September Rain

by A.R. Rivera

62

  -Angel

  Six Months later . . .

  Having so many choices is odd, almost confusing thing because for years I had none. I had to accept whatever choices were made on my behalf.

  But no more.

  Now, I make decisions every day. I'm doing it right now, actually. "Pancakes, please, with maple syrup."

  The first choice I made seemed like a very small one, but it turned out to be huge. I decided to run, and to keep going no matter what. And that going led me here, to this small diner.

  "Excellent choice." The waitress is an older woman with short graying hair. She smiles warmly before striding away with my menu tucked under her arm.

  Staring at the steaming mug of coffee between my palms, I can't keep from smiling.

  This morning, I woke up in an empty house just around the corner from here. I stumbled upon it while I was walking late last night. There was a 'for sale' sign and a loose board over a broken window. I managed to pry the plywood away enough to climb through.

  I have learned a very important lesson: not all lawyers are bad. It turns out that Mister Brandon was right.

  My review was never about how the cops screwed me, or even about the terrible things that happened to Jake that night. It was all about money and nothing more. Budget cuts: two unlikely and beautiful words that mean something totally different when set apart. But together, they mean freedom.

  After talking to my lawyer in the hospital that day, he said to be patient. And I was. I didn't care what happened; which was good, because what ended up happening wasn't much. But it was enough.

  Just enough to create opportunity. A small window of opportunity.

  The court appointed doctors I talked with-the lady with the tight hair bun and the quiet guy with the sodas-they saw fit to side with my lawyer and convinced that last Doctor, Schumacher, to have me moved. And so I got to leave a few months after they let me out of the infirmary, once my weight reached a healthy number.

  That window of opportunity I mentioned was less than a foot wide, shorter in height, and it was mounted in the outer wall of the common room that the new place let me sit in whenever I wanted. Moderate security meant I could sit unsupervised. I wasn't constantly watched and restrained like in Canyon View. It was a secured sanitarium, but not a maximum security and I liked it much better. There were still bars on the windows and guards in every room. It was still surrounded by a fence. But the guards wore no side arms. There were no guards in towers with long range rifles posted outside, either.

  The place had lots of small windows without bars, though. Most of them looked too small for a person to fit through and were placed on the upper floors. They were the kind of windows with a crankshaft. The glass lifted out at an angle, from the bottom, when you cranked them open.

  Even though us inmates were surrounded by guards, there weren't enough present on that early morning in September. It was the eleventh-a Tuesday. The sun was shining bright. Breakfast was being served. The television in the common room should have been turned off when the Andy Griffith show was interrupted by Breaking News. But all anyone saw was that one burning skyscraper. And then a second plane came into view. Everyone froze, some captivated, some shocked. Then the news anchors started talking about high-jacked airplanes. And then they started saying "terror attack."

  The entire staff was distracted. Just enough. Just long enough for me to crank the small window open, slip out, and skid the ten-plus feet down the brick face of the building. I was scared at first and hung there until my fingers gave out. The drop was kind of far and I was risking broken bones, but it was worth it.

  So when I say it was a small window of opportunity, I mean it literally. Just enough room to land me here, in this cushy booth, drinking coffee with real cream, waiting for warm pancakes. There were some stops in between, of course. Lots of running, at first. Some hitchhiking, too, along with the necessity of stealing. Only what I needed. Like food. Clothes from a clothesline. The occasional newspaper.

  "Here you go." The waitress sets a stacked plate of fluffy pancakes in front of me. They're steaming and swimming in melting butter.

  "Thank you."

  My eyes widen and close involuntarily as I take the first bite. So good. The syrup is so delicious and sweet, it makes my teeth hurt. I wash the bite down with a swig of fresh-brewed coffee. I've died and gone to heaven.

  It doesn't matter what happens now. I'm out. I'm free. I am alone. And I'm going to do whatever I have to do to stay this way. To choose what I put into my own body. I can eat or not. I can sleep, or go to the library, or watch TV. I get to choose where I go from here.

