I want to question his familiarity with the wordsmoralandsupport, but say nothing when V delivers a more professional response.
“It’s a bar. You can have a drink or two while you enjoy the show,” she says. “Other than that, being out of everyone’s way would be great.”
“Nah, I’m good on the drinks, but thanks. Darren, we’ll catch up during the week, right?”
“Right.”
To my surprise, and maybe Riley’s too, he wanders off. Rileygrabs beers for a barely legal couple who look nervous to be here, and V grabs my elbow to lead me to the far side of the bar.
“Sounds like you and I should catch up, too.”
So, while we serve our Saturday night crowd and listen to Supine play, I tell her about a pregnant nursing student and a burned birthday card and a comment left on a video and a lunch planned for this week. She listens like the mother she is. I ache like a child missing something they never had. Trailhead pulses around me, alive with the music and everyone's enjoyment of it. For once, it's all too loud for me, and I blame the fun being had more than the sounds themselves.
The sounds are perfect.
Supine is smart. Their set is mostly country rock covers—songs popular enough to hold the attention of anyone sitting down to listen, while encouraging others to fill the dance floor and move to a beat they know well. When they introduce a couple of original songs, the transitions are smooth and the choruses easy to learn, but they never stray from the familiar for long. To top it all off, the lead singer's voice is the right kind of rough, and as attractive as he is, he knows being in a band only makes him hotter. It makesallof them hotter.
A few of my usually quiet regulars—guys named Brett, Rhett, and Jet who have spent several of my shifts shooting pool—whistle for the band amid the applause and shouts from the rest of the crowd. Riley, V, and I pour round after round, and I try to forget how much the absence of anything, or anyone, can hurt.
Time passes either way, and Supine wraps up. They pack their things and disappear through the barn doors. My father follows. I leave much later, and drive to the diner.
Sage does her best to help, but a chocolate milkshake isn’t enough, and I apologize for being trouble she gets paid for regardless of whether I smile. Bars everywhere are closed, but I turn my car around and drive toward WeHo anyway, a bad habit I haven’t quite kicked. I could pick up my phone when I get there—there’s no shortage of fun to be had—but I stay on the road and keep driving ‘til I almost hit sand. For what it’s worth, the beach is closed too, but I park and close my eyes and take as much of a nap as someone like me ever gets.
When I wake up, it’s still dark, but I do pick up my phone then.
You awake
It takes a while to get a response, and my eyes are closed again when my phone vibrates with Jake’s text.
Barely. Shouldn’t you be asleep?
Yeah
What’s keeping you awake?
Typing out an answer could take until dawn, and I don’t bother with it now.Can I come over?
Is your bed that uncomfortable?
Haven’t made it home yet. I’m in Santa Monica
Alone?
I hate that he had to ask. If anyone else did, I think I’d be proud.Yeah I’m alone
Jake is quiet again, and I brace myself for anything—a lecture,a refusal, or a hundred more questions. None of it comes, and maybe he just needed to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Drive safe. See you soon.
Even in a metro area known for its traffic, it doesn’t take more than half an hour to get to Jake’s home in the hills at this time of day. I pull into his driveway and look down at the extra message he’d sent about ten minutes ago.
Door’s unlocked.
I haven’t decided how I feel about that, but I’m also not going home, so I let myself in, leave my shoes at the door, and peek into the living room and kitchen before I figure he must be upstairs. When I reach the top of the stairs, I will my heartbeat to slow for something I’ve done too many times for me to dissect the details now. Nothing is better when I get the answer to my question about Jake’s return to Adrian’s, a framed photograph of a carousel and a little girl in pigtails displayed almost proudly on his hallway wall. My eyes only fall closed for a second, and my socked feet don’t make a sound against Jake’s carpet, but he obviously knows I’m here, his gaze ready to meet mine when I step through his bedroom door.
He's still in bed, propped up on a couple of pillows with a book in his hand and glasses low on his nose.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.