A dark cloud of unease hovered over me when my pocket buzzed during my shift at The Black Cat. After setting down a stack of used glasses, I pulled out my phone. An Oregon number flashed on the screen. I seldom answered her calls at work, but a sense of dread compelled me that night.

The frantic voice of a woman came through the device, stirring unwelcome memories of two Christmases and the never-ending competition for best parent. 

It was hard to understand my mother over her sobbing. Initially, I had thought little of her distress; it was typical of her to call in hysterics because of new boyfriends who had hit her—or worse, left her—hoping I could somehow put her back together when I didn’t have enough duct tape and staples for myself.

“Lyra,” she sobbed, followed by incomprehensible vowels and consonants strung together like a tangled web of sound, desperate and broken. After a choked cough and sniffling, I finally understood what she kept repeating: “Your father’s dead.”

Nausea rose from within me just as a new patron settled himself at the bar. I raised a cherry-red finger to signal I would be with him momentarily, his eyes narrowing in response. 

Was that why he had yet to answer my messages today? The thought that I may have texted him while he was likely in a body bag, his phone left behind and forgotten, made bile rise in my throat, and I fought to swallow it down. 

He couldn’t be dead,  I thought. He was supposed to be on his way to visit me from up north.

“What happened?” I asked, keeping my voice even as I turned away from the bar’s soft jazz.  

I picked up a rag and polished the cracked mahogany counter, trying to keep my shaking hands busy. The other pressed my phone against my ear hard enough I could feel the backs of my earrings digging into my skull.

“Some…asshole ran a red light and hit him.” She blew her nose and with great effort took a deep breath to say, “He’s gone, Lyra. He’s gone.” 

Gone. The finality of that word echoed throughout my empty chest as if the reverberations could shake loose tears. The image of my father’s face, always a lively mix between gruff and charming, flashed in my mind. Then, like rain on a sidewalk of chalk, his face disappeared.

“Lyra?” she cried. I shuddered and pulled the phone away, afraid her grief would jump through the receiver and embed itself into me.

“I-uh, thanks for letting me know, Mom.” I caught my boss’s eyes, concern marring his features. “I’m at work right now. Can you call back later?”

As if she didn’t hear me, she continued, “Oh god, I’ll have to speak to your grandmother. Do you think you can talk to her for me, honey? You know she’s hated me since the divorce. Oh, and I’ll pay for the ticket for you to fly over because I know you’re broke. I don’t know what you were thinking moving to—”

“Mhm, yeah, thanks, Mom. Just let me know.” I hung up the phone and turned it off. 

My boss, Lane, leaned against the counter beside me, our customers blissfully unaware as they drowned their own shit with booze, cigarettes, and the thrill of a possible night not alone.

“You good, Lyra?” Lane asked, looking anywhere but at me. I supposed I wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the societal expectations of compulsive sympathy. 

“Yeah, it was my mom.” I tucked my curls behind my ears and had to remind myself not to lick my lips so I didn’t mess up my red lipstick. “She was just checking on me.”

He didn’t know me well enough to call me out on my bullshit; my mother never asked how I was doing.

“Right.” His pierced brows furrowed, and his full lips turned down. I wasn’t sure why I lied, especially since I knew he had overheard. “Well, let me know if you need anything, yeah? You can go home early if you need to. We’re almost off anyway.” 

I glanced at the clock that ran several minutes behind. It was almost midnight. “No need. Thanks, though.” 

Lane gave me one last look, nodded, and returned to cleaning the glasses I’d left halfway done. I wiped my wet hands on my apron and inhaled as deeply as my lungs could hold as I turned back to the bar and the patron who had settled himself front and center.

“So sorry about the wait, I had an urgent call. What can I get for you?” I asked, forcing my lips to pull into what I hoped was a smile. 

“About time. I didn’t know you were paid to be on your phone,” the older man sneered. His milky blue eyes looked me up and down as if I was food to be chewed up and spit out. “Your generation is full of lazy shits.”