  I'm still planning on finding Jake, just not yet. I want to take some time to explore my choices first. I know in my heart that Jake will wait for me and he loved me, so he wouldn't want me to make a hasty decision, especially now that I'm rid of . . . the green-eyed past.

  It's like I can think clearly. Like finding myself suddenly awake. So until I decide to join Jake in the afterlife or whatever, I'm thinking that I need to keep moving. West has always seemed like an excellent direction, and it will make me feel closer to him to be in the place he was headed.

  After breakfast, I plan to walk the two blocks down the road to a giant Wal-Mart. It took a few days, but I've collected enough bottles and cans to buy my very own bottle of shampoo and soap. I might buy conditioner for my hair, too, so long as it's not too expensive.

  After finishing the pancakes and coffee, I make for the long hallway around the side of the diner, in search of the bathroom.

  In front of the mirror-a real mirror-my image is as sharp as I remember it, though I look different.

  I'm a little bit taller. My face is longer and thinner. My cheeks have lost their childish roundness. My hair is still the same style as when I was seventeen. Too long and too straight. Combing my fingers through the tangles, I remember the feeling of each strand slapping against my shoulders as I ran across the open lawn, searching for guard towers that weren't there, heading for the high chainlink fence in the distance. I was terrified, shoving the round toe of each plastic slip-on shoe into the fence: expecting to hear the wailing alarm ringing over my thundering pulse, dreading the sound of pursuit, but there was nothing. Just my labored breath as I climbed.

  No one is in any of the bathroom stalls. No girls with black hair and bad attitudes, no greedy eyes peering back at me. I haven't seen . . . that person since that day in the shower and I don't expect to.

  I don't need that relationship anymore.

  If I have learned anything from this whole experience, it's that I don't know how to give up. I tried before, but I'm a fighter. I can take care of myself now. I can do it. If my mind can make up an entire person and give it a life and a past, dreams and goals, then it can certainly figure out how to survive this span of . . . want.

  Besides, when you're a small female like I am, it's surprisingly easy to get what you need. All you have to do is look for it. Most of the time, a man of stature is willing to give whatever I have need of, so long as it's small and doesn't require much time or expense. A ride or a drink. When I can't get people to give me what I need, I have to take the opportunities as they come.

  When I walk out of the bathroom stall, there's an older lady standing at the mirror, digging through her purse. I keep my eyes down, washing my hands as she smears on a shimmery lipstick before tossing it back in her bag. She blots her lips, and when she steps a few feet away from the mirror to throw her tissue in the trash, I pass between her and the counter.

  Three things happen very quickly. One: my fingers lift her shiny, red designer wallet from her purse and tuck it under my arm. Two: she turns around. But then the third thing happens: I point to the trash can behind her and say, "You missed." Referring to the tissue she's just thrown. Of course, she didn't miss, but she doesn't know that. There are other tissues on the floor. She turns back around as I walk out the door.

  I only take when I h
ave to. And if things go the way I hope, I won't have to do it for long.

  Out on the street, I take in the warm, fresh air. Looking through the glass wall of the diner, I spot the waitress that served me and walk faster, heading for the corner where the pedestrian light has just switched to green.

  Wal-Mart is confusing. A maze of aisles and products I've never even imagined. I'm bug-eyed and lost for at least a half hour before finally stumbling into the shampoo aisle. And just when I start to breathe easy, I am overwhelmed once more by the vast selection. There must be a hundred kinds of shampoo: big and small bottles for every hair type, length, and color. For dyed hair, dye-free, scented, unscented, salon quality, like salon quality.

  What's the difference?

  I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath.

  Then, remember the wallet. Pulling the shiny red leather from the front of my jeans, I can tell it's loaded with credit cards. But I'm not going to touch those. It would be wrong. Unzipping the compartment on the inside, I find a long, neat pile of bills. Ones on the top of the fives, on top of twenties. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars is shoved back into my pocket.

  Down the aisle, I spot a tall guy in a blue vest. I walk up to him, all false-confidence and bravado.

