The People We Keep

by Allison Larkin

  As soon as we finish our last spoonfuls of soup, a tall man with perfect posture and thick brown hair pulled in a stubby ponytail brings us two heaping plates of greens. “Ethan, how goes it?” he says, switching our bowls for the entrées. The sleeves of his faded denim shirt are rolled to the middle of his muscled forearms. “Greg said you were here.”

  Ethan stands. They shake hands and lean into a hug with back slaps that sound hollow, like their bodies are just skin stretched over drum frames.

  “Robert, this is April.”

  “Nice to meet you, April.” He reaches for my hand.

  I’m the only one sitting, so I bunch my napkin next to my plate and stand up. “Nice to meet you.”

  Now we’re all standing and it’s awkward. The smell of food makes my stomach rumble, even though it looks like some sort of meat substitute on a bed of fancy lettuce. I imagine thick strips of rare roast beef oozing rosy juice all over the plate.

  “Robert, join us,” Ethan says, sitting down.

  I wonder why he’s Robert and not Rob or Bob. I think maybe they’re both gay, but Robert pushes my chair in for me, and our eyes lock. His are light green, and they can’t break away. He’s stuck.

  I smile and watch his lips mimic mine. I look away. I’m not going to get caught up again. There’s no point.

  Robert pulls a chair from another table and sits on it backward like a high school kid.

  “This seitan looks delicious,” Ethan says, spearing a chunk of fake meat.

  My first forkful of greens flops against my lips, spraying dressing across my cheeks. I wipe my face with the napkin and focus on trying to fold the leaves with my fork. This food is not going to fill the depths of my hunger. I should be busking or driving or calling around for gigs, not hanging out with strange men in exchange for free lawn clippings.

  “April plays guitar.” Ethan gestures to my case. It’s wedged between my chair and the table so I can keep one foot touching it to make sure it’s still there.

  “Are you my new talent scout?” Robert nudges Ethan’s arm with his knuckles.

  “You should be so lucky.” Ethan grins. Leaning across the table toward me, he whispers, “I have impeccable taste,” like it’s a secret.

  “I’m flattered.” I smile and crinkle my nose, trying extra hard to be charming even though my neck is stiff and my eyes hurt. It is always in my best interest to have people remember me fondly.

  “You should be flattered.” Ethan turns back to Robert. “She’s amazing. I’m not even joking.”

  “Are you actually looking for a job?” Robert asks, hugging the chair back. He seems amused by Ethan’s exuberance.

  “I usually spend the summer playing in Florida. Might head down early,” I say, like I haven’t just been there. Like I’m not running away.

  “Who summers in Florida?” Ethan says. “April, no! Stay here.”

  Robert laughs. “He met you, what, ten minutes ago?”

  “Fifteen,” I say. “We walked over from the park.”

  “He’s right,” Robert says, “I do need someone. Band for tomorrow canceled again.” He rubs his palms on the top of the chair. “No pressure, but I own the bar across the street too. If it works out, we could get you a regular dinner gig. And I need someone to run open mic. So maybe it could be worth it for you to stick around? See how tomorrow goes?” He smiles.

  “You don’t even know me.” I smile back, keep his gaze too long. It’s dumb. I like them both more than I should.

  “You don’t even know me, so we’re even.” There’s a little bit of South in his words. Not much, but it’s there. “I need someone. Ethan says you’re good, and he’s really picky. Play tomorrow. If you suck, or you hate it, we’ll go our separate ways. If it works, we’ll talk. How’s that?”

  He’s a good salesman. He makes this all sound very practical. But I broke my rules with Ray. I broke my rules with Justin. I know better.

  “Thanks, but there’s a room waiting for me in Florida,” I say. It’s close to truth. I could go back to bouncing between rentals. Get on the schedule at Ollie’s and play for kids on Manatee Beach. That broke down house will only feel haunted if I let it.

  “You can stay with me,” Ethan says. “I have an extra room.”

  I absolutely cannot picture Ethan snorting coke and attacking me. It’s an impossible thought. He wants me to like him too badly. But maybe my instincts are shit. Maybe that’s the thing I’ve learned about myself.

