by Kim Holden
“Did Scout make that?”
I take another bite and talk through it. “Yeah. It’s fucking fantastic.”
He smiles, like the fact that I just dropped the f-bomb is the raddest thing he’s ever heard. “My mom never cooks. Sometimes I think Scout learned just so I wouldn’t starve.”
That’s a strange comment, because I get the feeling he actually meant it. Like literally. I don’t know anything about Impatient’s past, except Paxton’s mom is her aunt Jane who she talks to on the phone sometimes. And I know about fucking Michael. That’s it.
After Pax eats a few slices of bread I suggest we get on the road. “We better jet, dude. Your cousin will murder me and make shark bait of my remains if you’re late for day one. She’s kind of a stickler for punctuality.”
As if on cue my phone chimes from my pocket. It’s a text from Impatient. Are you on the road yet?
I hold up the phone so Pax can read the text. He squints a little too, and I make a mental note to ask Impatient if he wears contacts or glasses. He's clearly struggling to read the text. He looks up at me with confused eyes. “Who’s Impatient?”
I laugh because I forgot that’s how I set her up in my phone months ago. “Sorry, that’s Scout.”
He thinks for a minute, and then he smiles. “She is a little impatient sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” I question. “Damn, you’re generous.”
He knows I’m kidding. Sort of. He laughs, too. His laugh is restrained, more like a chuckle. Like there’s light bound up inside this kid that desperately wants to get out, but doesn’t know how. It makes me feel a little bummed thinking about it. I used to take laughter for granted. I was surrounded by it for years. Then the laughter died with Bright Side. I feel like I’ve had to learn how to laugh all over again. I can relate. We both need to find our light.
As we approach the school, I give him a sidelong look. “Dude, you want me to drop you off in front of the school or down the street? I don’t want to tarnish your rep with my shit wagon the first day of school.” I love my truck but I know that doesn’t hold true for everyone else. And I have a feeling that he’s a kid with bigger issues going on. I don’t want him to get picked on because some fuck nut sees him get out of my truck and decides to give him shit about it. I’m trying to play preemptive damage control.
He smiles. “Drop me off in front. I don’t mind the shit wagon.”
“Righteous.” I hold out my hand in between us and he gives me a high five.
When I stop the truck, he looks over at me with wide eyes and a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. The expression screams panic. So, I give the Gus version of a pep talk. “Pax, you’re cooler than the back side of a pillowcase, remember that. Now go give ‘em hell, dude.”
He smiles. “Thanks, Gus.”
“Sure thing. See you at three-thirty. I’ll try to park here. If I’m running late I’ll text you. Fair warning, there's a ninety-nine percent chance I’ll be running late, because I’m always late. It’s who I am.”
Guess who’s fifteen minutes early to pick up Pax? This guy. I’m kinda proud of myself. I don’t want to let this kid down, because if letting him down wasn’t bad enough, it’s also like letting Impatient down. And I don’t want to do that either.
Pax walks out with his head down. I wonder if he walked around all day like that. Trying not to be noticed. Trying to blend in. When he looks up, he smiles. That small smile makes me grin.
“How was day one of the rest of your life?”
“Pretty good.” That response was neutral and could go either way. I don’t know him well enough yet to read him.
“You meet any chicks?”
He looks at me like I’m teasing him.
I raise my eyebrows. “What? That’s a legit question. We’re guys, girls rule us. It’s a fact of life.”
His mouth curves slightly as his cheeks redden.
“Aha. Already got your eye on a little filly. What’s her name, dude?”
“Mason.” His cheeks have amped the red level to a nine out of ten.
Laughing, I punch him on the shoulder. “I’m taking you to The Ice Shack for ice cream so you can tell me all about the lovely Mason.”
I do.
And he does.
It’s the happiest I’ve seen the kid yet.