  This is what works in every situation: confidence. I've discovered I can get away with nearly anything, so long as I seem sure of myself. Confidence makes people think you know what you're doing. Act confident enough and they'll believe anything.

  "Mark," I say, nodding to the workers' name tag. "I found this in the parking lot." And then I hand him the old lady's wallet. Opened, showing him the edge of the few bills I left in there, as I point at a business sized card. "This is one of those If-Lost-Please-Return-To cards. That's the lady's phone number. If you call, I'm sure she'll come get it."

  Mark seems surprised and appreciative as he gives the wallet the a once-over, as if he could tell if anything were missing. "Thank you for your honesty. I'll go hand this over to my manager."

  And he's off, waving back at me, thanking me again before he leaves the aisle.

  When I look to the left, my gaze falls upon a familiar white bottle. Generic coconut shampoo. The kind Deanna used to buy me. I snatch it and the matching bottle of conditioner. In the next aisle, I locate the bars of soap. It's just as chaotic as the shampoo aisle. Too many choices. I search for the pink wrapper that I remember seeing in the soap dish back in the trailer. It smelled like flowers. Once I find it, I make my way up to the many checkout lines and have to make another tough choice. There are so many types of candy. Chocolate or fruit. Peanut butter. Crunchy, chewy, tangy. I grab one of each type, but two packages of Starburst because they used to be my favorite, and a pack of mint gum. It's been so long since I had access to anything like this, I can't resist. Plus, I'll need snacks for the long bus ride to L.A. Thanks to the old lady in the bathroom I have enough to get me there.

  Right after the candy, just above the conveyor where my items are stacked, I spot the news magazines and gossip rags. They all have pictures of the same things: those two burning towers in the middle of New York. The terrorist attack that changed the world and sparked a war. It's been a few months, now. Everyone is afraid of these terrorists, the unknown enemy.

  Not me. I know who my enemies are. My demon has a name and face, and I have defeated her. She can't haunt me anymore. I am no longer her victim.

  I didn't wait for anybody to give me a second chance. I took it.

  I'm moving forward, conquering the terrain, carving my path as I go. I may not deserve it, but I have it none the less. It would be stupid and wasteful not to take advantage, at least for a little while. It is a different world and I am a different person and I can find a way to live that will honor Jake. I know I can.

  Making my way through the parking lot with my plastic bag, I'm heading for a new place in a direction. I'm not stopping 'til I see the Pacific ocean. I've never been to the beach before and am looking forward to it.

  After all I have been through, all that has been taken from me, I have managed to take something back. And even though I may not have everything I want, I have found hope.

  It's a new day. Another opportunity to make up for the past, to take a new direction, one in which my future is not predetermined.

  There is uncertainty, but there is also possibility. And I'm not scared. I'm excited.

  For the first time since losing Jake, I have hope. Hope for a better tomorrow than yesterday. Hope for a future. For contentment.

  I'm grabbing it with both hands.

  Epilogue

  Three years later. . .

  I was seventeen years old when life as I knew it ripped apart.

  At twenty-seven, I'm still mending.

  I have something now that I didn't have then: a new name, a new life, and a world that's wide open for me.

  The space I set aside for Jake is still there. I feel it every day-some days more than others.

  Today is a more day. Mainly because I haven't been able to shake off what happened this morning.

  I think I saw him in the park.

  I know how it sounds. I saw someone who's been dead for a decade and he was alive. He looked younger, too, which was weird, but he also looked happy.

  When I think about the way it happened, it makes me wonder if there is a possibility that it might have been real.

  Doubting any part of any detail I see makes me want to puke all over again. I haven't heard voices or experienced any delusions in a long time. I'm careful. I take care of myself: I exercise and eat right. I don't take risks.

