Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

I check my phone regularly during work. I texted Jenson a few times, but there’s no response. This is new. I never expected his company when I got it, but it’s noticeable when he doesn’t pop in the record store even once during the week or send me random texts about his music.

  But there are no surprise Jenson sightings—not at the café, not at my apartment. Not anywhere.

  One week transpires, then two, and I begin to get a little worried. I have plenty of other things on my mind, but Jenson tends to drift to the forefront, making everything else take a back seat. I wonder if seeing his mom put more into perspective than I thought. Maybe he realizes the same thing I do, that our relationship is not completely innocent. We are past friends, but neither of us is willing to acknowledge that. At least, I’m not. He’s probably just busy with the band. Doing what, I can’t say, but I’m sure revamping their image is consuming most of their time.

  My days, meanwhile, stumble forward like a bike on a flat tire, all jaunted and out of whack, and Jenson’s absence has grown. It leaves a ragged black hole in my days, sucking my thoughts in with it.

  Then, I receive a text. Just one measly text, but it stitches the hole back together with loose threads.

  I clock out of work right on the hour, shoulder my bag, then make the trek a few blocks over to Midtown. Jenson responded to the message I sent about his finished photo session, suggesting we meet up at the Thai restaurant we meant to go to and never did. My concern for him battles with my hunger, but I guess I’ll be knocking out two birds with one stone: delivering the photos and seeing if Happy Thai makes a suitable stand-in for Chati’s. I’m skeptical, but I push through the door and try to view it objectively. After all, hardly anything will compare to that little slice of boarded-up heaven.

  It’s a hole in the wall, painted a garish red and decorated with paintings that look like they might’ve been cultivated at a garage sale. I put those things in the win column for Happy Thai; they’re not trying to be something they’re not. Jenson stands from the booth he’s occupying halfway along the side wall, sans ball cap. I take it he doesn’t feel the threat of being recognized in this little tucked-away place.

  As I near him I notice several things at once—that he’s wearing the beat-up leather jacket that’s become a fast favorite in my book, the unruly way his hair flops over his forehead, and the plum-colored circles beneath his weary eyes. He looks both rumpled and delectable at the same time.

  All these factors compel me to bypass my side of the booth and slip my arms around his waist. We’re not usually huggers, but he’s wearing that damn jacket and I like the way it smells. How it melds with his signature scent of spearmint and cigarettes and goes straight to my head. I inhale shamelessly.

  When we part, Jenson takes my bag from my shoulder and sets it on the bench, close to the wall, before sliding in after it and patting the booth beside him. “So it’s easier for you to show me the rest of the photos,” he says with a wink. I guess we’re going to be that annoying couple who sits together on one side. But I relent easily, eager to get off my feet.

  I watch his face carefully as he pours me a cup of sake from the bottle he must’ve ordered while he was waiting, and I hold it in my fingertips when he slides it to me.

  “Where have you been?” I blurt. I could’ve used more tact, or tried harder to keep my tone casual, but I’m a week past caring. His appearance spikes my suspicion.

  He looks me in the eye almost regretfully. “I was writing.”

  “You look like hell.”

  “I do that. Kind of forget everything.” When he looks back at the tabletop, I sense I’m onto something.

  “Does it help?”

  A minute shrug. “It’s what I’ve always done. I don’t like to leave until I get the words out. Sometimes it takes longer than I expect.”

  “You don’t have to punish yourself, you know. It’s good to get out, give the words some air. I do some of my best work outside.”

  “Ehh. I’m not sure I want to rip my heart out in public.”

  I’d like to reference how he doesn’t look much better off having done it in private, but I also don’t want to push him. “I do a lot of my work during my breaks at the café. You should come write with me sometime. It would be nice to have company.” Another sideways glance comes my way, and I manage to get a hand beneath his jacket to poke him in the ribs. He twists away and smirks. “Besides, why do everything like you’ve always done it? It’s a new time. A new you.”

  “Thank you for that pep talk.” He playfully rolls his eyes. When I keep peering at him, he throws his hands in the air. “I’ll try it.”