“What can I get you?” I repeated, my tone barely masking my growing impatience. 

The man held my gaze for a moment, and it took all my strength to not snarl at him. “Old-fashioned. On the rocks,” he said, pulling out his phone and dismissing me without another word.

As I made the old bastard’s drink, I glanced around to ensure no one was watching before spitting into it. I poured the liquid over ice cubes, rubbed the orange peel on the rim, and dropped it into the glass. 

With a genuine smile, I handed him the drink. “Here you go.” I watched as he sipped it with some small satisfaction. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered, keeping his gaze on his phone, tapping away at the screen with fat, trimmed fingernails. 

My attention snagged on a gold band on his left hand. If he was married, I’d bet his wife was miserable. She likely settled with a balding man whose money went toward ridiculous suits to hide his bulging beer gut and inclination to hit women.

Living in LA, I knew I was bound to come across the rich and depraved. People here were often the offspring of famous assholes who passed on the burden of their greatness to children who never asked for it. Instead of embracing their supposed greatness, most of them grew into resentful adults who ended up in bars like this one, as if alcohol could erase their privilege. People moved to L.A. because they thought they were special. In reality, their chances of making it—whatever the hell that meant—were slimmer than the models you see littering the streets like discarded fads. 

Those who moved here came to see their dreams squandered, and only the true masochists knew that and came anyway. 

“Lyra?” 

“Hmm?” I turned to Lane. 

“I said, let me walk you home.” He hoisted a large, black trash bag over his broad shoulder, and the way it hung taut, made me sick again.

Without noticing, our replacements had already begun their shift. The old man had left at some point, and I couldn’t find it within me to be irritated he didn’t tip. 

I tossed the rag on the counter, pulled on my faux leather jacket, picked up the smaller trash bag, and followed Lane outside. He set his bag down, its contents slumping over as he opened the dumpster. He heaved both our bags inside, a waft of rot and decay filling my nose. Would my father smell like this? The thought twisted my stomach, lingering like a bitter aftertaste as I swallowed hard, wishing to erase the image from my mind. 

As we walked down the artificially lit street, I fumbled in my tight jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of Camels and a battered lighter with the initials L.V. etched into its wooden covering. I hesitated, nearly dropping it. 

A sharp pang shot through my chest as I recalled who had given me this lighter. It was the only gift from my father, a relic from those fleeting moments when he’d visit, the stink of Vegas still clinging to his clothes. Unable to find my name among the generic souvenirs, he had carved it himself, ensuring it was something I’d use. 

I shook away the thoughts. My watering eyes fluttered shut as I took the first drag, and with each exhale, the day’s stress, like the smoke, dissipated into the night. I offered a cigarette to Lane but he shook his head. 

“I’m working on quitting,” he said, a playful glint in his cerulean eyes. “I’ve heard smoking gives you cancer or something like that.”

A harsh, choked laugh escaped me. I was about to say it was too soon to joke about that when it hit me—he couldn’t have known my mother had lung cancer. In the six months I’d known of her diagnosis, I never told him. 

We weren’t close, but there was this silent understanding between us, a camaraderie working at a bar like The Black Cat could only produce. I would never tell him, but his placid nature made it impossible for me to dislike him; unfortunately, it was the opposite. 

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ignored his sideways glance and took another searing drag. “Indeed it does.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbing away the stinging burn, then shifted my gaze back to the glittering lights of Sunset Strip. The perpetual nightlife seldom beckoned to me as it did to many my age. I didn’t find sweaty people, expensive drinks, and idle conversation appealing. I already dealt with that at work, but I admired their ambition. 

We neared where we usually parted ways and I found my pace slowing, not quite ready to go home. 

“So, hey,” Lane said, breaking the silence, “my band’s playing at The Roxy tomorrow night. You should come check it out.”