  “You guys are really nice. I just can’t put anyone out that much.” I take another messy bite of salad. I need to shovel it in and get gone before they melt me.

  “You’d be doing him a favor, I think,” Robert says. He grabs Ethan’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

  “My boyfriend moved out last week.” Ethan sighs. “Ex-boyfriend. It’s possible that I’m not so great at living alone.”

  Robert laughs. “That’s an understatement. This man is lonely.”

  “Hey,” Ethan says. “I bring ice cream.”

  “And stay on my couch watching sad movies all night.”

  “See, April,” Ethan says, “you’d be doing Robert a really big favor.”

  My head aches like someone is tightening a band across my temples. It’s more than ten hours back to Anna Maria Island. I can’t spare motel money on the way. It’s not a route I know well enough to have notes on campgrounds and truck stops recorded in my notebook. And I’m lonely too.

  “I can’t pay room and board right now,” I say.

  “I don’t need a roommate,” Ethan tells me. His eyes have pinwheels of grey mixed in the blue. “I need the house to feel less empty.”

  “I do take up space,” I say, and the tightness in my shoulders starts to give a little. Just for tonight. It’s only bending the rules, not breaking them. I will leave in the morning, before Ethan wakes up, with a full night’s sleep and maybe some aspirin.

  “Do you cook?” Ethan asks, like I’ve agreed to a long-term arrangement.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. Ivan was an excellent cook.”

  Robert clears his throat.

  “Not as good as you,” Ethan says, “but you never cook for me.”

  “What do you call this?”

  “I mean at home.” Ethan pats my arm. “Robert lives next door.”

  “If I stay, you better come over and cook for us,” I say. It’s a reflex. Pretend we’re already good friends, in the middle of things. It’s the way I get what I need.

  “He will,” Ethan says, beaming, and I decide I may as well play through.

  — Chapter 43 —

  Ethan’s house is small and old and adorable. The floors are slightly crooked—just enough to throw me off balance, like it could be me, not the house, that’s askew. Every window has a glass ball, wind chime, or dreamcatcher hanging in it. The curtains are yellow linen and the air smells like sandalwood and aftershave.

  “It’s all yours,” Ethan says, opening the door to a tiny room with a white metal daybed and a patchwork quilt. There are paint stains on the floor and a big roll of white canvas in the corner. “Sorry it’s not cleaned up. It was Ivan’s studio. Mine’s on the sun porch.”

  “Better than my car.”

  “You really sleep in your car?” He looks like he’s worried for me. Touches his hand to his mouth and sighs.

  “Sometimes,” I say.

  “Our little bag lady has a bed.”

  I can tell he likes the idea that he’s rescued me. It’s okay to let him believe he has. People can do so many horrible things to make themselves feel important, so if he feels important from being kind, he’s better than most. “Thanks, Ethan,” I say. “This is nice.”

  “Do you think you’ll stay for a while?” He grabs the top of the doorframe and hangs on with both hands over his head.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I’m still not sure what I’m doing. I’m too tired to keep mucking around on my own forever, but this is ridiculous. You don’t just move
in with a guy you met on the street.

  “I come off as needy, don’t I?” He swings on his arm and smiles.

  “Sort of,” I say, smiling back, because the way he asked felt like when someone wants to know if they have spinach in their teeth.

  “I guess I am needy. Ivan just left and I’m pulling girls off the street to keep me company. I’ll get better. It’ll get better.” There’s something fragile about him that breaks my heart—he can’t cover it up—he’s broken and leaking and he knows that about himself, and here he is trying anyway.

  “Better than picking up girls in bars,” I say.

  Ethan snorts when he laughs and it makes me laugh too. He leaves me to get settled. I lean my guitar case against the wall and plop down on the bed. The quilt is soft and worn and smells like finger paint.

  * * *

  I wake up and it’s dark. I don’t remember where I am. I’m in a bed, on top of the covers, but there’s an afghan tucked over my arms, all the way to my chin.

  Someone stood over me, touched me while I was sleeping, and I didn’t wake up. I try to retrace my steps to here, but my thoughts are crowded out by the feeling of Ray’s fingers digging into my wrist. It’s not real. I know it’s not real, but that memory is too bright, too loud to let other thoughts through, like there wasn’t anything before it, or after.

