didn’t acknowledge me other than a clench of his jaw as he kept playing. He was singing “Say Love” by James TW. I pretended that I didn’t care he had finally shown up a month later. I just put the coffees down on the sidewalk next to me and cupped my hand over my cigarette to light it without the wind blowing it out. I took a deep puff in and let the nicotine hit my system. It was a disgusting habit. An expensive habit. This, I was well aware of. But I figured if I had to live outside, I could allow myself one disgusting habit—a habit that helped keep my nerves calm and the hunger at bay. I always promised I’d quit, but I never did. I blew the smoke out and then glanced over at music man. He had finished the song and was staring at me. He said nothing, and I said nothing. We just stared. He finally broke first and started strumming the chords to “Take Your Time,” and something inside of me warmed. I didn’t get much in life, and I was okay with that and embraced that this was the hand I had been dealt. I had come to terms with all the shit that happened, and I found ways to not let it break my spirit. I didn’t even let myself sit in shame for some of the things I had done. I had stolen when I was younger because the alternative was starving. I had agreed to give an on-again, off-again boyfriend a blowjob in exchange for a coat for Myles. I wasn’t proud of it per se, but I knew who I really was and that I would not let those actions define me. They were part of my survival. I kind of let it go with the thought that I had to do what I had to do. But hearing him sing this song, knowing that he had learned it and came back to play it for me, goddamn if that didn’t feel like a gift. I took one last puff on my cigarette, shook off the ash, and ground it out. I stuffed it back into my box so I could finish it later and picked up the two coffees. I waited till he finished singing to say, “I thought you’d pussied out.”
He blinked in surprise. I knew I was loud. Blunt. Unafraid. I mean, I had lived on the streets for most of my adult life,so it made sense.
“I’m here now” was all he said.
“I can see that.” I wanted to ask where he’d been, why he hadn’t come back for a month, and why his knuckles were scabbing over, but I didn’t. Instead, I held out the coffee, and he took it warily. I watched him take a sip.
“It’s sweet.” He stated the obvious. When he spoke, it sounded like he didn’t talk a lot. His words were clipped and short. He didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who felt the need to fill the silence. I liked that. I could fill the silence plenty on my own.
“It is sweet,” I confirmed.
“What do I owe you for it?”
I squinted in the bright winter sunlight before looking back at him.
“‘Burn The Ships’ by for KING & COUNTRY. And don’t wait a month to come back this time.” I turned on my heel and began to walk away.
“What’s your name?” I heard him call.
“When I see you again, I’ll tell you,” I called back. I didn’t know what game we were playing, but I did know that I liked playing it.
The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of coffee, sneaking looks at Kian out the window, and incessant worrying about Myles, which plagued me during my every waking moment. My every sleeping moment too. When I finished my shift, it was dark outside, and Kian was gone. I trudged over to the gym, said hello to the security guard, and went to hit the showers. Usually, I would only wash my hair once a week, but today, my curls had an incident with a spilled drink, and they were now hard and crunchy, so I had to wash it two days in a row.After my shower, I dried my hair the best I could so that it wouldn't freeze to my head overnight. Then I changed into my night clothes, which were made up of fleece leggings with sweatpants over them and a long-sleeved shirt topped by a sweatshirt. After zipping up my coat, I made the twenty-minute walk back home. I found Myles and two of his friends sitting outside our tent around their makeshift fire pit, which was crackling with warm, inviting flames.
“Hey.” I smiled at them and ducked into the tent to put my backpack down. I had made thirty-seven dollars in tips, so I took my wallet out and shoved the bills inside. My money always got spent faster than I could make it. But I didn’t let it get me down. I had enough for what I needed, Myles was alive, and a pretty boy played me a song today. It ended up being a good day.
I took the two sandwiches that I had brought home from work out of my backpack and went back outside to join Myles by the fire. I unwrapped the first sandwich and handed him his food.
“Thank you, J,” he told me with a grin.
“You got it, My.”
We focused on eating our food before brushing our teeth with the freezing cold water from a bottle I had in the corner of the tent. Then I took the last of our hand warmers and shook them until they warmed up. I popped one into each of my socks and gave the other pack to Myles. They gave us some semblance of warmth while we slept.
I would lie awake listening to Myles breathing. I wanted my love to be enough for him to want to get clean, but I also knew his scars were just too deep. I knew too much had happened to him before he had become a part of my life that led to his current behavior.
My father had left my mother and me when I was fourteen. My mom had tried her best to get by, but by the time I was fifteen, we were living in our car with all of our worldly possessions in the trunk. We lost the car when I turned sixteen, but we finally got a spot in the women's shelter a few weeks later. Unfortunately, we left that spot behind a few weeks after that because my mom had started dating an old neighbor of ours who had a son two years younger than me. I had known his son, Myles, since I was young because we had gone to the same school until I was forced to drop out.
We moved out of the shelter and into their apartment. However, that only lasted for six months because my mom quickly found out that Paul liked to drink, and when he did, he would mercilessly beat his son. When we left, my mom took his son with us, and Myles became my brother. We had become close instantly. I had his back, and he had mine. I knew the worst part for him was Paul never even reported him missing. He just let him go, and Myles never heard from him again. We spent the rest of that year couch surfing, but no one wanted a struggling artist and her two teenage kids taking up free space in their home for too long. When we ran out of people to ask, we ended up back on the streets.
