In my junior year of high school, my guidance counselor encouraged me to apply to colleges outside California. The notion of leaving the state frightened me, but I managed to distance myself from San Diego by choosing a school in Los Angeles. It allowed me to be far enough away to have the time and space to create my own life while being close enough that I could get home quickly in an emergency.
I’ve known Tyler since I was sixteen. He’s a few years older than me, and before my move to LA when I was eighteen, we were nothing more than friends. After I had settled on a collegeand discovered I’d missed the deadline for housing and didn’t think I could afford a place off campus, I called him. He lived in LA, and I thought he might know someone in need of a roommate or have advice regarding my situation.
Tyler insisted I move in with him, and so I did. It was impulsive and wild, but I had nowhere else to go. We’ve always had chemistry, though, early on, we strove to remain roommates and set boundaries. But before long, I found myself slipping under his sheets in the middle of the night. I claimed it was because his bed was like sleeping on a cloud. Not that either of us needed the excuse.
Four years later, we’re still together.
Sometimes I wonder if I jumped into a relationship with him too quickly, like my mom with her men.
After my dad died, she couldn’t stand on her own two feet. She was twenty when they married, and she hasn’t worked a full-time job since. While we lived off a hefty life insurance payout in the beginning, I think she knew early on that the money wouldn’t last forever. That’s when she began throwing herself at well-off men. It was harrowing to watch, and if the way she numbed herself with pills and alcohol was anything to go by, it was painful for her too.
My mom quickly became a shell of herself. Sure, she is still fit and breathtaking to most, but there is a permanent hollowness behind her eyes.
Initially, when Tyler asked me to move in with him, I flat-out refused, despite not having a backup plan. I didn’t want to leap into the arms of the first guy who propositioned me. It felt too much like something my mother would do. But Tyler assured me I was nothing like her, and because I was so tired of being let down by the one person who was supposed to love me unconditionally, having him show up for me was a huge blessing.
As a writer, the most splendid place to find myself is in the writing zone. A place where a character’s soliloquy is so spellbinding it’s hard to believe their words are actually coming from me.
Enchanted—that’s how I feel right now, propped up against the headboard while a light breeze flows in from the open windows. My start was rough, though. I’d get fifty words onto the page, then delete forty-eight of them. Over and over until finally the ideas poured out of me like a waterfall, crashing and rushing, my fingers barely keeping up. At one point, the letterRricocheted off my keyboard and I had to find a video on YouTube to figure out how to reattach it.
Because I’m in the zone, taking full advantage of the noise-canceling feature on my AirPods, I jump when Tyler slams the door.
According to the clock on my laptop, he’s home much earlier than normal. I remove one earbud when he appears in the bedroom doorway and motions for my attention, but I don’t catch what he’s saying.
“Give me one minute. I’m in the middle of something.” I nod at my laptop and pop my AirPod back in. I’m at the climax of a major scene involving a plethora of back-and-forth dialogue and I want to get it all down before I lose it.
Across the room, Tyler paces, huffing and puffing. He’s obviously worked up, and the annoyance radiating from him is stealing my concentration. I’m trying my best to hang on to it, but he’s doing an excellent job of distracting me.
He parks himself on the bed and yanks an earbud out of my ear, pulling a couple of strands of hair along with it.
“Ouch! What the?—”
“I was fucking talking to you, Beck!” His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. This combo has been making an appearance all too frequently these days.
“I’m working. You can’t just interrupt me like that,” I say, patting the mattress in search of my earbud.
“Working?” Tyler scoffs. “In bed?”
“Yes, in bed. I work from home.”
“I’ve had a fucking hard day!” he spits.
“Okay, I hear you. I’m sorry about that, but it doesn’t give you the right to interrupt my creativity.” I sit a little straighter and pull my shoulders back. “Do you know how hard I’ve been chasing it all day? You come home and bark about whatever the fuck you’re barking about, and now I’ve lost all the stuff swimming around in my brain.”
He looks me straight in the eye. “You’re fucking selfish.”
“I’m selfish?” I jab my thumb at my chest. My ability to maintain an even tone is dissipating. “I spent the last two nights withyourclients foryourwork, and now you won’t wait ten minutes?”
This always happens. The life of a music producer is hectic. As the girlfriend, I’m expected to show up at parties and events on his arm. I’ve even been to the occasional award show, though I don’t like being in the limelight on the red carpet and avoid that part at all costs. The last thing I need is to stumble upon an article from a still-lives-at-home-with-their-momma blogger about whether my stomach pooch is a food baby or a real baby.I can assure them it’s just a woman’s body.
Every time I turn around, we have to make an appearance at some event. Regardless of whether I want to attend or how busy I am with my own work, Tyler reminds me that it’s important to him that I be there. I want to be supportive, I really do, but partying like that is exhausting. The nights start out promising. He sticks with me for a bit, showering me with attention, but after a drink or two, he ditches me for clients and other low-keycelebrities, and I’m left making small talk with the bartender or calling an Uber so I can head home early. Then, when he returns just before the crack of dawn, he drunkenly slips into bed, apologizes, and makes it up to me with sex.
“Your job is different,” he continues, kicking off his boots and letting them fall to the floor beside the bed. “You can write anytime you want.”
Gritting my teeth, I work to keep my voice even. “That’s not true. I can’t control when creativity strikes. You should know that; you work with artists.”
“Yeah, but they get paid hundreds of dollars a day,” he says. “You’re not even getting paid to write.”
Oh, no he didn’t.“You know that’s not fair.”
