Author: Cassia Leo

But, as serious as she is about her job, she’s even more serious about staying in touch. She’s a social media addict. She sends me at least ten messages, tweets, or comments per day. She’s able to multitask better than anyone I’ve ever known. She’s married to a geek she met at MIT and they have their first baby on the way in less than three months, which hasn’t slowed her down one bit. She’s been trying to convince me to go to Los Angeles to record this demo for years. She found out my flight was canceled before I did, so now she’s texting me to make sure I don’t allow this to stop me from going to L.A.

Harlow: I swear to fucking God, if you back out on this I’ll plant naked pics of Mom on your phone.

Me: Lol. I’m not backing out. And if you do that, I’ll gouge my eyes out. Do you want to be responsible for blinding me?

I glance up and the girl is looking at me strangely. And now, seeing her face straight on, she looks even more familiar. ‘You can probably still catch a cab if you leave now,’ I add because she looks confused about what she’s supposed to do now that her flight is canceled.

‘Then why aren’t you running outside to catch a cab?’

Her voice has a hard edge to it, but it’s wrapped in soft uncertainty. She doesn’t sound familiar, but something about her lightly freckled skin makes my chest ache. ‘I’m in no hurry to go back.’

No need to elaborate. She doesn’t need to know that I’m leaving Massachusetts because I’m tired of screaming into a void. I’m exhausted from all the talking I’ve done that hasn’t done a damn thing to make anyone understand me better. Not my shrink, my family, or my friends; no one understands what I’ve seen. I’m almost glad for that.

I’m not going to record this demo for fame and fortune. I’ve got plenty of fortune and I have no interest in fame. I’m going because I don’t know what else to do at this point. And a small part of me thinks that maybe if I get a record deal, I’ll never have to speak to anyone again.

I look down at my phone to read Harlow’s newest text:

Harlow: Geez. Do you really have to make it so easy for me to dish out meaningless platitudes?

‘Yeah, me neither,’ the girl replies.

I look up from my phone screen and smile, trying not to chuckle. ‘You also have to check in to get your flight rescheduled.’

She smiles and her cheeks blush crimson. ‘Yeah, that too.’

She covers her face with both her hands as she shakes her head. She’s probably embarrassed that she’s blushing in front of a stranger. I can tell by the obviously dyed black hair that hangs above her emerald eyes and the tattoos on her fingers that she’s not the type of girl who blushes often.

‘Go away,’ I say and she uncovers her face.

‘What?’

‘The tattoos on your fingers.’ I point at her hands as they drop to her side.

She glances at her fingers. ‘Oh, yeah, I got those when I was young and stupid. You know how that is.’

My eyebrows knit together in confusion. ‘How old are you?’

She swallows hard as she turns away to look at the flight monitors again. ‘Older than . . . Nineteen.’

‘Nineteen? So you think you’re past the young and stupid phase already?’

She doesn’t look at me. She continues to stare at the monitors for a moment before she grabs the handle on her rolling suitcase. ‘I have to check in.’

She gets in line behind thirty-some other bodies with suitcases, but she’s not a body. She’s a soul. That much is plainly obvious by the way she stands in line with her eyes closed, thinking. Maybe she’s silently screaming into the void.

I text Harlow back:

Me: Your meaningless platitudes are the bread that feeds my soul. Never give up. Keep on trucking. It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. Always separate your whites. And so on. See ya soon.

I tuck my phone into my back pocket and stare, unabashedly, as the soul makes her way through the snaking line and half-heartedly argues with the check-in clerk about something. She tries to hold her head high as she lugs her suitcase and carry-on bag toward me.

‘Did they give you a hotel voucher?’ she asks me.

I shake my head. ‘Nope. I’m only thirty minutes away. They’re only offering vouchers to layover customers.’

She sighs heavily. ‘Shit.’ She turns to stare at the monitors again and I can feel the desperation pulsing off her.

She doesn’t want to go home. Neither do I.

‘Hey, how about we go get a cup of coffee while we figure out what the fuck we’re going to do?’ She turns to me and I see a glimmer of fear in her eyes. ‘I’m not trying to hit on you. I’m just not ready to go home yet.’

She doesn’t look convinced, but she must really not want to go home because she holds out her gloved hand to me. ‘I’m Mikki.’

I stand up from my suitcase and grab her hand. I’m six-foot-one and this girl is almost as tall as me in flats. For some reason, I find this extremely attractive.

I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle shake. ‘Crush.’

‘Crush?’ she repeats. ‘That’s your name?’

‘Not my birth name, but it is my legal name. I had it changed a few years ago.’

‘Crush.’ She tilts her head as she stares at me. ‘Cool name.’

‘Now it’s my turn to blush.’

She lets go of my hand and her smile disappears. ‘I don’t have money for a cab.’

‘I’ll take care of it.’

The uncertainty returns to her features and I can’t fight the feeling that I know this girl from somewhere. If I tell her she looks familiar, she’ll think this is just a creepy come-on from a stranger.

‘We’d better hurry up and get a cab before this mob beats us to it.’

