Page 13 of Falling Like Stars

I get out of the tub, the cool February air making me shiver all over. I dry off, dress, and pick up my phone. It’s a little after ten. Still plenty of time.

I shoot a text. Done with work.

The reply comes instantly. That’s my girl.

I roll my eyes. We’re not exactly going steady—one hookup and counting—but Clay Robbin’s never bothered to ask “his girl” what she does for a living. That’s okay with me; I don’t keep him around for small talk.

I sneak back to my car that’s parked on a side road at the edge of the production village. In my hotel room, I shower and put on a black T-shirt dress, tall boots and denim jacket, then drive out to Gerry’s, a dingy joint off the 210.

Clay is already at the bar and three whiskies in, judging by the glasses arrayed in front of him. He’s two years younger than my almost twenty-six, tall, skinny, with a shock of Panic at the Disco-emo hair falling over his eyes. I’m still not entirely sure of his employment status. On our first “date” four nights ago, (also at Gerry’s) he told me he was the manager for some local band, but I had my doubts.

“Baby girl!”

He waves me over, and I’m engulfed in his pot-and-Jack Daniels embrace. His hand goes straight to my ass.

“Don’t get grabby.” I take the seat next to him at the near-empty place. Something loud and incomprehensible is playing over the sound system.

“My bad, my bad.” Clay’s smile is wide—the smile of a dude who’s going to get laid tonight and knows it. “Geronimo, get my lovely friend here whatever she wants.”

What a gentleman, I think, considering I’m going to end up paying.

The bartender—whose name is not Geronimo—tilts his chin at me.

“Just a beer, thanks.”

My second date with Clay is much like the first. He talks nonstop about himself and gets progressively drunker while I nurse my lone beer and chase it with a glass of water. Two hours later, Clay’s practically falling off the stool.

“I’ll call a cab,” Gerry says, already reaching for the phone. Clay is a regular at his fine establishment.

“I got it,” I say. “Help me get him in my car?”

The bartender and I get Clay into the front seat of my black Toyota Camry where he passes out instantly. I remember the way to his little apartment complex in Sunland. It takes a few shakes, but I get him out and walk with him draped over me. Lucky him, his studio apartment is on the first floor, or I’d have to leave him on the sidewalk.

By the time I get him to his bedroom, my shoulders are screaming while Clay’s slurring through a story about Burning Man. I unsling his arm from around my neck and he face-plants onto the bed. Within seconds, he’s snoring wetly.

I sit on the edge of his bed. Posters of bands I’ve never heard of like Final Boss and Chat Pile, are taped here and there to the mostly blank wall. Clothes are spilling out of a dresser with a broken drawer. The whole place reeks of pot and the bathroom is not remotely hospitable for having lady friends over.

A wave of grief wells up in me. It does that; just comes seemingly out of nowhere and carries with it random varieties of things to be sad over with no rhyme or reason. Sometimes it’s a memory of Josh and me playing as kids. Other times, it’s his last moments, with blood leaking out of his ear. Not pouring or gushing but leaking because he was already dead.

Sometimes grief isn’t about the past, but the future. What might’ve been. Not Josh’s life that was lost but the life he never got to live. It’s like that tonight, but this time it’s about me. My life that’s not being lived and the barest whisper that says it’s not too late.

I jump off the bed and leave Clay to sleep it off. Back at the hotel, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s like a blank palette. A sketchpad. When I was a kid, I’d stare at the smooth white ceiling in my room and sketch imaginary costumes on it. Civil War uniforms, flapper dresses, or the pencil skirts and smart hats women in the forties might’ve worn.

That night, I see Hugo’s scarf but Zachary Butler’s wearing it. He’s not in character, he’s himself. He asks me why I don’t do something more challenging, while smiling that sweet smile of his. I think of how much smiling I did in the short time we were talking tonight in the hot tub. Pretty sure I hit an all-time high.

And then the grief comes again, hard and heavy with guilt, so when my phone buzzes a text from Clay at four a.m. asking me to come back over to his place, I go.

My phone is making noise. A call, not a text. The audacity.

I’d driven back to the hotel last night-slash-this morning after my tawdry rendezvous with Clay. I may have debased myself in his bed, but I’d had enough dignity scraped up to not stay the night. My head touched my hotel pillow around five and it seems like my phone is going off a minute later.

I fumble at the nightstand, frown at the number and hit answer.

“It’s eight a.m. Why are you calling me this early?”

“What did you do last night that you’re so tired?” Jess Jordan—J.J.—my best friend, counters.

“Stuff,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Grown-up stuff.”

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