Saturday, September 2
(Gus)
“Pax, I’m giving you fair warning,” I say as I flip on the lights in the stairwell leading down to the basement. “If you sleep in the buff, cover up your snake because I’m coming down.”
It’s early. And it’s Saturday. We should both be sleeping. I feel bad about waking him up, but it’s the only appointment I could get on such short notice.
Pax shifts on the hide-a-bed sofa and throws his forearm over his eyes to guard against the assault of overhead light.
“Sorry, dude. Get your ass up. We’ve got places to go and people to see.”
He doesn’t move his arm, but speaks sleepily from beneath it. “What time is it, Gus?”
“It’s six-fifteen. Like I already said, my deepest apologies, but we have to leave soon. Go scrub the stink off and meet me upstairs in twenty.”
He peels back his arm, his eyes only slits. “Where are we going?”
“Top secret.” It’s not. We’re going to the optometrist, but I’ll let him in on that when he’s fully awake.
We make the appointment with a few minutes to spare.
Pax is confused when we pull up and I get out. “Why are we here?”
“You ever had your eyes checked?”
He shakes his head.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Vamanos, muchacho.”
Pax fills out the forms and in minutes he’s back with the doctor. I chat up the elderly woman sitting next to me while I wait. She’s waiting on her husband who’s in to have his cataracts checked out. She’s probably in her eighties, super cool lady with stark white hair. By the time Pax comes out, I know how many kids, grandkids, and great grandkids she has—and I’ve seen photos of most of them. I also know she was born in Maine, but moved to San Diego forty years ago when her husband’s job relocated them. She has a Pomeranian named Bitsy. And she smells like baby powder. I like her. Pax is hanging his head as he trudges over to me.
“What’s the verdict?”
“He said I need glasses.”
Hell yes you do, I think. I’ve watched him squint for days now. “Sweet. Let’s do this.”
We sit down at a table with an adorable, peppy optician named Brandy. When she asks Pax if he wants glasses or contacts, he looks at me.
I shrug. “What do you want, Pax? This is all you.”
He shrugs. “I don’t like touching around my eyes. I don’t think I could put contacts in, but I don’t want to look like a dork in glasses, either.”
I laugh. “Dork? You’re a good-looking dude. You could totally pull off glasses.” Glancing at Brandy, I add, “See, she’s wearing glasses and rockin’ the hell out of them.” I add a wink for good measure. Brandy smiles and blushes at the compliment.
Pax stammers when he realizes he may have just insulted her. “Sorry, no disrespect. Yours look nice.”
She smiles back sweetly. “Why don’t you try a few frames on and see what you like?”
Pax spends the next thirty minutes trying on everything we throw at him. In the end, he picks a pair of black-rimmed frames. They look good with his dark hair and pale skin.
After Brandy instructs us to come back after two o’clock to pick up Pax’s glasses, I pay for everything, and then we hit a few stores. The kid needs new clothes. He wore uniforms at his last school and doesn’t have much outside of navy blue polos, white button-downs, and khakis. I don’t know Pax, but I know he’s not a polo and khaki kind of dude. He’s indecisive when I tell him to pick out a few shirts and pairs of jeans. Either he doesn’t really know what he likes, or he just doesn’t want me to spend the money on him. I’m guessing both.
&n
bsp; When he finally starts picking up items to look at, he always asks, “What do you think, Gus? Is this cool?”
The first few times I answer with, “I don’t have to wear it. Do you like it?” I don’t want him picking out clothes just because he thinks I like them. When I realize he looks a little overwhelmed, I also realize he’s probably never done this before. I bet his mom always shopped for him. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?” he challenges.
“Just do it, young Jedi.”
He does.
“Now when I say open your eyes, I want you to go pick up the first thing that screams, Hey, Pax, I’m fucking rad. You need me. Okay?”
He smiles and nods. “Okay.”
“Open your eyes.”
He does and after a two second hesitation he walks to a T-shirt on a rack on the back wall that reads, Epic is a state of mind. It’s a black tee with faded white ink.
