Page 3 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
I roll my eyes and flip him off before going back to my crossword puzzle. With any luck, we’ll be slow today, and I’ll be able to make it until the end of my shift without passing out.
I’m filling in a ten-letter word for “anything that unduly exhilarates or excites”—intoxicant—when the song on the radio switches to something familiar and wholly unwelcome.
“Nooo,” I groan, tipping my head to the ceiling to glare at the speaker. “Turn it off, Dwayne!”
I shout the words, hoping my boss will hear me from his office. I know he does because instead of doing what I ask, he turns the song up louder.
The opening bass line creates a sinking feeling in my stomach and an ache in my chest. You’d think by now I’d have grown desensitized to The Hometown Heartless, but nope. They still make me sick.
I manage to avoid every fucking magazine cover, have even conditioned myself to ignore the giant poster Glory has pinned to our bedroom wall, but the music is another story. It hits harder, and it’snearly impossible to escape. Especially living so close to LA. Here,everyonehas a strong opinion about The Hometown Heartless. You’re either obsessed with them, or you loathe their very existence.
I’m of the latter camp.
Planted my flag here four years ago, and it’s still standing tall, waving proudly in the wake of my simmering grudge.
I hate their sound. I hate their style. I hate the arrogant hold they have on the music industry, lording over everything like gods.
But what I hate most is their bassist, Torren Fucking King.
I cringe involuntarily when the first verse starts. His deep voice harmonizes with the lead singer, and before I can stop it, a carousel of pictures flashes through my mind. Full plush lips. Dark messy hair. Mysterious green eyes. Talented calloused fingers.
They just serve to stoke the embers of my irritation.
I step out from behind my register and march toward Dwayne’s office. It’s a small store—two registers and ten aisles of basic food and household items—so I make it to the cheap plastic door in a matter of seconds. I swing it wide and close the distance between myself and the stereo system.
Dwayne, because he’s an asshole, laughs.
I swear, if I didn’t get a 15 percent employee discount on everything in this place, I’d quit. This job is the only reason we have an almost-stocked pantry at home.
Jabbing my finger at the power button, the music cuts out immediately, leaving only Quinton’s voice as he continues to sing the song.
“I haven’t slept, Dwayne. I have a headache. I’m not in the mood for this uninspired, watered-down, poor excuse for rock and roll.”
Dwayne grunts another laugh and shakes his head as I storm back out of his office, letting the door slam behind me.
“One of these days you’re going to tell me the story behind your rage,” Quinton says from beside me.
I don’t acknowledge him. I’m not telling him shit. Instead, I grab my crossword and stare at it for the next hour. That’s how long it takes to calm the vortex of memories swirling violently in my head.
2
CALLIE
The best partabout public transportation is that it’s cheap and relatively reliable.
The worst part is that it too often smells like sour milk, and I never know who is going to try to spark up a conversation with me. I don’t know what it is, but strangers always want to talk to me. The women want to compliment my auburn hair. The men want to tell me to smile more. The elderly always feel the need to let me know I look tired or that I need more sun.
I suppose they mean well, and it’s always easy enough to shrug them off with a thank you and a forced smile. But when I’m running on very little sleep and even less food, I’m not in the mood to fend off unsolicited social interactions.
My feet hurt. I’m tired. I want to be left alone.
My big headphones have been broken for almost a year, but I still put them on and shut my eyes. I might not be able to listen to music, but I can pretend, and it usually does a good job of keeping conversation at bay.
The bus takes thirty minutes to get from the store to the stop closest to my apartment. I nod a thank you to Esther as I step onto the curb.
“Have a good one, Calla Lily,” she says in her rough voice, then she shuts the doors behind me and drives off.
Esther has been driving this bus route for as long as I can remember.When I moved back home, she was the first familiar face I saw other than my family, and I’ve seen her almost every day since.