  Satisfied, I lift the cup of sake to my lips and tilt it back. It’s warm and tangy. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  He puts his hand over my fingers, holding the cup with me, and fills it again. “Long day?” I just sigh in answer. “What do you usually get?” he asks.

  “The dumplings, like I said, yellow curry, chicken pad Thai. You can’t go wrong.”

  “Okay.” Matter-of-fact, he closes the menu between us and slides it to the edge of the table.

  “Aren’t you going to look?”

  “Nope. You’re the expert. I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “Smart man.”

  We place an order for food and more sake, and I stifle a yawn. My roommates are essentially nocturnal and the only moment of peace I can get to work happens to be around three A.M. With everything running through my mind, I haven’t had a moment to rest.

  “Has your mom said anything about me?” I ask. We haven’t talked since that night, and even then he was subdued.

  Jenson rotates to face me and leans against the wall. “Wondering if you made a good impression?”

  “More like wondering if she wanted to know where you found the vagrant you brought to dinner.”

  His eyebrows creep upward. “Vagrant?”

  “Come on, she’s seen it all. And my style is more 90s band groupie than respectable lady.”

  “She has seen it all—the good, the bad, the crazy. Darla King does not judge based on wardrobe.” He smiles to himself. “I think she admires you. She can see that you’re driven and passionate.”

  “Darla King admires me?” I feign shock, fanning my fingers over my chest.

  He nods. “It’s rare to be so young and yet be so sure of what you want. Finding passion is half the battle. You’ve already found the fuel to your fire, you just have to light the match. And you’re willing to hunt for it. That’s admirable.”

  I bite my lip as his tone dips into sincerity, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “I don’t think it’s hard for people to figure out what they want. I think it’s hard for them to admit it. Admitting it gives it life and means more people will watch for it to fail.”

  “Are you afraid of failing?”

  “I think you can only fail if you have expectations. I don’t. Expectations let you down all the time. My dream is to take photos, and here I am, taking photos. It’s about perspective.” It’s part bullshit, part truth. I’m not doing exactly what I love, but I’m clawing like hell to get there.

  He looks down to where his arms are resting on the tabletop and he’s spinning his thumb ring. It’s his tell—the way I’ve come to know he’s uncomfortable or anxious. I force myself to stop messing with my stack of bracelets. That same conflicted look has slipped back into his eyes.

  “Your dream was to create music, and you’re back to creating music. So what are you afraid of, Jenson?” Tough question for a dinner between two friends, but it needed to be asked.

  Jenson inhales slowly, his chest rising . . . and then our spritely little waitress shows up with our food. She stands back as we ooh and ahh over the dishes, nodding enthusiastically when we voice our approval. And then the precarious moment is pushed temporarily aside as we give in to the aroma from our plates.

  I twirl noodles around my fork—moment of truth—before taking a bite.

  “Why are your eyes closed?”
Jenson asks with a laugh. I open them and shoot him a glare.

  “I was making sure I was in the zone to judge it fairly,” I say before swallowing.

  “And?”

  “And. . .” I look down, swirling my fork through peanuts, chicken, and sauce, thinking. “It’s damn delicious.” I elbow him when he looks triumphant. “Congratulations, okay? You found my new favorite restaurant. But you’re also a goddamn enabler, and it’ll be your fault when I go broke off curry and dumplings.”

  “Life could be a lot worse,” he points out, digging into the curry.

  “Definitely true.”

  We finish dinner without much small talk, then the plates are cleared and I gesture for Jenson to hand me my bag. I set up my laptop and insert the USB, browsing through my files and opening the one from the lake.

  “These are some of my favorites. Look, this one looks like an album cover.” I select a photo of his profile, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted against the smoke. He’s looking down at his guitar like a lover, fingers on the frets like he’s coaxing magic from the strings.

  “The backlighting puts most of your face in shadow, but the parts that are in view are so much more intense. The mood is everything in this one.”