I blinked. The Roxy? That wasn’t some small dive bar. I knew he was in a band, he’d mentioned it in passing, but I hadn’t expected he was that good.

“Oh, wow,” I managed, suppressing the growing tightness in my chest. “Yeah, thanks, I’ll swing by if I have time.” 

The words came out cool, practiced, though in reality, I wasn’t busy at all. 

Since moving to L.A., I’d been unraveling. My painting had gone to hell, I kept putting off my grad school application, and most days, it took everything to drag myself out of bed to work to keep a roof over my head. I’d even called my father a couple of months in, second-guessing my decision to leave Oregon. I couldn’t make friends, my dating life was a disaster, and there was this emptiness I couldn’t escape. He had simply said, “That city called to you for a reason. Find it.” 

So, I stayed.

We stopped at the corner of Sun Street which diverged into two directions. It was emptier than it normally would be at this hour, forcing us to give each other our undivided attention. 

Lane’s gaze lingered on me, finding the courage to search my face with an intensity that made me shift from foot to foot, but I remained where I was while I waited for him to say what I knew was on his mind. 

“Call me if you need someone to talk you down, yeah?” he finally offered, his voice soft and so achingly sincere I immediately felt a swell of nausea. 

When I said nothing, still processing his offer, he nodded and turned away. He disappeared around a building before I had loosened my tongue enough to call him back.

Lighting another cigarette, I turned in the opposite direction and walked home.

***

My affordable apartment was charming to anyone looking at it from afar, but it was the inside that surprised people when they entered. Peeling paint, rotting floorboards, and the stench of decay thickly permeated the air as I stopped in front of Apartment 3. 

Turning the key in the lock, the door groaned in objection as I pushed it open. I stood in the doorway, gazing into the dark before I entered. I shut the door with a loud click, the sound echoing in the stillness of my home. With a deep sigh, I threw my jacket onto the worn leather couch and forced myself to the bathroom.

I undressed, stripping away the day’s grime each garment at a time. I paused when I caught my eye in the mirror. Inhaling, I turned, facing my reflection. 

My hair fell around my shoulders in loose curls, framing the dark circles beneath my steel gray eyes. My red lips had faded to an ugly, uneven pink, revealing peeled skin I had the habit of chewing on. A Roman nose stood out among freckles, poorly hidden by a hasty layer of concealer.  

I stared at the woman, at her sharp features that too closely resembled her father’s. I stared at her small breasts and the belly ring she got when she was thirteen from a friend in the high school restroom. I stared at the shadows cast by the harsh fluorescent lighting, making her body seem more boyish than feminine. 

I neared the mirror, the imperfections becoming as obvious as if I were under a microscope. I smiled and studied the uneven pull of my lips. Disgust welled up inside of me. Gritting my teeth, I slapped my hand over my mouth and smeared the remaining lipstick in angry lines across my cheek. 

I stepped inside the steaming shower, screeching whenever I turned the temperature past a certain point. I let the scalding water run down my back as my gaze fixated on a moldy spot in the corner of the ceiling. Already, condensation collected there in swollen tears that dripped dripped dripped.

I sank to the shower floor, pulling my legs to my chest, and drowned out the sound of the screaming shower and the dying bathroom fan.

  My mind was a scattered mess. When I avoided thinking of my father, I repeatedly drifted to thoughts of Lane. His kindness was uncomfortable, but I found myself wishing he had offered to come back with me to my apartment if only to be another warm body for the night. Another regret I’d come to avoid as much as I did everything else. 

I shook my head, clearing away any thoughts or feelings, and envisioned building a brick wall in which I was surrounded. 

Just breathe, I told myself. In. And out.

In.

And out.

The steam curled around me like tendrils of memory, and images of my father slipped through the cracks of my defenses. I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed slower, deeper. But no matter how many calming breaths I took or how hard I tried to rebuild my brick walls, I couldn’t stop myself from remembering him. 