  I feel around on the floor until I hear the jangle of keys and dig through my bag for my buck knife.

  Streetlights leave tree-branch shadows on the floor. I see the paint stains and remember where I am.

  * * *

  I wake up and it’s bright. I see the glow of sunlight through my eyelids and try to remember what room I’m in before I peek. Paint stains. Ethan in the doorway. He was nice. I remember he was nice. I open my eyes. My buck knife is on the pillow next to me. The afghan is knitted in clown colors. A crystal in the window casts rainbows on the floor.

  I hear a sizzle. Plates clink. A spatula scrapes on a pan. I slept too long to sneak away, but those are friendly noises. And also, I’m hungry.

  I clip my buck knife to the waistband of my skirt, knife on the inside. Pull my shirt over the clip. I can make an excuse, leave after breakfast. I’m still only bending the rules.

  I follow the noise to the kitchen, expecting to find Ethan, but Robert is standing in front of the stove wearing flip-flops and bleachy blue pajama pants. He doesn’t have a shirt on. It’s a nice view. He’s thin, but he’s all muscle. His hair hangs almost to his shoulders and it’s shiny and smooth like I wish mine was.

  “Morning!” he says with an easy smile that doesn’t leave me room to feel awkward.

  “Did you sleep over?” I ask. I was so sure he was straight.

  “I live next door.” He breaks an egg over a big skillet. “The man has nothing but paint and canvas here,” he says, shaking his head. “I had to bring my own pan.”

  Robert sits me down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that smells like spices. I watch him flip eggs and butter toast. We don’t talk, but I don’t feel like we have to.

  The kitchen is a mishmash of bright colored things and well-tended houseplants. The curtains are embroidered with tulips, the fridge plastered with tourist trap magnets. By the back door there’s a concrete statue of a woman carrying a jug on her head, a spider plant spilling its offspring like a veil over her face. A chain of ivy starts in a jar on a shelf over the sink and travels along the wall on hooks for half the room. The salt and pepper shakers on the table are dachshunds wearing hot dog buns.

  When Ethan wakes up he pads into the kitchen barefoot, wearing paint-stained scrub pants, a faded R.E.M. tee, and wire-rimmed glasses that take up half his face. He pats my shoulder and says, “A half-naked man cooking breakfast. We could get used to this, April, huh?” I think maybe he’s using my trick, jumping into the middle of our friendship so we all feel like we belong together.

  Robert hands him a mug of coffee. Ethan takes a sip and sighs. “Oh, cinnamon. Robert, you make better coffee than Ivan.” He looks at me. “I don’t need Ivan one bit, right?” The way he says it, it’s like he’s hoping I’ll actually have the answer.

  “Right,” I say firmly, as if I know all there is to know about the situation. The buck knife is digging into my side. I feel ridiculous for carrying it.

  “Good coffee,” Ethan says. “Good people. What else do I need anyway?” I have the overwhelming urge to hug him and tell him everything will be okay. I don’t. But I want to.

  “How do you like your eggs, April?” Robert asks.

  “Over easy,” I say. I’ve never liked eggs, but people at the diner always ordered them that way, and mostly they came out looking less gross.

  “I like mine scrambled,” Ethan says.

  “Eggs or men?” Robert asks.

  “Both, apparently,” Ethan says, flashing me a grin.

  * * *

  Robert has to go to the restaurant so he can start working on lunch. He leaves me and Ethan with topped-off mugs of coffee and bellies full of eggs and potatoes.

  “See you later, Alliga-tor-idae!” Ethan yells after Robert. He leans in and says, “He makes me watch PBS.”

  “In a while, Crocodylidae,” Robert calls back, laughing. They sound like little boys who can’t wait to meet up later and play trucks in the dirt.

  Ethan gets up and puts his plate in the sink. “So, what do you need to do to get ready for your performance tonight?”

  “Tune my guitar,” I say, shrugging. “But not until I get there.” I may as well stay for the gig at this point. Sneak out tomorrow morning instead. Maybe I can busk downtown again before the gig to grab some extra cash. Leave here caught up on sleep and food and money.