“Nice choice. Not that I wanna steal your thunder, but I think I need that one, too.”
He eagerly helps me find my size.
After that it doesn’t take long before he’s got several T-shirts, hoodies, and jeans and he's in the dressing room changing. I make sure he has an outfit for every day of the week so he only has to do laundry on the weekends.
After lunch we head to the skate shop to buy him some kicks. He’s been wearing a pair of running shoes that are worn out and probably too small. And his only other pair are brown leather dress shoes that I’m sure were part of his school uniform, based on the fact that they looked like they belonged to a middle-aged man. He picks out some navy blue Half Cabs and wears them out, leaving the running shoes behind.
We pick up his new glasses on the way home. I don’t say anything, but I watch him out of the corner of my eye the whole drive back to the house. The kid is looking around like he was blind and he’s just been given the gift of sight. He’s quiet, just taking it all in, looking at everything up close and far away. It makes me happy. “Pax, you’re the shit in those specs. Just sayin’. Wait until Mason sees you.”
He smiles shyly and his cheeks glow red hot, just like he does every time I bring up her name, and he looks away out the passenger window. I know he’s still smiling. I can feel it.
When we get home he takes all of his new clothes downstairs and appears back upstairs only minutes later wearing new jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt.
“Come with me,” I say and gesture for him to follow me to my room.
It’s the first time he’s been in in my room, and he’s looking around wide-eyed. My room’s pretty sparse, if you don’t count the piles of dirty clothes on the floor. Only a bed, nightstand, and small dresser. I’ve got three guitars—two electric in their cases next to my closet door, and my old acoustic that always sits out propped up in the corner. “Yeah, sorry about the pig sty. I kinda needed to do laundry like two weeks ago.”
I pull out a cardboard box filled with Rook T-shirts from my closet and plunk it on the floor. “I don’t know if you’ve heard our music, but if you want a couple shirts, knock yourself out. If not, no sweat, dude.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
I nod. “Sure.”
He kneels down in front of the box and starts digging through it. After he chooses two, he looks up at me. “Rook is my favorite band. Thanks for these.”
That surprises me. “No shit?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’ve been listening to you guys since the album came out last fall.”
“Wow. Thanks, dude.” I know we get recognized on the street sometimes, but deep down it still shocks me when anyone knows about Rook.
“Actually,” he says, “my dad’s Jim Ridgely, your tour manager.” He says it like an apology.
“Your dad is fucking Hitler?” I ask, immediately wishing I hadn't said that out loud.
He laughs and I’m relieved I didn’t just insult him. I’m also turning this over in my head, figuring out how the pieces all fit together. If Hitler is Paxton's dad, that means he’s also Impatient’s uncle. It's no wonder she could deal with him better than everyone else. Not that their relationship seemed like family at all, but she’s the only one who could deal with his shit and talk to him frankly without coming off like an ass. And now I know why he trusted her.
Pax pushes aside the fucking Hitler comment. “I actually can’t believe I’m standing here in your room. Is this where you write?”
“Usually. Haven’t really written anything in a while.”
Now there’s a look of confusion on his face. “What about your next album? There will be another album, right? Please tell me there’s another album.”
I nod, but I’m not into it. “There will be another album.”
He smiles. He didn’t hear the doubt in my voice. “Good. I need another album. Don’t get me wrong, I could listen to the first one all day, every day, for the rest of my life, but … ” He looks up at me expectantly.
But.
That’s my life.
But.
And all of the indecision and unknowns that it holds.
Sunday, September 10
(Gus)
Ma, Impatient, and Pax are out at a movie. Normally I’d go, but I went with Franco and saw the same film a few days ago. I should be doing something other than lying on the sofa mindlessly channel-surfing, but I’m too lazy to figure out what that something might be.