Myles never complained. He tried to keep up with school and never said anything negative about our situation. But I could see the pain in his eyes, and I wished I could do something to make it better. I still did. The year I turned eighteen was spent learning how to sleep with one eye open and assert myself so people looking for trouble would stay away.
At nineteen, my mom passed away from cancer, and it became just Myles and me against the world. We couldn’t go back to the shelter because they would split us up, and at that point, Myles had started smoking weed and popping pills. I hated his need to check out, but I also knew that being beaten by your dad for years did irreparable damage, and he was coping the best way he knew how. The problem was that the people on the street needed the most healing, but healing was a privilege only given to some. Those with health insurance or money had access to a level of mental health assistance that Myles and I could only dream of.
When I turned twenty, I was desperate to get Myles off the street and give him some semblance of normalcy. So much so that I compromised myself in the pursuit of it. I thought maybe I could get him clean if we lived a more “normal life.” At the time, I had been working at a bar that was clearly in a seedier part of town because they let underage people serve drinks. One of the frequent attendees was an older man who patronized the bar often and paid way too much attention to me. I took advantage of it and quickly formed a relationship of sorts with him until I convinced him to let Myles and me move in with him.
The look on Myles’s face when he had access to a bed and hot showers made what I went through worth it. I forced myself to ignore the extra tight grip the man kept on me when he held my hand out in public. I didn’t protest if he didn’t take no for an answer when he told me he wanted to have sex. I pretended it was normal when he laughed and hinted that his friends wanted to try out his live-in “whore” too. I told myself it was okay because he never actually hit me. He gave us plenty of food, money for bills, and, most importantly, a place to live.
For two years, I grinned and bared it as I slowly stashed away money. I either slipped twenties out of his wallet while he slept, used less of the grocery money than what he had left for us to shop with, or even stooped so low as to swipe pain meds from his medicine cabinet and sell them in the park. The irony of that was not lost on me. When I felt I had enough saved up, one night, when he was away on a business trip, I packed us up and we left without leaving a note. I rented us a bedroom in a long-term bed and breakfast.
At first, it was good—it was the year I got my job as a barista. I learned all things coffee and discovered I actually loved the creativity it took to make people their drinks. I was soon able to afford my first phone. I even got Myles clean for a three-month streak. Then it all fell apart. One night, I came home from work and found Myles high on something new and a man taking advantage of him. I had failed to keep my only family member safe, and it hurt more than almost anything else in my life had. I packed us up the next month, and instead of paying rent, I bought us a tent. In my mind, it made more sense to use my money toward therapy for Myles than on a room to sleep in when that hadn’t even been safe.
Fast forward three more years, and we had gotten really good at living on the streets. Or at least as good as one could in these types of circumstances. Myles had detoxed in the hospital and had gone through multiple stints of NA meetings and seeing his therapist weekly. Those times were good because he was sober and clearheaded. Yet he would also be in enormous pain and get twitchy and irritable when he wanted to use. He, unfortunately, was not currently sober, and I worried for him constantly, especially since one of his friends had OD’d last week. I didn’t know what he had taken, and I was scared it would find Myles. My goal for some time now was to save up enough for us to get a car or a van to live in. Maybe then I could get Myles clean for good, and we could finally move somewhere warm.
I sighed and rolled over to take Myles’s hand. I was still happy somehow. After everything I had gone through, I felt at peace with my current situation. I knew I had always tried my best, never missed a day at work, and kept my head high even on the coldest days. I was grateful for my job. I was grateful my brother was still fighting his demons and not fully giving in to them. I was simply grateful that I had woken up to see another day. If all I had was my gratitude and my pride, so be it. I could deal with that. I leaned down and kissed his hand.
“Jessa,” he whispered.
“What’s up, My?”
He cleared his throat.
“If it gets me, I need you to promise me something.”
“No…” I started. I couldn’t understand how we had these conversations about his impending death when the solution seemed so obvious to me. Just stop using. I understood addiction in theory, having thoroughly studied it. I understood it in reality, having seen it most of my life. I understood it in practicality, simply understanding that it was a disease. But I still had a part of my brain that viewed the situation in black and white. Just stop. Save yourself. Don’t let the drugs win.
“Jessa.” He quieted me. The truth was, he was a special soul—I had known it the moment I met him. Kindness emanated from his brown eyes. He was quiet and unassuming, and he cared so much about people and animals. I would catch him helping frogs across the sidewalk to get closer to the water. Or feeding stray dogs. Or helping our tent neighbors light a fire. Or playing with some of the kids who lived in our community while their parents washed their clothes by the creek. I had never seen him get angry. Not once. He never stole to get high. He kept himself clean and presentable. I loved him with every fiber of my being, and as much as I held onto my gratitude and happiness, I also had a place inside of me that was full of anger for how unfair life had been for my brother.
“If it ever gets me.”
I knew he was referring to his addiction, and I squeezed his hand.
“I want you to promise me you won’t turn me to dust. I want you to bury me. I don’t care where, but don’t burn me. Okay?”
A sob got stuck in my throat.
“Don’t leave me” was all I replied.
“Promise me.” He wasn’t giving up.
“I promise.” My words hung between us, frozen in the chilled air. I felt him relax. Our fingers weaved together.
“Thank you.”
Please don’t leave me , I wanted to scream. But instead, I kissed his cheek and fell into a fitful sleep. Earlier, I had thought about how grateful I was that I had my brother, but the nagging thought that gnawed at me was, who really had him? Me or the drugs?