She nods as she pulls her pink gloves back on over her tattooed fingers. She follows me as I grab my suitcase and guitar case. We head outside and walk around the curved sidewalk until we find an empty cab pulling away from the terminal. I flag it down and the driver helps us load our luggage into the trunk. We rush into the backseat and my nose and ears are already frozen from the few minutes we spent outside. I look at Mikki and her nose and lips are so red they’re almost purple.

‘Render Coffee on Columbus,’ I instruct the cab driver and he immediately drives away from the terminal.

‘What’s that?’ she asks, settling back into the seat as she begins removing her gloves.

I grab her hands to stop her and she flinches at my touch. ‘Sorry, but you’ll want to keep those on. Render is just a few miles from here. They have the best coffee in Boston. Have you ever been to Boston?’

She crosses her arms, tucking her gloved hands under her arms as she gazes out the window. ‘Only twice, when I was young.’

There she goes again. She’s only nineteen, but she doesn’t think she’s young. What the hell has this girl gone through?

‘Well, I’m going to get you the best fucking coffee in all of Boston. And maybe you can give me something in return?’

She turns to me, her face livid as if I’ve asked her to give me a blowjob.

‘No, nothing like that,’ I insist. ‘I was thinking maybe you could . . . Oh, forget it.’

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why was I going to ask her to listen to my song?

She pulls her feet up onto the seat and hugs her knees. ‘I just want to go to L.A. I’m so tired of this fucking place.’

‘What’s in L.A.?’ I ask as she rests her chin on her knees.

She takes a deep breath and smiles. ‘The rest of my life.’

Chapter 4: MIKKI – January 3rd

The warm air circulating in the cab is stifling. My face is burning up and my hands instantly begin to sweat inside my pink gloves with the cutoff fingers. I want to take my gloves off, but this guy insists I keep them on. Why did I listen to him?

I lower my feet onto the floor of the cab and begin peeling off my gloves, trying not to glance at Crush to see if he’s watching. I lay my hands flat on top of the gloves in my lap and smile as I remember the day I got the words ‘GO AWAY’ tattooed on my fingers. It was a few months after the night of the party. My shrink told me I need to stop referring to it as the night of the party, as if nothing of significance happened that night other than the party. As far as I’m concerned, nothing happened.

People want you to confront your past, stare down your demons, and all that other bullshit. Most of them don’t have the kind of demons I have breathing down my neck, so it’s easy for them to dish out banal clichés on facing the past. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to think about the night of the party. The more I think about it, the more control I surrender; the more I remember, the more pieces of myself I submit to them. I will remember only in the moments when I choose to remember, not when someone else snaps their fingers and tells me it’s time to talk.

Talking is overrated.

And I’ll be damned if I listen to some stranger about where and when to wear my gloves. I don’t care how good-looking he is or how cute his name is. And if this asshole asks me any more awkward questions, I’m out of here. I can find a cheap motel to stay in near the airport.

I glance at Crush and he’s staring out the window. I get a weird pang of guilt in my stomach as I realize he’s not going to pressure me to keep the gloves on. I’m trying to make a point when there’s no point to be made.

Fine.

I pull my gloves back on just as the cab begins to slow down in front of a café with a cute little sign hanging out front: Render Coffee. The name sounds vaguely familiar. I’m sure Rina may have talked about it before. She’s probably even invited me to come here. She is ridiculously persistent in her attempts to get me out of the house.

Crush hands the cab driver a fifty-dollar bill for a twenty-four-dollar cab ride then tells him to keep the change. I roll my eyes as I scoot out of the backseat and my boots land in some fresh snow on the curb. Crush taps my hip for me to move out of his way and he steps out after me. The driver sets our bags and the guitar case on the curb and nods before he gets back inside the cab and drives off.

I should pull my hood up, but I’m frozen. Something about this whole situation feels weird.

‘Why do you look confused?’ Crush asks as he slides the handle of my carry-on bag over the telescoping handle of his suitcase.

How do you tell someone that going to a coffee shop feels weird because it feels too normal? I’m not used to normal.

‘I don’t get out much.’

My phone vibrates in my coat pocket and I curse myself for forgetting to turn off the vibrating ringtone. Crush looks confused by my response as I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at it. The snow immediately melts on the screen and blurs the letters flashing in front of me.

‘I should probably check it inside.’

He nods and I follow him up the eight concrete steps to the entrance of Render, amazed at how he makes hauling two pieces of luggage and a guitar case up a flight of stairs, and also holding the door open for me, look so fucking easy. He could probably carry the weight of the world on those shoulders. He flashes me a charming half-smile, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I brush past him, close enough to get a whiff of the warm scent wafting off his gray twill coat. He smells like a summer breeze in the middle of winter, and the scent stops me cold.

I blink furiously against the memory; the tangy, metallic scent of blood . . . I can’t see through the blood, but I can feel. I’m broken in every sense of the word. I squeeze my eyes tightly and take another deep breath. I smell coffee now. I open my eyes and grit my teeth as I blink a few more times, to completely clear the memory.

‘Got some snow in my eyes,’ I mutter when I notice the concerned look on his face.