  Jenson just nods, and I scroll through the others. Throughout the whole session he doesn’t provide much commentary other than to agree with some of what I’m saying. I click over to the rehearsal session where I’ve picked out the ones I’m most proud of—of each of his band members and of him. I steal glances to gauge his reaction, but he’s mainly deadpan. His eyes are tightened, scrutinizing.

  Once I’ve reached the end of the batch, I bite my lip and push the laptop away, surprised how much his lack of enthusiasm stings. I assumed it’d be heartening to see the return of his passion. I could’ve never predicted he’d appear so . . . bereft.

  “If you don’t like them, you can tell me. Any feedback at all would be really helpfu—”

  “Hey, the photos are sick,” he interrupts. “It’s not that.”

  I focus on my peeling fingernail polish. “Did you have something else in mind, maybe? Another venue you wanted to try out, or a different style?”

  “No, it’s not. . . Can I look at this again?” He places his hand on the touchpad, raising a silent question.

  “Sure, have at it.”

  I sit back and watch as he clicks back into the files, transitioning between the woodsy session and the rehearsal. I wait silently for him to explain the hollow look in his eyes, the displeasure, but he just slides the laptop back to me and blinks away the trance that seemed to overtake him.

  “These are awesome, Lindsey. You’re really something. Can you send both sessions to me?”

  Taken aback by the sudden change of pace, it takes me a second to nod. “I brought a USB. I can give you both now.”

  I pull out my extra memory stick and transfer the files, then hand it over to him. He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through it, handing me a stack of bills. “Does this cover it?”

  I close my hand around the bills, knowing just by feel that they’re more than enough. “Jenson, this is way too much. I know we didn’t settle on an amount beforehand, but this—”

  “Hopefully covers the shifts you gave up going out of town with me, the short notice I gave you, etcetera. It’s less than you deserve.”

  I drop my hand holding the cash I don’t feel entitled to, for work that didn’t quite feel like work, but he closes his wallet and tucks that, along with the USB, into his jacket pocket. I’m too tired to put up a fight. Another open-mouthed yawn reminds me I’ve hardly slept this week.

  “Crashing on me already?” Jenson asks. I’m glad one of us is playful, even if we both look like death.

  “Sorry. My roommates.” I tuck my laptop away, willing away my drowsiness. “I can only focus on my work when they’re either too tired or too stoned to keep playing their games.”

  “Which is outside of normal business hours, I’m guessing.”

  “Exactly. Nothing’s open that late, but it’s the only chance I have to get stuff done. So I make do with my room.”

  Jenson watches his fingers as he drums them on the table in front of him. Then he lets out a quick sigh, pulls out his keys, and starts twisting one off the keyring.

  “You’re probably going to overthink this, but here.” The key glimmers in his outstretched palm. Anyone else handing me a key to their apartment would set my heart racing and my brain into overdrive, immediately scrambling for a way out. With Jenson, I don’t detect an underlying motive for his offering. I open my hand and he drops it into my palm.

  “Come and go as you please. It looks like I’ll be busier with the band anyway, so I won’t be expecting you. Whenever your apartment’s too chaotic, use mine. No questions asked.”

  I briefly consider the options of returning the key or accepting it. However, the number of times I’ve wished I could banish my roommates from the entire state of Tennessee comes to mind.

  “Sure you trust me in your apartment, Jenson? I could still turn out to be crazy,” I say, pocketing the key.

  Jenson casually lifts one shoulder. “I know your brand of crazy. Now let’s go get some coffee before you go all Walking Dead on me.”

  It might be early November, but that has no effect on the crowds nearing Music Row. We cut through wisps of stragglers visiting the last of the sights even as night falls. But Broadway street only gets more animated as the hours pass, neon lights dancing in the glassy eyes of awestruck tourists. As we navigate the choked sidewalks, Jenson updates me on news of the band, telling me they’re in the early stages of planning the performances that will make up their comeback. Only, instead of excitement, there’s a cold feeling of dread rolling off him. So I do what I do best and try to distract him from his worries, making a fool of myself and dancing to the music pouring out of the bars.

