Page 94 of Secrets and S'mores
With ascraping sound, my key gets me in the back door of the apartment building and out of the afternoon frenzy of downtown Los Angeles. Thankfully the elevator is repaired, because the last thing I want to do is climb five flights of stairs.
Shuffling down the checkered floor, I finally reach my tiny apartment and let myself in, trying to keep my paintings tight under my arm.
“Au-roo-roo!” Jordan croons from the kitchen. “I’m making scrambled eggs, want some?”
It must be nice to sleep in. She’s chipper, bouncing from the stove to the sink and back, her glossy black hair shimmering like a curtain.
“Thanks, that’d be awesome.” Passing her, I head straight for my closet where all my unsold paintings live. These join the stack. Some day they won’t fit in the space, and that is when I will give up on my dreams. But not today.
The eggs are covered in furikake and piled on the thick milk bread her mom sends over every week from their home in Irvine. I eat my portion with a grateful smile. Jordan puts on a ridiculous reality show and we watch feckless D-list celebrities flirt on a beach while we eat our breakfast-dinner. Dinner for me, breakfast for her.
As she’s leaving to get dressed for her evening acting gig, our third roommate arrives home. Devon brings her boyfriend with her, and Tyler winks at me while I scroll through my phone and pretend they aren’t groping each other on our sofa.
Jordan is less tolerant when she emerges, pulling a loose coat over her sparkly jumpsuit. Glitter swirls over her high cheekbones, catching the light as she glares at Tyler. Within seconds, Devon and Jordan are shouting at each other. Tyler wanders into the kitchen for a beer, and I make a run for it before they ask me to weigh in.
Devon andJordan share the master bedroom and I get the tiny secondary bedroom so I’m able to close my door and put on my ancient headphones. Cranking up my feminine rage soundtrack, I attempt some sketching, but my hand keeps drifting to my phone.
With a sigh, I give up and pull up my sister’s phone number. We aren’t close anymore, but I still care about her. Hazel was the responsible one growing up, especially after our father passed. I was the free spirit she had to chase after.
“Hello?” Hazel says, sounding groggy. Oh shit, what time is it there? Only an hour later - it’s barely past dinner time.
“I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” I rush to say.
“Oh, Rory, no. Well, I guess I fell asleep. But it’s all good.”
“Are you getting enough rest? The baby isn’t here yet, right?” Flipping over to lie on my stomach, I turn the page on the sketchbook and start drawing hash marks along the edge of the page.
Hazel’s light laughter floats through the line. “Not yet. But I swear this last month is approximately one hundred and ninety-two days long. Simply existing is uncomfortable!”
“Sorry,” I say, unsure how to comfort a pregnant lady. “So… Can I get your address? I want to send something for the baby.”
“That would be so sweet!” Hazel yawns, and I find myself triggered to yawn too. “I heard that,” she teases with a tired chuckle.
“I’m sure you did,” I mutter. “Sodid you guys pick out names?”
“Maybe. Well, we are still debating, but we need to decide quickly. Slate has a lot of family names we were considering honoring.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not sharing any of them. You’ll have to wait just like everyone else pestering me.” A masculine laugh sounds through the phone line.
“Slate?” I ask.
Hazel hums her confirmation.
“Well, since he has a nature name, and so does everyone there you’ve mentioned, I guess you have to pick something similar? Might I recommend Pebble. Or maybe Rock.”
Her snort makes me smile. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not naming my baby Rock.” Her partner’s mumbled argument echoes behind her words. “No, babe, she’s joking.”
“You better go talk to your baby daddy,” I say dryly.
“You’d love him. He’s creative, like you,” Hazel replies wistfully.
“Maybe you guys should come visit me.”
“We’ll have to come see Mom eventually,” Hazel says darkly. It’s my turn to hum in agreement. Our mother is not the most functional adult and she threw a huge fit when Hazel moved to that tiny town. The fact it was our dad’s hometown somehow made her more upset. Uncle Heath was able to calm her down, but not before I received seventeen hysterical voicemails and somewhere north of forty text messages.
“Whenever that is, I’ll look forward to it.” Rolling over, I stare at my ceiling fan. She’s probably looking out a window at the beautiful forest, and here I am in an urban prison. My body cries out for some nature therapy.