  This morning I was walking through the park across the street from where I live. It's a short cut to the nearest bus stop. A familiar route I take daily. Then, I heard music. It's not unusual to hear music in the park; people throw parties there all the time. But this is Los Angeles, and the part I live in, most of the music is played by mariachis or has an excess amount of tubas and accordions. What I heard was an acoustic guitar. I looked in the direction it came from and saw two boys, young men really, sitting on the stone fountain in the parks' center. They both looked to be teenagers, maybe early twenties. The one with the guitar was thin and had curly brown hair. He smiled and plucked, then began singing a song I've never heard before. As he got into the chorus, I got closer-stopping dead when I saw the lanky, brown-haired boy beside him. My heart dropped from my chest, because it was Him! Jake-just like he used to look when I first saw him at Joes' Pizza-except he was sitting beside the boy playing guitar, and tapping his hands on his knees, singing a harmony.

  I couldn't take the chance that I was seeing things again. I had to be seeing things-Jake is dead.

  So, I ran away as fast as I could. I wasn't dressed for a jog either. I was just starting my daily job hunt, wearing my discount power-suit and heels-which I promptly took off once I hit the pavement. I passed the bus stop and kept going until I couldn't see the park anymore. I ran until I had to stop. By then, I was way on the other side of Figueroa.

  I went into the first place with an open sign, which happened to be a diner. The waitresses were all wearing roller skates, but they had decent coffee and a 'Help Wanted' ad in the window. I filled out an application. It doesn't pay much beyond tips, but it comes with a one room loft to make up for it. I don't want to sling hash for a living, but am running out of options.

  +++

  As I stalk through the grassy park early the next morning, I'm singing a new song I heard on the radio. It's by this band called My Chemical Romance. Humming 'I'm Okay,' I'm careful to keep most of my weight on the balls of my feet so my heels don't sink into the spongy ground.

  I left a little bit early because I have a job interview at that diner, but I also want to search the park. The muscles in my calves tighten uncomfortably, like a spasm might be coming on. I bend down and flip my heels off-problem solved. Then, it's a leisurely stroll, through the soft green grass, not caring if the bottoms of my stocking feet
are stained for the duration of their short life. The cool grass feels good.

  Better still, there is no music playing this morning. No acoustic guitars. No haunting young boys with bronze hair and hazel eyes.

  +++

  Taking a deep breath, I sit down at the back table, across from an older, heavy-set man. His name tag says, Zane. He has buzzed salt and pepper hair and bright blue eyes. His hand rests across the table. In it, he holds my application. Glancing between me and the paper, he takes a deep breath.

  "Can you skate?"

  I nod, "Yes, sir."

  "How good are you?"

  "Been skating my whole life. It's one of my favorite things to do."

  He nods. "You know this is under the table, right? I need someone who won't ask for a W-2, which is why the job comes with the apartment upstairs and two comp meals a day. Another employee puts Mom and Pop into a higher tax bracket and they're gonna be retiring in a few years."

  I nod my head as if this is standard. "Yes. Your parents own the place?"

  "Nah. I'm the night manager. I came in this morning for the interview." Zane takes a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Mom and Pop is just easier to say than Henrietta and Voytek." He smiles at his little attempt at humor, so I do, too.

  "Would I have to buy my own skates?"

  Zane shakes his head. "We'll provide you with a pair. What's your size?"

  "Six and a half." I mumble. "What about a uniform?" The other waitresses are all wearing black bottoms with monogrammed pockets and hot pink button-down shirts. They look like a ladies bowling league on roller skates.

  "It's twenty-five for the uniform. You pay when you can. You know, most people don't want to move for a low paying job."

  "Well, it suits me. I don't own a car and I'm in my second year of business school. My night class is just down the street. Right now, I've got five roommates who are all model-slash-actresses moonlighting as dancers. The house is a constant party-zone and I need a quiet place to study."

  He smiles wide and sets a small silver key on the table between us. "You'll do. The place is small, but it's clean. I'll give you a few days to get moved in. You can start Wednesday morning at seven."

  "Great." My face is stretched in an uncontainable grin.

  Now I just have to learn how to skate.

  +++

  I stare down at the saucer and cup in my hand. The coffee shudders inside the ceramic mug as I set it on the tabletop in front an elderly man. They say he's here every Tuesday. He's not the reason I'm shaking. It's not the working on skates, either. I'm a natural skater. The first time I put them on, I could just do it. It's easy, mostly. And way more fun than walking. I just have to remember not to swing my feet out too far on either side so I don't kick the chairs or roll over the customers' toes.