  Ethan looks disappointed. “No pre-gig ritual? Smudges of sage? Herbal tea and complete silence to channel your muse?” He takes my plate for me.

  “My muse?” I laugh. “I just get up and play. When I’m done I have a beer or something. That’s about it.”

  “No fanfare?” He pours me more coffee and empties the pot filling up his own cup.

  “On a good week, I play three to five gigs and I drive the rest of the time. There’s no room for fanfare.” I could tell him about my dad’s guitar pick. I bet he’d like to hear it. But I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud.

  Ethan smacks the table. “I’ll give you fanfare! Come on.” He downs the rest of his coffee. His eyes tear a little. “Bring your guitar.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Up, up! You’ll see when we get there!”

  * * *

  We walk across town. I like the way our footsteps sound. Half a beat apart. It’s sunny and so much warmer than New York. It seems strange to me that people choose to live with winter when they could see the sun in March.

  Ethan points out things while we walk. The one perfect cloud in the sky, crocus buds peeking through the damp spring soil, a tails-up penny he flips over so the next person who sees it gets some luck.

  We make our way through campus to a big brick building, stopping at a grey metal door. It’s a back entrance. No signs or windows. Ethan pulls keys from his jacket pocket.

  “Close your eyes,” he says, grabbing my free hand and squeezing.

  And I do it. So stupid, but I do it. I squeeze his hand back.

  I hear him unlock the door. He leads me inside. The door closes behind us with a slam that makes my heart jump. He keeps walking. I take baby steps, trying not to stumble over my own feet, not sure what I might bump into. Both my hands are spoken for, guitar in one, Ethan’s cold, dry palm in the other. I open one eye, trying to figure out where we are and what we’re doing. Everything is black. The eggs and buttered toast sit heavy in my stomach. I’m locked in the dark with a man I don’t know.

  I open both my eyes. It is darker than the woods behind the motorhome at the new moon. Something’s hanging from the ceiling, brushing my arm as I walk past. Ropes maybe.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I wonder if Ethan can f
eel my crazy pulse. I will my eyes to adjust faster. They don’t.

  Shit. I let my guard down, like an idiot. I know better. I know better. I’ve walked into the exact kind of scene Margo used to warn me about.

  Ethan’s grip is tight on my hand. I try to keep my breath calm and plan escape moves in my head. We haven’t turned. The door is straight behind me, a few feet away. My knife is in my bag somewhere, not ready at my hip. If I drop my guitar, I’ll still have to search for the knife. My palm sweats against Ethan’s. Or is his palm sweating too?

  He lets go of my hand. “Stay there.”

  I inch backward, fumble in my bag with my free hand. I feel my wallet. Flashlight. A tampon. Chapstick. I can’t find my knife.

  I hear the patter of Ethan’s feet walking away and tighten my grip on the handle of my guitar case, ready to swing if I need to. It’s probably fine. I try to picture his face. Kind eyes, sweet smile. He’s not going to hang me from the ceiling and hack me to pieces. He’s not. It’s probably fine. But I really don’t know how I’m ever supposed to trust myself.

  “Okay,” Ethan says. “Open.”

  I hear the click of a switch and I’m surrounded by light so bright that I still can’t see anything.

  And then my eyes adjust.

  The light makes blue and purple puddles around us. We’re on a stage, behind a curtain. A swooping staircase climbs to nowhere. A chandelier hangs low, near a giant crescent covered in silver glitter. The ropes make sense, at least. I can see the door. I could escape before Ethan could get to me. My heart starts to steady.

  “What is all this?” I ask, wiping my palm on my skirt.

  “We’re doing Mame.” Ethan gestures to the crescent like a goofy game show host, big sweet smile, and I feel ridiculous for having any fear of him. I’m like frayed wires, sparking at all the wrong times.

  “For Drama Club?” I ask. My heartbeat is almost normal again.

  Ethan laughs. “For the drama department.”

  “So, what exactly does that mean?” I ask, using a phrase Margo employs whenever she doesn’t want to let on how much she doesn’t know.