“Nah. I had to help a friend after school. He’s going through some shit and it has me stirring.”
Journey leans her head back against the wall and picks at one of her nails. “Shit, like drugs or booze?”
“Family shit,” I continue. “He’s just not acting like himself. It’s weird” I’m not sure why I’m telling Journey this because I promised Pete that I wouldn’t say a word to anyone, but Journey doesn’t know Pete and we go to two different schools.
“A friend of mine is dealing with her parents going through a divorce. It’s pretty nasty. She’s been in a mood for months.”
Divorces seem way too common lately. It’s like someone had the idea and it suddenly became the thing to do. I don’t get it, but I don’t think my parents are heading in that direction. They seem to like each other more than the average couple. “It sucks. I just don’t know what to say to him. I can’t exactly relate.”
Journey folds her legs into a pretzel and grips her pale hands around her ankles. Her black chucks draw my attention in as I notice the inked words scribbled along all the white rubber. “The best thing you can do is listen. Offer distractions and let him know he’s not alone.”
The advice sounds so simple and something I’ve already tried to do for him, but I didn’t realize he was going through as much as he is until today. I must step up my distraction skills. “That’s solid advice. Thanks, smarty-pants.”
“We should go write lame quotes on some bourbon barrels downstairs. No one will ever know we did it,” she says.
Journey. She’s a big part of the reason I get into trouble at these parties, but I do have to take credit for some bad ideas. Boredom equals trouble.
4
Somehow,I got Hannah to bed before ten tonight, which means I get a few minutes of quiet before passing out on the couch. Out of habit, I reach for my phone, do the whole scan and laugh at the ridiculous posts popping up in my Facebook feed, then get the brilliant idea to search for Journey. Maybe I can find some insight on her.
I search for both her maiden and non-maiden names (whatever that means), but nothing comes up, which shouldn’t be surprising. I suppose she’s never been the social butterfly type, from what I’ve seen.
Screw it. I dial her number, knowing I’ve already annoyed her once since running into her at the school the other day, so what could be the harm of doing it again?
I position myself so I don’t look like I’ve worked an eight-hour day at the warehouse and a five-hour day being a single dad of a tween. I’m not sure a good angle will help me look any better at the moment because I need some sun, but we’re all ghostly this time of year in this neck of the woods.
The phone rings four times before a connecting ding sparks a pulse in my gut. “You again,” she says with a sigh.
“You picked up the call. I’m surprised.”
She arches an eyebrow, unfazed by my words. “I didn’t want to listen to it ring,” she says.
“How was your day?” I’ll keep it casual.
She stares into the camera and I wonder if she’s thinking about her day or doing her best to come up with her next snippy response. While she’s deep in thought, I notice a slight tinge of red around the green in her eyes. She isn’t wearing any makeup; unlike the last two times I saw her. I’m not big on a woman needing to wear gobs of makeup to enhance their natural beauty because I’ve come to learn that although attractive in some situations, makeup can mask the truth. Without Journey camouflaging her face, I see a beautiful woman looking worn down, broken, and barely hanging on. Maybe it’s not fair to assume or speculate, but something’s missing—a spark or a twinkle in her eye. Something that says, “I’m alive and well.”
“I spent the day staring at my computer screen, editing photos from a gig I did yesterday.”
Editing photos. A gig.
Before she mentioned it, I was unaware what she did for a living because we hadn’t gotten past being snarky to each other long enough for me to find out. She has a lot of walls up, metal ones covered with electrified, barbed wire.
“So, you’re a photographer?”
“Nah, a porn producer. Pays well,” she says without an inkling of humor.
I’m positive she’s being sarcastic, but I’ll let her run with it. “Interesting. Do you work with anyone I might know?”
Journey smirks and a hint of life flashes through her pretty eyes. “I’m guessing you know them all, Brody Pearson.”
“Probably,” I continue. “Are you in bed?” I can’t see much aside from a mess of gray pillows behind her back.
“Yup, with three of the actors I worked with today,” she says with a shrug. “I told them to be quiet when I took your call.”
She doesn’t crack a smile this time, not a hint in the world that she’s making up stories. She’s like a dense piece of glass—still breakable, but unable to see through. “What’s a guy gotta do to become a star in one of your productions?”
Journey rests her head back against the pillow she’s leaning on. “Oh, it doesn’t work like that. The production has a strict invite-only casting call. Otherwise, we end up with stuffed banana hammocks, dimpled cheeks, or Viagra deprived victims. It’s a tough business to get into.”