  It's the song on the radio that's playing through the diner. Usually the music is from one of the jukeboxes, but when it's slow, like now, the radio kicks on. It's supposed to be an easy listening station.

  This song is anything but easy. Angel by Aerosmith.

  The sound of it still makes me want to smile, then I can't help but remember what happened, which makes me want to curl up and die.

  Leaving the coffee and cream on the table, I turn and head back to the counter to keep busy.

  One of the beautiful things about the state of California, aside from the natural beauty, is when the state asks if you're a convicted felon, and you check the 'no' box, they take your word for it. I found that out when I applied for state health insurance-it's one of those unenforced laws. I have to manage. Management is the most important thing. I needed insurance to pay for my meds and therapy. Part of maintaining good mental health is staying away from stressful situations. Don't get too hungry, too angry, or too sleepy. Those are my triggers. Oh, and I have to ask for help when I need it.

  The last notes of the song fade into an Elvis tune as my name is called.

  "Sheri-berry!" The grating voice of my boss calls out to me.

  "Coming," I call back to Chip, and make one more swipe over the glass pie case before rolling to the doorway of the kitchen to poke my head inside.

  Chip is a good manager and a shitty speller. My name is supposed to be Sherry, like the wine. But when Chip printed up my nametag, it was spelled with one R and an I, like some mid-western idiot made it up. So I roll around for ten hours a day with my misspelled name pinned to my chest. Even so, everyone calls me Sheri-berry, rhyming like a stupid playground name game.

  For obvious reasons, I had to change it. I chose the best I could-the one that was easiest to remember. The lyrics from Jakes first song gave me Sherry, and then I took my mothers' last name, Barry. I guess I was asking for it.

  I've settled into something here at this little out of the way diner in an old neighborhood. It's my own routine. I work in the days and go to school at night and make time for therapy, eating, sleeping, and homework in between. It's an odd sort of normal-maybe something like that normal that everyone is always talking about. The one they openly reject and secretly savor.

  "You rang?" My voice is low, monotone, imitating Lurch from that old Munsters TV show. Funny to those of us who are too poor for cable. If it weren't for public access, I'd have no culture. Besides, Chip happens to look a lot like that creeper. But I don't tell him that because he's the only son of owners, Voytek and Henrietta.

  "Table two's waiting and Jeanine's on her break," he orders from over the rim of his glasses.

  I salute him and take two greasy menus under one arm, fill two glasses with water, and head on over.

  "Hello, my name is Sheri. Can I get you something to drink?" I set the glasses down, then the menus in the center and go for my writing pad. Focused. Poised, with my pen-tip set to paper, anticipating. The two guys grab the ice water, down them in a flash, and then ask for refills with what sounds like strong accents. Every other person in L.A. has an accent, though. You get used to them.

  When I get back with the water pitcher to grant the request, their noses are buried behind the lunch menus.

  "How much for an order of chips?" One with curly hair says.

  "They're French fries, here." The second says.

  "Half-order or whole?" I ask, and then realize I haven't looked at their faces. I've been concentrating on not banging the tips of my skates on the chair legs.

  Eye contact makes me go weak in the knees. The man who asked about fries looks exactly like the boy from the park.

  The boy who looks exactly like Jake.

  My mouth goes dry when I see those hazel eyes, set under a strong brow and full lips, slightly puckered as he focuses on my wide eyes and gaping jaw.

  The name flies out, taking my breath with it. "Jake?"

  Hazel eyes stare widely back at me. "What's that?" His full lips ask with an English accent.

  My skates roll back from the table. The oblong restaurant zooms by. Chip and the cooks watch me plow through the kitchen. A few voices crack out questions, but I can't stop. The air breezes by as I make my way out the back door of the kitchen, leaving their questions unanswered. I have a few of my own that I need to sort, first.

