Hidden Things (8 page)

The mug filled with coffee.

Which she'd fixed without consciously realizing what she was doing.

It smelled really good.

She let out an explosive, wordless sound of annoyance, dumped the mug in the sink, and stalked out of the kitchen.

Calliope stood in front of her mirror, wringing water out of her hair with a towel, her eyes tracking the dark water spots across the shoulders of the clean T-shirt she'd pulled on after her shower. Behind her, in the mirror, the bed was rumpled, the sheets twisted—proof enough of a bad night's sleep, even if she couldn't also feel it in her neck and back.

“You always wake up so gracefully.”

She scowled and tossed the towel over the shower rack, then started for the door of the bedroom. But she lost momentum and stopped after only a few steps. The crease across her brow deepened.

“Make sure you know your reasons.”

Still facing the mirror, she turned her head, wincing at the pain in her neck, and checked the clock. Still morning. Early. Most of the day to kill, banned from the office.

“But those aren't the only old files to check,” she murmured.

She finger-combed damp hair out of her face, blew out a long breath, and glared at the disheveled bed lurking behind her in the mirror.

Reaching behind her, she twisted her hair into a loose knot, turned, stepped up to the bed, and tugged the covers into an approximation of order. That done, she dropped into a crouch, reached underneath the bed and, after several half-voiced growls and curses, fished out two oversized, dust-coated shoe boxes, one labeled
BAND STUFF
; the other,
NOT BAND STUFF
.

She swiped at
BAND STUFF
with the edge of her hand and wiped the resulting film of dust on her jeans as she flipped the lid up.

Unlabeled demo CDs lay in a stack on top of several T-shirts folded with the rigid precision and sharp edges of an American flag presented to a soldier's widow. The other end of the box was a collection of flyers from clubs throughout Silverlake and Echo Park, bar coasters, clippings of reviews, and a small jumble of junk masquerading as mementos. All told, the box was two-thirds full, arranged like a memorial shrine for a distant relative.

Calliope riffled the edges of the CD cases, rolled her eyes at the ridiculously overenthusiastic headlines, and flipped the lid shut before pushing the box to the side.

Sitting back on her heels, she pulled the second box to her and hooked her fingers under the rubber bands that held the bent, center-bulging lid of not band stuff in place. The smooth outward tug pulled both rubber bands off simultaneously with a muffled
snap-pop,
and the lid immediately eased upward a half inch. Calliope lifted it and set it aside, scanning a heaped stack of paper and photos that—as far as organization went—had more in common with a clothes hamper than the band box that sat nearby.

The topmost slip of paper—a barely legible handwritten note—slid off the stack and onto the floor. Calliope picked it up, thumbed it open, and tipped her head to read the words she already knew.

 

Hiya!

 

I think I found an APARTMENT!

I know we said we were going to wait to look at an APARTMENT.

But it's a good APARTMENT.

You should see this APARTMENT.

It's a good APARTMENT.

I love you, and will listen better next time.

 

—Josh

 

P.S. APARTMENT!

 

She refolded the note and set it back in place. Leaning forward, she picked up the overstuffed box, rose up, and dumped the contents onto the bed.

“I want a face to kiss.”

Calliope, curled up in an overstuffed chair widely considered the ugliest and most comfortable in the city, speaks (loudly) to an empty room. Earbud headphones dangle from her neck; she holds a book half closed in her lap, one finger marking her place, and listens.

Several seconds later, a door opens and footsteps move in her direction—a steadily increasing drum roll cadence. Josh slides into view, tipping his weight at the last moment to lean against the room's door frame, his arms crossed. He raises his eyebrows, assuming the bored expression of a Bond villain, and says “Sorry?”

Calliope settles into the chair, a smirk poking dimples in her cheeks. “I . . . want a face to kiss.”

He tips his head, brow furrowed. “I see. Well . . .” He glances over his shoulder and down the hall. “I can check the take-out menus—see if the Thai place has ‘face'.”

Calliope raises an eyebrow, fighting to control her expression. “I do not think you understand.”

Joshua cocks his ear toward her. “I don't—”

“I.” She points at her chest. “Face.” She points at Josh, then swings her finger in a lopsided oval. “Kiss.” Again, she points at herself; specifically, her mouth.

“Ohhhhh . . .” Josh exclaims. “Right.” He rushes straight at her, building momentum and dropping to his knees halfway across the room to slide the rest of the way to the chair.

“Oh god,” she says, lifting her book in front of her as a shield. The chair lurches and thuds against the wall. She lets out a small, much-delayed yelp and peeks from behind the book.

Josh waggles his eyebrows at her from a few inches away, still fighting for balance as he leans forward on one knee. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Calliope drawls, pulling her book slightly out of the way and tilting her face to the side. “Kees me.”

He tips his head toward her, his lips a bare inch from hers. She feels his weight shift, catch, and shift again. “Crap,” he comments, then crashes to the floor in front of the chair.

