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The ugliest part is that it wasn’t the money that stopped me. It was Bentley. The possibility of him showing up again. I kept thinking maybe tonight he’d come back, maybe tonight he’d explain.

Becca saw me waiting for someone who wasn’t her.

And now, for whatever reason, the laptop stays dark, and I’m dancing for dollars on a stage that bends like plywood.

The music changes. I drop low and the men near the stage lean in.

Dancing’s not easier, but it’s simpler. None of these faces will stick in my head longer than it takes to tuck a dollar under a string.

The bass moves through the floor into my legs. The room watches. For the next song, I give them Papacito. Tall, American, new, temporary. A body under pink light. A grin. A little heat they can pay for and forget.

Papacito. HotnReddy. I’m collecting aliases like trading cards.

When my shift is over, the rain has definitively moved on and left everything slick behind it.

The street shines under bar lights. The air smells like damp stone, hot exhaust, and the ocean underneath all of it, like the whole city rinsed itself and immediately started sweating again.

My T-shirt is dry-ish. My g-string has been retired for the evening. Thank God, my ass cheeks are saying.

I step out of the bar with a wad of tips folded in my front pocket and my stomach making bitchy noises. Marco offers me staff cerveza, which would be more appealing if beer counted as dinner and if I wanted to walk uphill half-buzzed in the dark with a peso bulge.

I buy a slice of pizza from a walk-up counter instead.

Not good pizza. Necessary pizza. One bite in, I start fixing it in my head. Hotter oven. Less sauce. Different cheese. Salt. Any salt. Char the crust a little.

I take another bite and start up the hill.

The critique helps. Gives my brain somewhere to go other than the house and what’s waiting for me there.

The farther I climb, the more the noise of the Romantic Zone thins. Bass becomes thump, voices become blur. Then just insects, distant engines, my own breathing, and the ocean, low and steady somewhere in the distance.

Life could be easy here.

Not easy easy. I’m not stupid. Bills exist everywhere. So does heartbreak and people becoming ghosts. But easier than Louisville, maybe. Easier than Mom’s basement. Easier than a pizza oven in my face for so little pay it might as well be a hobby.

Except now Paul is here and there’s too much to think about.

The hill is worse after dancing. When I reach the top, everything burns a little. Knees, calves, the places where the g-string made itself known. Casa Sirena’s street is quieter than it should be. Or maybe I’ve gotten used to the bar noise and now silence feels out of place.

I stop at the courtyard door. There’s a light on in the living room behind it.

There’s still the possibility of all my crap being just beyond this door. Neatly packaged and thoughtfully placed out of the rain. That would make sense.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then remember what napkins are for and finish the job properly. I fold the paper plate around the greasy napkin and hold it too tight in my fist.

I unlock the gate and step inside. No bags waiting. Just the glass door to the house, and the light inside.

Paul is on the couch when I walk in. He sits at the edge of the cushion, shoes still on, spine straight, knees angled neatly. Hands placed purposefully on each knee. It’s not settled, like an exhale at the end of the day. More like a balloon ready to burst.

Don’s not here. That also feels strategic.

I shut the door behind me and stand with the folded paper plate in one hand, tips in my pocket, and sweat cooling under my shirt.

“Hey,” I say.

Paul looks up. His face does a lot quickly, then decides on polite.

“Hi.”