  The air outside is a warm slap to the face. The dumpsters in the alley are near capacity. I breathe in the rancid air through my half apron, counting backwards from twenty, trying to calm down. Chip follows me out, aiming to give me a talking to, but pauses when he sees me hunching over, trying not to lose my complimentary breakfast on the pavement.

  He sets on palm against the door frame. "Are you pregnant?"

  Spitting sour acid onto the broken asphalt, I croak, "I'm having your baby, Chip. Isn't it magnificent?"

  He offers a half-smile at my sarcasm. "Miracle of life. Jeanine, breaks over."

  Jeanine, the waitress I was covering for is standing across the alleyway with a cigarette in her hand. I didn't even see her there.

  She nods to Chip, "Be right in." To me she frowns, aski
ng, "You sick or something?"

  Twice. I've seen him twice, in two different places. And Chip was the one who told me to take the table, so he saw them, too.

  But did he see what I saw?

  I nod my head. "Watch my tables? Just a few minutes?"

  "Yeah. No problem." Jeanine stamps out her cigarette, coughing her way past me.

  Jake was not English. But that boy has his same brilliant copper hair. His eyes and strong jaw.

  The kitchen door swings open again as Chip bursts back into the alley. "What the hell? Are you actually sick?"

  I shake my head. "No."

  "Then get your ass back to your station. The lunch rush is picking up."

  Propping myself against the side of the building, I beg, "Five minutes?"

  I hear the creak of the kitchen door as Chip steps back inside, yelling, "This counts as your break."

  It takes another few moments for my breathing to return to normal. I keep my eyes shut tight, willing myself to calm down. I've got maybe another two minutes before Chip starts to get angry. And before then, I've got to make a choice.

  It isn't him. It isn't him. He just looks like him.

  I've heard about people who aren't related looking alike. It's possible. But there's only one way to be sure. I have to suck it up and roll back inside. Back to work. Work is good.

  Once I'm back on the dining floor, I'm disappointed. First, because Chip was exaggerating. There are four tables in Jeanine's station and two in mine. Second, because I don't have the guts to look at the two guys, quietly waiting. So I stop at the pie case, wiping at streaks that aren't there. When Jeanine walks by with an order ticket, I take her by the elbow and inquire on the customers at table two.

  "Two young Brits. Yeah. Very cute, too." Her eyes widen. "You want to ask one of them out." She accuses, trying to hide a smile.

  "No." I answer, a little too forcefully. They look too young, I think, but don't say. "I just want to make sure they're still there."

  She points to the unobstructed view. "Clearly. If either one says 'yes' to a date, you better be ready to foot the bill, because those two are broke."

  I roll closer and look around the long room, taking in every occupied table but the one I'm most interested in. "I'm not asking anybody out. And how can you possibly know something like that? They've been here all of five minutes." My stomach is still constricting.

  Jeanine shakes her head. "Did you see them? The curly-headed one has a stamp on his hand. A red shield."

  I nod knowingly and feel a twinge of pain searing across my chest. When I first came to LA, I was broke. I stayed over at the Salvation Army shelter for the first few months. I was grateful for the bed, but some days it was tough to get a meal. They fed the children and their parents first, often running out of the main course before they got to the single adults.

  My gut clenches again. "What did they order?"

  "Two waters and a half-order of fries."

  As Jeanine says it, Joe, the line cook, calls up the order. I thank Jeanine and roll over to grab the hot plate from the window. I'm out of excuses. I've got to suck it up and get the job done.

  On my way to the table, I stop back at the pie case and cut two slices, load them with whipped cream, and then pour two glasses of milk. With my full tray in hand, I take in a deep breath, bite my lip, and push forward.

  Deanna once told me, 'the only road through is called, do.' You do what you gotta do.

  I catch sight of the two young men, and am trying desperately not to think about how much the lanky, copper-haired one reminds me of Jake. But it's impossible to look at one and not think about the other. The resemblance is too striking.

  Slowly rolling over, I can only watch. The boy does not move like Jake. He lacks the natural grace. Then, closing my eyes, I listen to the conversation. The boy does not sound like Jake. So the similarity is only in the hair. And the eyes. The jaw line. And the smile. The shape of his face. That's all.

