Pepper had made sure I met all the staff earlier when I arrived this afternoon. Those who were on the clock anyway. Mike was the manager. Karla manned the food counter most nights, and the cook, a former cook in the navy, was—unsurprisingly—just Cook.
I’d seen Mike and Karla plenty of times when I hung out at Mulvaney’s—mostly back in the days when Pepper was prowling Mulvaney’s after first meeting Reece. Since Harris and I broke up, I hadn’t been here as often, figuring that any guys I met here wouldn’t be the kind I was interested in. Good, studious types that I could bring home to my parents didn’t hang out at bars. The next guy I brought home would have to be pretty spectacular, at least in my parents’ eyes, to replace Harris. Especially since Mom was still hung up on the idea of Harris and me.
It was after one in the morning when I finally finished arranging the apartment to my liking. I just couldn’t sleep until everything was put away and organized. Emerson called me anal. Granted she was a mess and wouldn’t know what to do with a hanger, but I had been raised to be tidy and organized. It was simply habit now. My mother was exacting. Clothes had to be color coordinated in the closet. Books in alphabetical order in my bookcase. Disorder and chaos was not tolerated. Again, I think it reminded her too much of my mess of a birth father.
Feeling grimy after putting everything away, I pulled my long hair up into a knot and took a shower, enjoying the fact that this shower was twice as big as the showers in the dorm. I let the warm spray of water beat down on my body and loosen my muscles. Once I was out of the shower, I slipped on panties and a soft tank top.
Still feeling a little restless, I curled up on the futon, pulling my fuzzy throw blanket over me, and watched some television.
After the second rerun of The Big Bang Theory, I turned off the TV and tossed out the remaining pickle chips. As I passed the couch, I noticed that I hadn’t put away everything. My guitar, still in its case, sat propped between the futon and the side table. I hesitated, staring at it with a funny tightness in my chest.
When I’d pulled it out of my dorm closet, I had almost forgotten its existence. I hadn’t left it at home because I was worried Mom would get rid of it. She had tried to cart it off to Goodwill a few times over the years, but I had stood my ground and insisted on keeping it. For some reason, she had always capitulated. Mostly, I think, because she never saw me pull it out and play it anymore. That would have concerned her and forced her hand. So I ignored it for many years. Forgotten like an old pair of shoes.
Sinking on the couch, I pulled it out of the case and brought the comforting weight of it across my lap, my fingers caressing the colorful blue-and-green-patterned strap before moving to the strings. I plucked one. The out-of-tune twang filled my ears, and my fingers instinctively went to the knobs, strumming strings and rotating the knobs until the sound was just right.
When I had it perfect, I played a few chords of “Landslide.” I smiled, losing myself in that part of me that I had buried for dead long ago. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stop myself. For a moment, I let myself go. Surrendered to that part of me . . . the part of myself that reminded my mother so much of my father. The part that terrified her.
At the sudden thought of her . . . and him, I slapped a palm over the strings, effectively killing the music my fingers had created so effortlessly from them.
My heart ached, but I forced the guitar from my lap. Forced it from my hands like another moment in my clasp might somehow poison me. I set it down beside the futon, against its case, not even taking the time to put it inside. Later. I would touch it later. Right now I just needed distance.
I turned off all the lights except for the small light above the stove. At the bed, I pulled back the covers. I had one knee on the mattress and was arranging my multitude of pillows to my liking when I heard footsteps, growing in volume.
I froze, eyeing the opening that led to the stairs, wondering who was coming up here this time of night. Surely not Pepper or Reece. The bar had quieted in the last hour and I assumed it was closing up for the night if not already fully closed. The bottom door that led to the stairs had a lock, which I had utilized, but clearly that hadn’t stopped this person.