Page 13 of Find Me

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I lay in bed listening to the sounds of the birds chirping outside my window as the hot sun streams into my room, summer finally taking ahold of the city. The repetitive routine of work and Rhett has made the days blur together, and time passes quicker than I can fathom.

I roll over, pulling the sheets up around me as I do, unable to believe I’ve already been working at Poison Ivy for two months. My first week behind the bar was a bit of a blur as I learned everything it took to bartend, but the money I made in tips motivated me to learn quickly and try my hardest. By the end of my second week of bartending, I had called the diner and quit, unable to sustain only four hours of sleep between my shifts, and choosing to keep the job that paid the most. I’ve found my confidence at work, having discovered a rhythm behind the bar that lets me make drinks quickly and chat up customers with ease. I’ve also managed to get on good terms with a few of the dancers. My conversations with them help slower shifts go by quickly and help me make more money, their customers coming straight to me for drinks and tipping generously afterward.

Even with the stability of my job and the pride I feel every time I deposit money into my new bank account, I’m still barely keeping my head above water, paying off bills just as the final notices are arriving. On top of that, I find myself feeling as though I’m living two different lives, trapped in a weird limbo, unsure of who I truly am. I spend my days at home, usually in track pants and a T-shirt, sleeping off the exhaustion from the night before. Sometimes Rhett comes over on his way to work, starting his day with a quickie and bringing me coffee and a joint to help me start my day off right. On the other hand, I spend my nights wearing barely any clothes, pouring drinks, and surrounded by naked women and intoxicated men. The loud music and smoky air make me feel like I am living in a different universe, one that’s worlds away from my life at home. The stark difference between my life at work and my life at home is undeniable.

I stretch and my muscles groan with resistance, sore from my shift last night. The club was busier than usual and I feel as though I ran a marathon in my heels, every muscle aching as I move in my bed.

It hasn’t been hard to keep news of my job quiet, as the only people I talk to outside of work are Rhett and Sam, not that I see her much now that I work at night and she works during the day. For a while I debated sending a text to Garrett, but knowing that he probably wouldn’t respond, I decided against it. Slowly but surely, the hurt of losing the constant presence of him in my life began to lessen, and now our relationship feels like a distant memory.

I let out a sigh. I’ve been trying not to think of my family, but it isn’t going so well. Even though we were never close and even though our relationships would be considered tumultuous at the best of times, there is a void in my life without them in it; the holidays now left uncelebrated and my inbox quiet. A part of me can’t help but wonder how disposable I truly am if everyone who I’ve known since childhood is willing to wash their hands of me in an instant.

I get out of bed and head to the bathroom to take care of my needs before I walk to the kitchen to make a coffee. My paintings have started to pile up around my apartment, stacked in the corners and propped up against the walls. While I have been busy creating more artwork, I can’t remember the last time I tried to sell a piece, too exhausted after long nights working. I put the kettle on as I grab the instant coffee and an empty mug, sitting it on the counter beside a pile of bills. I look around my bare kitchen; coffee and Rice Krispies the only food on the shelves. I make a mental note to reach out to some galleries this week.

I try not to think about how different my life might be right now if I had listened to my parents. If I had stayed in law school and kept my trust fund, never knowing what it meant to struggle to pay a bill. I can’t help but wonder what I would do if I could go back in time. If I would trade my happiness and passion for art for a life of comfort and stability.

A knock on my front door startles me from my thoughts.

I hop off of the counter and walk to the door, my feet padding lightly against the warm wooden floor. When I open it, Rhett is standing in the hallway holding two coffees and looking a lot more energetic than I feel. I usher him into my apartment and can’t help but feel self-conscious in my track pants and oversized shirt compared to his polished outfit. His dark jeans hug him in all the right places, and his polo shirt defines his muscular arms even more than usual.

“Hi,” I say, a nervous smile on my lips.

“Hey, babe,” he says as he walks past me, kicking off his shoes before setting the coffees down on my counter.

I see him pause for a moment, his gaze on the stack of bills stamped with final notice on my counter.

He turns to me without saying anything, pulling me towards him and kissing me deeply.

“Let’s go to your room, I have something to give you.” He smiles.

“I’m sure you do,” I say wryly, knowing exactly how our mornings typically start.

He laughs in response, following me towards my bedroom, both of us sidestepping a stack of canvasses at the bottom of the stairs.

“You should do something about these,” he says. “It’s starting to look like an episode of hoarders in here.”

I roll my eyes as I climb the stairs to my bedroom. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, like the yacht club or something?” I counter.

“Okay, I deserved that,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He’s following me so closely I can feel his breath on the nape of my neck, his hands skimming my hips, and I imagine they’ll be elsewhere in a few minutes.

We reach the top of the stairs, and he makes himself at home, sitting on my bed, fishing a joint out of his pocket, and resting it between his lips.

“Thanks, but I’m too tired for a joint this morning, I have a coffee downstairs to wake me up,” I explain apologetically.

He smiles in response. “Oh babe, trust me, this will definitely wake you up.” His blue eyes sparkle with mischief, and I can tell he’s up to something.

I stare at the joint in his hand. It looks exactly the same as the one he held last time he came over. My curiosity has peaked, and I join him sitting on the bed.

I take the joint from his lips, studying it carefully between my fingers before placing it between my own lips delicately.

I study Rhett as he looks for his lighter, and it’s true he looks like he could be on the cover of a yachting lifestyle magazine.

Like all the men I grew up around, Rhett’s appearance just screams old money. In the time we’ve spent together, it’s become very clear how he’s used to navigating life. Between his southern charm and his black AMEX, I don’t think he’s ever been told no before, as there’s not much he can’t get if he wants it badly enough.

“Okay, I’ll bite. How will a joint wake me up?” I raise an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer me, but instead leans forward, bringing the lighter to the end of the joint, the flame flickering so closely I can feel the heat. I puff on the joint a few times before inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can before exhaling to a chorus of coughs.

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