Blurred
Page 13
“What?” she asked. Her curiosity peaked.
“Have you ever read it?”
She shook her head no.
“Don’t judge me then,” I said as I opened the book to any page, but recited the line I knew so well.” ‘That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don’t know nothing about it.’”
She stifled a giggle as she covered her mouth. And when our eyes locked again, I felt something strange—I felt like she got me. I also knew I should leave. I had a girlfriend that I loved. I blinked, remembering that thought, and handed her the book. “You should read this if you have time. It really is one of the best books ever written.”
She snickered at that. “Right. It’s up there next to Tom Sawyer.”
“How’d you know?” I winked.
I walked backward and kept my eyes on her. I stopped at the end of the aisle, put both my feet together, and leaned forward slightly. I pretended I was tipping an imaginary hat. “It was nice talking to you . . .” I paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.
“S’belle,” she finished for me.
“S’belle.” I grinned. I stood straight again and quickly disappeared around the corner knowing I had to leave.
She yelled, “Wait, I didn’t catch your name.”
I called back, “Ben. My name is Ben Covington,” and left the library as fast as I could.
I clutch the book tight and push the memory away. I’m getting good at that. The word ghost catches my eye and when I glance at the shelf, it’s a book about haunted locations around Los Angeles, I grab it as well. I may despise LA, but certain stories and historical events that occurred in this city fascinate me. As I’m checking out, I see a rack of journals right next to the cash register and pick one up. It’s black with gold gilded pages, similar to my old ones. The ones I no longer have. I haven’t allowed myself to put my feelings on paper since after my mother’s death, since the day I gave Dahl the journal I kept for her, but I think it’s time now.
Turning the corner back toward my hotel, I spot a small coffee shop like the one in Laguna. The sign on the window reads Four & Twenty Blackbirds and the name catches my eye—pie. I peer in the window. Pressed-tin walls and communal tables with a few booths cultivate a sense of small-town charm and I know I’ll be coming back here. The night’s young but I’m feeling wrecked. I still have one more thing to accomplish today before it’s over. I pull out my phone and search for her number. Making this call might be a risk, but since she hasn’t phoned me back I can only assume she isn’t checking her messages until Monday. So calling my former editor at home is my only option.
“Hello?” Christine answers.
“Christine, it’s Ben. Ben Covington. How are you?”
“Ben.” Her voice breaks. And although I know she already knew I was alive, her surprise is still genuine. Her professionalism quickly returns. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Good, that makes two of us. Can we get together and talk?”
“Yes, I’d love that. Unfortunately, I’m out of town until Friday afternoon, but I can meet that night. What do you say to Novels at seven?”
“Great. I’ll be there. See you then,” I say and hang up.
I’m almost back to the motel when a flash appears in front of me. Fuck me—the paparazzi found me already. I’m not in the mood for their shit, but game on. I weave in and out of stores until I find one with a back door. Once I lose the douchebag, I hightail it to the fleabag motel.
Not feeling nearly as tired anymore with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pour a drink. I flick on the TV, which surprisingly works, and make my way to take a shower. A few stray hairs in the bathroom make me hate my life even more. I glance at myself in the mirror. What the f**k have I done with my life—I’m twenty-seven, staying in a shit bag motel with no money and nothing to look forward to. I stand here in silence and ponder my decision—questioning this supposed new start of mine.
A few hours later, I’m struggling to get some sleep when a disturbance from next door gets louder. Male, female, I can’t tell because the voices are muffled, but the act is undeniable. The lack of light through the broken blinds clues me in that it’s either really late or really early. I roll over and cover my head with the pillow, but can’t fall back to sleep. After a few minutes, I turn back around. The moans and groans are gone, replaced by quiet whispers that can still be heard through these paper-thin walls. I stare at the plaster peeling from the ceiling and watch the fan blades moving around as I try to stop my mind from thinking about how I ended up here. It wanders and I mentally scold myself for allowing any form of self-pity.
I jump out of bed to grab another drink and my journal. I run my fingers along the lines of the page and then let the ink bleed upon it. I write about Australia, how sweet life was there. I write about the upcoming trial, I even write about finding a place to live and calling Christine for a chance at a new job. When I’m done, I close the journal and set it on my lap. New journal. New beginnings. New life. I eventually drift off, spending the rest of my first night back in California alone in a fleabag motel.
Chapter 4
Cry Me a River
As I exit the door of my fleabag motel room, the unexpected brightness of the outdoor light blocks my vision and the rain assaults me. Once my eyes adjust, I stick my earbuds in, pull up my hood, and blast my music. I’ve been listening to “Cry Me a River” on repeat. Why? I couldn’t say. I f**king hate JT. But the song reminds me of, well, me. I run for as long as I can but honestly I hate running in the daylight. Normally I run in the dark. It gives me a sense of freedom.