  We stop in a tiny corner café for coffee, carrying our to-go cups with us as we continue up the street. It’s probably the most casual of our encounters, and yet it’s somehow not. I’ve met all the people he values most in life, as far as I know, and he’s allowed me to hear things no one else has.

  “What’d you think of the rehearsal, by the way? You finally got to meet the rest of the guys.” The question interrupts my thoughts, alerting me to stop at a busy intersection. I finish off my coffee and toss the cup into a bin with his.

  “It was interesting to put personalities to faces,” I say. “Carter seemed surprised to see me again.”

  When I shift my bag on my shoulder for the thousandth time, Jenson takes it from me without a question, lifting it over my head. He trades me his jacket he’s been carrying since we left the restaurant. I shrug into it while he dons my messenger bag with as much grace as a man could while wearing a bag with bright buttons and badges pinned to it.

  “He probably was,” he says. “There haven’t been any repeat appearances between the two of us in a while, if you know what I mean.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “And I’m sure he’s protective of you. You can let him know he has nothing to worry about.”

  He lifts his eyebrow at me. “You planning on ghosting?”

  “What, like you?” I toss back. “And I didn’t say that. I just wouldn’t take your money while I was stealing your heart.”

  Jenson breaks into a dramatic rendition of “Gold Digger” by Kanye, clutching his chest with one hand.

  I walk ahead, ignoring him for as long as possible, but I can’t help but laugh at his shamelessness. Turns out that for such an intense guy, he can be a clown. Then heads begin to turn. It starts with a few girls, then a group across the street who somehow heard him over the activity, but he pays no attention. Until a group of rowdy, middle-aged women spill out of a restaurant and into our path, and one of them holds out an arm to stop the others.

  “Get out! Jenson fucking King? Is that you?”

  Amid the suspense of the moment, I glance at Jenson to see if he
knows them, but his expression is blank. Of course he doesn’t, but his face has been broadcasted around the world, the subject of magazine covers, records, and advertisements. And right now, the hat he’s been wearing to keep a low profile is noticeably absent, and his easily identifiable tattoos are on full display. He notices half a second after I do that this could be a problem.

  “Can I get a selfie?” the blonde who recognized him asks before sidling up beneath his arm and holding out her phone. Jenson smiles for the photo, then turns his sly grin to me and takes me by the arm, pulling me away despite their protests.

  We walk, the noise behind us rising as the women excitedly recant their celebrity sighting.

  Then people begin to catch on.

  “Run,” Jenson says in my ear.

  So, we run.

  Jenson

  I do my best to guard Lindsey’s eighty-pound bag against the crowds as we cut through unsuspecting people, with no plan as to where we’re going. Nearing a crosswalk, I call to her and we cut left, dodging traffic to cross the street. Chancing a glance behind us, I see a few people partaking in what they think is a game, sneakers slapping on concrete in their pursuit.

  “Tripp’s,” I say on an exhale, and we make for the familiar blue neon sign. Pushing through the door, I lock it behind us. There are maybe two-dozen people scattered around the first floor, but none of them seem to know what’s happening just outside.

  “Lock the doors during business hours, get kicked out,” Tripp calls menacingly from behind the bar, bracing his hands against the counter.

  “Nobody visiting this shithole anyway,” I snipe back, leading Lindsey to the bar. Anyone who doesn’t know us might think we mean it. “Caught some attention outside.”

  “What did I tell you about hiding that pretty mug of yours?”

  “That the world would cry if I did. Can I get the keys to upstairs?”

  Tripp shakes his head at me, slinging his hand towel over his shoulder. But he grabs the set of keys I know are hanging beside the register, tossing them to me. “Now go unlock my door.”

  I snap the lock over, then gesture to Lindsey, steering her to the hall that leads past the bathrooms and to the kitchens. She stops short and looks around in confusion when we end up behind the bar where some of the staff are cleaning up from the day, but I unlock the door beside the walk-in cooler and pull her through. We could just slip out the back, or tell Tripp to leave the door locked for our “safety,” but the night is crisp and alive, and I’m high on it. I’ve been shut away too long and I don’t want it to end now.