“The Lord is welcome to pay my bills.”
“Come on, you can’t bethatbroke.”
I took a breath to compose myself, but his words stung.
Nick quickly turned around, blushing. “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure you’re not broke.”
I glanced at the hefty sandwich in his hands. “I can afford more bread if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Still blushing, he said, “I’ll cook something nice for us next time. I can get stuff from the organic store next to my apartment.”
That sounded too much like a date, but I was groggy enough to say, “Sounds cool.”
He finished making his sandwich, then turned and watched me like he had something to add.
“What is it?”
“Those things you said in your sleep.”
I drew a breath, digging my nails into my palms. He didn’t know the minefield he was treading on.
“Was it a memory? You talked about cameras, and—”
“Nick, I don’t remember. It was just a bad dream.”
“Sure, yeah. Sorry.”
He left shortly after in his nice car, raising a trail of dust as he drove down the dirt road from my house.
In the distance, LA’s outskirts were a faraway picture, the sun rising in the cloudless sky. I couldn’t see the city’s skyscrapers from out here, but I could picture them perfectly.
The city of dreams.
And my downfall.
*
The drive down the mountain was the usual bumpy hell, but that was on me for choosing to live in the middle of nowhere. Back in the day, there were plans to turn this mountain into a thriving neighborhood, but the topography had ended up being too challenging. Other than my small house, there were only a handful of others scattered across the mountain, but I didn’t know anyone.
Once on a paved road, I headed toward my studio in Anaheim. This being the Lord’s Day and relatively early, the drive only took thirty minutes. I parked in front of the old industrial building that had been my second home for the last eight years. New buildings kept popping up around the area, replacing what wasn’t chic enough to remain standing.
The first floor of the building was occupied by unknown bands, while the upper two floors were used by less noisy artists. I climbed the stairs instead of using the creaking elevator, enjoying the rare Sunday’s silence. My studio was at the end of the long hallway on the third and top floor, with a picturesque view of the parking lot.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
“Meow to you too, Jenny.”
I put my bag on the counter and went to kiss Jenny’s cheek. Her ginger hair was tied in a long ponytail with too many hairpins that served no purpose. She seemed to be giving thefinal touches to her painting, thankfully of a meadow instead of another one of cats.
“You’re not usually here on the weekends,” I said.
“I couldn’t get anyone to join me for an early breakfast, so I might as well be productive. How about you, hon? Gonna finish your latest and greatest today?”
I crossed my arms and examined my messy side of the studio. The three-foot sculpture gleamed under the sunlight streaming through the tall window. I had used copper this time, sprinkling shards of glass here and there.
“I don’t know if today’s the day,” I sighed. “This one’s giving me problems.”
“Is your buyer willing to wait?”