“Have you ever read it?”
She shook her head no.
“Don’t judge me then,” I said as I opened the book to any page, but recited the line I knew so well.” ‘That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don’t know nothing about it.’”
She stifled a giggle as she covered her mouth. And when our eyes locked again, I felt something strange—I felt like she got me. I also knew I should leave. I had a girlfriend that I loved. I blinked, remembering that thought, and handed her the book. “You should read this if you have time. It really is one of the best books ever written.”
She snickered at that. “Right. It’s up there next to Tom Sawyer.”
“How’d you know?” I winked.
I walked backward and kept my eyes on her. I stopped at the end of the aisle, put both my feet together, and leaned forward slightly. I pretended I was tipping an imaginary hat. “It was nice talking to you . . .” I paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.
“S’belle,” she finished for me.
“S’belle.” I grinned. I stood straight again and quickly disappeared around the corner knowing I had to leave.
She yelled, “Wait, I didn’t catch your name.”
I called back, “Ben. My name is Ben Covington,” and left the library as fast as I could.
I clutch the book tight and push the memory away. I’m getting good at that. The word ghost catches my eye and when I glance at the shelf, it’s a book about haunted locations around Los Angeles, I grab it as well. I may despise LA, but certain stories and historical events that occurred in this city fascinate me. As I’m checking out, I see a rack of journals right next to the cash register and pick one up. It’s black with gold gilded pages, similar to my old ones. The ones I no longer have. I haven’t allowed myself to put my feelings on paper since after my mother’s death, since the day I gave Dahl the journal I kept for her, but I think it’s time now.
Turning the corner back toward my hotel, I spot a small coffee shop like the one in Laguna. The sign on the window reads Four & Twenty Blackbirds and the name catches my eye—pie. I peer in the window. Pressed-tin walls and communal tables with a few booths cultivate a sense of small-town charm and I know I’ll be coming back here. The night’s young but I’m feeling wrecked. I still have one more thing to accomplish today before it’s over. I pull out my phone and search for her number. Making this call might be a risk, but since she hasn’t phoned me back I can only assume she isn’t checking her messages until Monday. So calling my former editor at home is my only option.
“Hello?” Christine answers.
“Christine, it’s Ben. Ben Covington. How are you?”
“Ben.” Her voice breaks. And although I know she already knew I was alive, her surprise is still genuine. Her professionalism quickly returns. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Good, that makes two of us. Can we get together and talk?”
“Yes, I’d love that. Unfortunately, I’m out of town until Friday afternoon, but I can meet that night. What do you say to Novels at seven?”
“Great. I’ll be there. See you then,” I say and hang up.
I’m almost back to the motel when a flash appears in front of me. Fuck me—the paparazzi found me already. I’m not in the mood for their shit, but game on. I weave in and out of stores until I find one with a back door. Once I lose the douchebag, I hightail it to the fleabag motel.
Not feeling nearly as tired anymore with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pour a drink. I flick on the TV, which surprisingly works, and make my way to take a shower. A few stray hairs in the bathroom make me hate my life even more. I glance at myself in the mirror. What the f**k have I done with my life—I’m twenty-seven, staying in a shit bag motel with no money and nothing to look forward to. I stand here in silence and ponder my decision—questioning this supposed new start of mine.
A few hours later, I’m struggling to get some sleep when a disturbance from next door gets louder. Male, female, I can’t tell because the voices are muffled, but the act is undeniable. The lack of light through the broken blinds clues me in that it’s either really late or really early. I roll over and cover my head with the pillow, but can’t fall back to sleep. After a few minutes, I turn back around. The moans and groans are gone, replaced by quiet whispers that can still be heard through these paper-thin walls. I stare at the plaster peeling from the ceiling and watch the fan blades moving around as I try to stop my mind from thinking about how I ended up here. It wanders and I mentally scold myself for allowing any form of self-pity.
I jump out of bed to grab another drink and my journal. I run my fingers along the lines of the page and then let the ink bleed upon it. I write about Australia, how sweet life was there. I write about the upcoming trial, I even write about finding a place to live and calling Christine for a chance at a new job. When I’m done, I close the journal and set it on my lap. New journal. New beginnings. New life. I eventually drift off, spending the rest of my first night back in California alone in a fleabag motel.
Chapter 4
Cry Me a River
As I exit the door of my fleabag motel room, the unexpected brightness of the outdoor light blocks my vision and the rain assaults me. Once my eyes adjust, I stick my earbuds in, pull up my hood, and blast my music. I’ve been listening to “Cry Me a River” on repeat. Why? I couldn’t say. I f**king hate JT. But the song reminds me of, well, me. I run for as long as I can but honestly I hate running in the daylight. Normally I run in the dark. It gives me a sense of freedom.