Her laughter rolls out of the open third-floor window, loud enough that several people on the street below look up at the sound.

 

“I want to go there.” Calliope sits on the futon with her feet tucked under her. It's one of only three pieces of furniture in the apartment (not including the stool shared between the keyboards and drum set), and obviously the most used. She indicates the small television screen across the room with her spoon, then scoops up another bite of cereal. Outside the window, it's dark.

Josh glances up at the screen from where he sits at their keyboard, scratching at a score sheet and testing out chords. The set is muted, but the camera pans slowly over lush foliage and stone pyramids. “Belize?”

“Is that where that is?” Josh gives her an amused look and she whirls her spoon above her head. “Yes! Belize! My one and only dream! The place I have wanted to visit since . . .”

“Today?”

“Since years ago.” She juts out her chin at him.

He grins. “Today?”

“Since before I could say the name.” She takes another bite of cereal.

“Which”—he sets his pencil aside and pushes the rolling stool toward her, easing off it and onto the couch next to her—“was today, since you didn't know the name until about ten seconds ago.”

She pulls the spoon out of her mouth. “Details,” she enunciates, chewing.

“Mmm.” He props his feet up on the rolling stool, watching the footage of Bermuda-shorts-decked tourists sweating their way up the side of a steep stone structure. “It looks pretty cool.”

“I know, right?” She watches in silence, then returns to her bowl. “Someday,” she murmurs.

“Someday,” he repeats. They watch the images dissolve one into the other, the only sound the crunch of Calliope's cereal as she eats. Josh looks at her sidelong, then pushes himself into a sitting position, turned halfway toward her. “You know, we could get out of here for a while.”

Calliope looks at him, swallows, and says, “You mean go on the road again?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Good.” She sips milk from the bowl. “Because the ‘on the road' thing didn't work so well last time.”

“Agreed.” He scratches at his cheek stubble. “I meant just us going somewhere.”

“The van's toast,” she replies. “Twelve huunnnndred dollahs feex.”

“Maggie said we could borrow her car anytime. She never drives it.”

“True . . .” Calliope allows. “But we can't really afford to go anywhere.”

“Unless we go somewhere we know people we can stay with.”

She eyes him, making a skeptical face. “What, like Penny?” She softens her expression. “I mean . . . no, I'm sorry, she would totally let us crash, but it's been raining up in Portland for, like, forty-five days straight.”

“Sure. Good point.” He settles back into the futon and turns back to the screen. A few seconds later, he lifts his head and looks at her. “We could go somewhere it's not raining.”

Bowl raised to her lips, she hesitates, then sets the bowl down, shakes her head, and starts to get up from the futon. “No.”

“It's an easy drive.” He leans forward again. “You told me you've done it lots of times.”

She moves to the sink in the area just past the front door that had passed for a “kitchenette” in the rental ad. “Yeah, I did. I also said I didn't ever want to do the drive again.” She sets the bowl in the sink, drops the spoon in, and runs water over the clatter. “Or go at all,” she mutters. Over the sound of the water, she says, “We have to finish the new demo.”

He pushes himself up and perches on the edge of the cushion. “We always have a demo to do,” he counters. “And we don't have a job lined up until the nineteenth.” He spreads his hands. “We save all our money for gas, sleep in the car, and we could stay out there for a couple weeks, no problem.”

“A couple weeks?” She clenches her shoulders in a not-entirely-mock shudder. “I wouldn't last a couple days. No.”

“You said you wanted to get away,” Josh wheedles, smiling.

“I said I wanted to go someplace nice.” She swirls soapy water around the bowl harder than necessary and blows drifting hair out of her eyes. “Someplace
exotic
.” She looks sideways at him over her shoulder. “Driving to Bumfuck, Egypt, is not exotic.”

He stands, sidling across the room toward her. “I bet someone out there is raising a camel.”

“No.”

“ . . . or a llama. That's exotic.”

“No.”

“Llllllama.” He slips his hands around her waist.

“No!”

. . . a ringing slap. Bright red handprint on her cheek. Surprised tears in wide eyes . . .

She shakes her head to banish the thought, yanks the faucet handle down, and jerks away from him, grabbing a dish towel. “I don't want to go back there. Ever. Jesus. Fucking
listen
.” She turns to walk away, stops, turns back toward him, stops, and finally turns back to the sink and grabs the bowl with a towel-shrouded hand.

“Hey.” His voice is soft. He starts to reach for her again, but she moves her shoulder away before she can stop herself. He stops, lets his hand drop. “Sorry,” he murmurs, barely audible. She doesn't reply, and after a few awkward seconds, he walks around her and down the hall to their bedroom.

Calliope doesn't look up or watch him leave. Once the bowl and spoon are wiped down, she sets them in the drying rack, moving as though she is afraid they might break, or that she will. Once done, she hangs up the towel and leans on the sink.

The door to the bedroom closes, leaving her in silence, alone in the kitchen.