When there’s a knock at the door, I’m cursing whoever it is because I don’t want to get up. But after two rounds of knocking I can’t ignore it anymore, and climb my lazy ass off the sofa. I’m already pissed at whoever it is before I open the door. Then it gets worse. It’s fucking Michael. I’ve got zero patience for this sonofabitch.
Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly before I look at him and say, “She’s not here.”
He glares at the expensive watch on his wrist and looks irritated. “What time will she be back?”
“She’ll be gone all afternoon.” I shrug; it’s fuck you.
He caught that. He raises his eyebrows in irritation and frustration. “You’re sure about that?”
“Yup. Pretty sure.” I’m done with this convo. I’m ready to get back to the sofa and my shit TV watching.
The dude actually starts tapping his toe while he’s thinking. It’s some kind of nervous, yet alpha, mannerism. I hate it.
I start to close the door on him but he reaches out and stops it with his hand. It’s a bold move, considering we were more than done here.
“Tell her I stopped by,” he says. It’s a command, not a request.
I glance at his hand, still gripping the door. “Should I also tell her you forgot to take off your wedding ring, or should I leave that part out?”
He retracts his hand quickly and shoves it in the pocket of his dress pants. He was just pushed off the cliff into the valley of guilt, and it makes him squirm. It’s not a regretful squirm; it’s the squirm of a slippery fucker who’s never accepted responsibility for any wrongdoing in his life. Judging by the look on his face, Impatient doesn’t know.
I don’t wait for him to say anything. “Get the fuck outta here.” And then I slam the door in his face.
Tuesday, September 19
(Scout)
It’s been a long day. I just got home from work and I’m already looking forward to going to sleep in a few hours. I'm longing for it like the two of us haven’t been together in days. Sleep’s been messing with me the past few weeks. Anxiety is my nemesis. You name it, I worry about it. Working with Audrey is like a dream, but I still worry about it—my job performance, my ability to learn the business quickly and effectively, my interaction with clients. She always assures me that she’s pleased with my work, but I have so much doubt and it’s so deeply ingrained that it’s hard for me to turn off the worry.
I worry about Audrey. It’s not my job as her assistant to worry about her, but I do because I’ve become so fond of her on a personal level. She’s my mentor and someone I aspire to be like.
I admire her so much and I just want the best for her and somehow that translates into worry within me.
I worry about Paxton and how he’s doing at school. I worry about Jane and her well-being and mental state. I worry about my past with Michael—and even though I’ve put that behind me, the worry still nags at me. I worry about Gustov, both him and our friendship. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know how to do true friendship with anyone other than Paxton, but I know that I want to be his friend.
The hard part is that our friendship is slightly complicated by the attraction I sometimes feel toward him. It comes at the oddest times: when he’s done something nice, or when he looks at me with a goofy look on his face, or when he says something unexpected. It just happens, and I don’t know how to deal with that yet. It’s new and foreign.
So I worry about anything and everything. Sometimes it’s warranted. Sometimes it’s not. I just worry. It’s what I do. And it’s exhausting.
It’s not until I hear a meow that I open my eyes and navigate the hallway to my bedroom fully alert. It’s a small, gray and white kitten. It’s circling me, lovingly brushing up against my legs. When I squat down to pet it, it’s purring. “Hey, there,” I whisper. I can’t help smiling until its tiny head tilts up toward me and then I gasp and pick it up. “Oh, you poor thing.” The injuries aren’t fresh, but they look like they healed with little or no human intervention. Its left eye is absent, the socket misshapen from trauma. Half of its left ear is missing. And its left front leg is grotesquely bowed out as if it was badly broken and never healed correctly.
The purring intensifies.
“You fucking little traitor.” It’s Gustov.
Startled, I freeze, still holding the kitten. “What?”
He points at the cat in my arms. “Spare Ribs.”
Now I’m really confused. “Spare ribs?”
“Yeah, that’s her name, Spare Ribs. I found her this morning down the street. She’d climbed into the Cominsky’s trash can and was going to town on some—”