  My pulse thrums in my ears and warms my face. I set a palm to my over-heated cheek. What the hell? It isn't him. I tell myself, and pull to stop tableside.

  The two are talking in low voices. I place the pie plates and milk in front of them.

  "Madam, we didn't order this." The one with curly hair says.

  It's a half-scoff, half-laugh that comes out before I ask, "Did you just call me 'Madam'? And I know you didn't. It's my way of apologizing for running off a few minutes ago."

  "Technically, I think you rolled." The one that isn't Jake says and folds his hands over the tabletop. His fingers are long and slender. The edges of each nail bed are lined with dirt. On the back of his right hand, is the stamp; the shield that says he is in need.

  My mouth goes dry and whatever blood was heating my face has fled. I feel pale and cold. It's too much.

  "Are you well?" The one with curls asks.

  I shake my head and point to the stamp. "That's a rough place."

  "Rough's a mild description, I'd say." Curly unwraps a straw and puts it in his milk as the boy who isn't Jake pours way too much ketchup all over the French fries. "We're grateful for your generosity."

  I clear my throat, trying to keep my eyes on the slightly older looking boy with the curls. "What's your name?"

  He places a hand over his chest, "I'm called Marcus." Then, extends the same hand to his friend. "This here's me mate, Evan."

  I can't bring myself to look at Evan for long, as he dips his head in greeting, his mouth full of food. "What brings you two to Los Angeles?"

  "I'm going to be an actor." Not Jake-Evan-says at the same time that Marcus says, "He's going to be an actor."

  My heart aches and I rub at my chest. Another commonality: an artistic mind. But I tell myself it's not the same. Jake was one of a kind. But I guess it's not so bad . . . having a real someone walking around who actually looks like him.

  "Have you landed any jobs yet?" I make a point to keep my eyes on Evans' shoulder, which doesn't look as broad or as sculpted as Jakes was.

  Marcus sighs. "We've only been 'ere . . . Not a month, yet an 'ave no place to start."

  And because I spent nearly six months living with dancers-slash-models-slash-actresses and listened to them bicker about this part or that casting call, I am filled with useless information about this sort of thing. "Well. Up at the corner is a news stand. There you'll find a circular called Backstage. It's free and comes out every Thursday. The ads aren't for anything beyond toothpaste commercials or billboards, but it's a place to start." Mustering my courage, I look Evan in the eye. "Do you have head shots?"

  His mouth is full of blackberry pie. He swallows and politely wipes at each corner with a napkin before speaking. "Not yet."

  I can tell by the troubled look on his face that this is an obstacle. "I might know someone who can help. One of my former roommates majors in photography." She still owes me seventy dollars for long distance calls she wracked on my personal phone line. "Can you sound American?"

  Evan sets his empty glass of milk down and almost smiles. "Actually, it's my best accent." He says this without inflection and I have to concede. It sounds pretty good.

  Examining him further, I try to ignore the aching similarities to Jake and really see him. His energy.

  Turning back to Marcus, I aim to avoid the mega-watt smile stretching Evans' face. "He's got an interesting look and presence, which should help him find an agent. It's nearly impossible to find work without one. He'll also need to start exercising and eating healthier than fruit pie and French fries. In this business, your looks are your livelihood."

  Something inside me swells and I don't know why, but I have an uncontrollable desire to help these two.

  Marcus nods his head as Evan clears his throat. "I am right here. You might try talking to me rather than about me. Do I really look so bad?"

  Turning his direction, I notice another table has filled up in my station. A party of five. Three men, two women; dressed in business att
ire.

  "Don't leave. I'll be right back."

  I might be going crazy. But it doesn't feel like it. Helping a person in need is the right thing to do, (isn't it?) setting aside the fact that I have steadily avoided getting involved in anyone else's affairs. But finding someone that is so much like Jake is impossibly weird. Remarkable, even. And doing as much as I can to help him feels strangely, exactly right-like helping Jake himself in a round-about way.

