I wake up in bed for the first time in weeks. My eyes sting, and my mind is hazy. It’s late morning by the light emanating from the blinds. As I walk downstairs, I hear Peyton talking. He’s on the phone, looking like he’s about to pop from excitement.
“Thank you,” he says hurriedly, hanging up. He looks up at me with a dopey grin and says, “You got the second interview.”
“Really?” I say, genuinely surprised.
“Georgia wants to see a full resume by tomorrow. The interview’s at six o’clock.” Peyton explains.
We spend the morning writing up a resume, laughing, and talking together. Three cups of coffee later, it's finished. I sit for a moment, soaking in our work.
“I’ve never been good at keeping a job. I always get bored or fed up…or scared.” I explain.
“Scared?” Peyton asks.
“You know…scared that I won’t…be good enough,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s not like I excelled in school, and school is supposed to be preparation for jobs.”
Peyton kneels down beside the chair and places his hand on my shoulder. His honey-colored eyes meet mine, and I feel my face fill with warmth.
“You’ve always run head-first into danger and never looked back. No matter how high the bridge, you jumped. You’re a risk-taker, so take this risk.” Peyton says encouragingly.
Suddenly I feel shy like a spotlight has just been shined on me. I turn my head back toward the computer, gluing my eyes to the screen.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I hadn’t thought of myself that way before.”
“Well, think of yourself as getting ready. We need to go buy you a new suite, one that actually fits.” Peyton chuckles.
. . .
I love doors with little bells that jingle whenever you walk in or out. It's such a simple, pleasant thing. It feels so nice to be announced, to be welcomed by the clinking of gold or silver. Peyton and I push open the store door, and a bundle of jingle bells sway above us, singing our departure.
A fancy, striped bag with a black cord hangs from my shoulder.
“Are you sure about this? I think I bought a car for the same price as that suite.” I say anxiously.
“It’s fine,” Peyton laughs casually. “Like I said, Gramps left me everything. I’m loaded right now.”
“Really? You’re rolling in the dough, Presley?” a man asks mockingly, walking up to us. I don’t recognize him for a moment, but slowly the features begin to grow familiar: the greasy black mullet and sleazy mustache.
“Brandon?” I say slowly.
“In the flesh, baby!” he roars, pulling me into a hug.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were ‘going on tour' with the band.” Peyton says curtly.
“Tour kinda…fell through,” Brandon chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t really be a band if we don't have people to play for. The world just wasn’t ready for our music, man.” Brandon sighs. “But I was thinking about starting up my own business anyway, you know, to get away from the music scene.”
“What type of business?” Peyton asked skeptically.
“I'm going to become a yoga instructor," Brad says with a cocky smile.
"And why do you want to become a yoga instructor?" Peyton asks, readying for his response.
"To watch hot chicks do yoga, obviously," Brad says.
“You’re sick,” Peyton says, walking away.
“Peyt is still the wettest blanket ever,” Brandon mumbles once Peyton’s out of earshot. “Hey! I actually have a concert tomorrow, a little farewell party for the band. You should totally come.”
“Tomorrow?” I repeat.
“At six, man. It’s the coolest number. Devil’s phone number.” Brandon chuckles. He can see my hesitancy, a skill just as sharp as when he was young. He leans in close to my face, pouting dramatically. “What? Do you and Peyt have a little playdate planned?”
“I’ll be there,” I say, shoving him away.
“Hell yeah!” Brandon celebrates.
For a split moment, those words bring me euphoria. But in seconds, they crash down around me, ringing in my ear like a death sentence.
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