  Grabbing a stack of menus, I make my way over to the new table and introduce myself, then rattle off the Specials. It's very easy to serve people who are on their lunch break. Since they're working in a timeframe, they almost always know what they want when they walk in the door. It's no different for this crowd: no one wants a menu, or appetizer. I take out my notepad take everyone's order, and then pass off the ticket to the kitchen so Joe can get to work on it. After that, I fill and deliver their drinks, make a quick stop to check on table five-they want some more napkins and the check, which I promptly deliver-before finally aiming back to table two.

  To Marcus and Evan.

  From across the oblong dining floor, I see they've cleared their plates. They seem to be waiting for the check, too. But I don't want them to go, yet. Making a quick detour, I stop at the soups station and fill two bowls with the soup of the day-its vegetable beef. No one orders it-and fill a ramekin with packets of crackers.

  When I return to the table, Marcus' eyes go wide. "What are you doin'?"

  I set a bowl of steaming soup in front of Evan first, and then Marcus, explaining as I go. "Look. I've been where you are. I had no one to help me, either. I know what that feels like."

  Evan breaks away from sprinkling the crackers into his soup. "What makes you think we don't? Have help or family, or something?"

  This time I am anxious to meet his eyes. "You wouldn't be staying in a shelter if you did. And it's no big deal. Everybody needs help sometimes."

  Marcus hesitates, staring down at a spoon. "Thank you, once again for the charity, Sheri."

  While the two young men dig in, a sense of satisfaction builds inside. With a deep breath of courage, I square my shoulders. "You know . . . I might be able to help you find a place to stay. You need help finding your way around, too. Los Angeles is . . . fickle. It's tough to navigate when you don't know anyone."

  Evans' hazel eyes widen. He sets his spoon down and wipes his mouth. "You would do that? For strangers?"

  I shrug, because it feels so awkward to stand here and have something to offer. But it feels amazingly right, too. Like my homage to Jake. I could make him proud. "Absolutely."

  Marcus brushes a long lock of curls away from his forehead. "We haven't got any money."

  "I figured that. You can use my address for booking jobs. Or if you need a place to crash . . ."

  Evan seems to gasp. Blinking up at me, he almost whispers, "How do you know we won't rob you?"

  I'm holding up both hands, palms out. "I think you're smart enough to know that I'd find you if you did. Besides, all my stuff is shit."

  Marcus chuckles. "We could be psychopaths."

  I'm looking Marcus straight in his eyes now. "No, you couldn't. You're just two people who need guidance. Besides, you'll find a way to pay me back. I'll make sure of it."

  I lean in, addressing the doubt in their faces. "Come by my place around six. I'll make you dinner and we can talk about it. My apartment is just above this place."

  Pointing to the side entrance of the restaurant I continue explaining. "Outside that door is a flight of stairs. My front door's at the top. I'm off at two."

  I can do this.

  I can help and not hurt.

  + + +

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  Between Octobers, Book 1, Savor The Days Series:

  Happy endings have often eluded Grace Zuniga. Now, as she finds herself facing deadly trouble, she's hoping and praying that pattern can change.

  When Grace wakes up in a dark, confined space, having no memory of how she got there, the fear is nearly crippling. She can't surrender to it. Her children need her. She's all they have left after losing their father. Though Grace is not sure she can survive, she's determined to try. But to do that, she has to figure out who took her and how she ended up trapped and alone in the wilderness, at the mercy of a person who will do anything to keep her from escaping.

  Stumbling through her bleak circumstances, Graces' mind wanders over the last life-changing year, from one October to the next, reliving the most precious and heart-rending moments that led up to her kidnapping.

  The previous October, when Grace stepped into an elevator, and into the life of sexy, enigmatic actor Rhys Matthews, a new chapter of her life began. Now Grace must ask herself, "How will it end?"

  Books by A. R. Rivera:

  Savor the Days Series

  Between Octobers

  September Rain

  November Mourning (2017)

  January Falls (2018)

  The Threestone Trilogy:

  Inertia

  Force

  Reaction (2017)