My father was like a stubborn zit that popped into my life, ensuring I never forgot he existed. After my mother’s cancer diagnosis, he stuck around like an angry red spot; no matter what remedies I tried, he refused to disappear.

It had taken years of meticulous trust-building that we came to like one another, though I believed it was because we deeply hated ourselves and found solace in the shared feeling. My father wasn’t a good man, but he was mine. Some part of me loved him, despite his absence in my life. He had missed most of the important milestones in my twenty-eight years, yet he remained the one I could count on if I ever needed him—unlike my mother, who filled me with guilt and shame and fear when I moved away over a year ago. 

And now that she was sick and dying? I felt like the worst person in the world for leaving her. For wanting a better life than what I had back home to escape the perpetual cycle of her emotional abuse.

A lump formed in my throat, hot and suffocating like the water that scalded my skin, as the weight of my loneliness crashed down on me. With a force like a sledgehammer striking glass, I fractured, my emotions scattering into a thousand pieces around me.

Numb beneath the now-frigid water, I trembled so violently I was sure I shook the entire building.

***

It took me less than an hour to get ready and call an Uber to drop me off at a nearby club. Flashing my I.D. to the bouncer, I slipped inside the multi-colored strobed interior where the music throbbed like a heartbeat. The air was thick with anticipation and a heady mix of scents: perfumes, sweat, desperation, and something sweeter, more illicit.

It took me even less time to lock the restroom stall, shutting out the chaos of the club. I pulled out the baggie of cocaine I’d been offered by a friend I only recognized in the dimly lit confines of this place. He took one look at my face and happily shared his stash. 

With practiced ease, I maneuvered my long pinky fingernail as I scooped out a healthy dose of white powder; the familiar burn as I sniffed sent an electrifying rush through me, and I had to take a moment to steady myself before I could unlock the stall door. 

I emerged still sniffing, wiping away stray tears. My eyes fell on a young woman touching up the thick makeup she’d been sweating off, her mask of confidence slipping. It was a fleeting glimpse of the rawness I had once seen in myself after so many drugs and drinks that I couldn’t remember my own name. 

As if sensing the mutual feeling, her mask slipped back into place, and her glossed lips pulled back, revealing too-white teeth. I couldn’t help but notice the skin around her eyes that remained line-free as she smiled.

I navigated my way back to the dance floor, the thumping bass pulsating through the air, but instead found myself at the bar, a free shot placed in my hand. The sweet tang of sugar and lemon coated my tongue as I downed it.

Time seemed to warp and bend, each moment stretching and contracting like a mesmerizing dance of its own. The euphoria was addictive, a feeling I’d chased my entire life and only ever found when alcohol replaced the water in my blood, and smoke filled my lungs instead of oxygen.  

College girls pulled me into their dancing circle and became temporary friends, their laughter intertwining with mine as we spun and twirled. Each beat sent a shock throughout my body, my heart thudded against my ribs as if trying to come out of my chest, making me feel more alive. 

When sweat dripped down my back and my mouth became cotton, I extracted myself from the throng of sparkling people and aimed for the restrooms. The line stretched forever, barely moving as I stood waiting for several songs. Cursing, I wobbled to the men’s restroom on the other side of the wall, and down an empty hallway.

I dragged the sticky door open. “Hello?”

When there was no reply, I sighed in relief and entered. I hiked up my dress and squatted to pee in a toilet lined with mustard-yellow, black pubes littering the seat like whiskers on an old man. 

  As soon as I flushed, the door creaked open. 

“Sorry, I’m about to leave. I really had to pee, and the girls’ line was so long!” I giggled at myself and straightened my black dress.

“No worries, I’ll make sure no one else comes in until you’re done,” the voice called, sounding familiar.

I exited the bathroom stall and found a tall man blocking the doorway. He wore an expensive pink polo and form-fitting khaki shorts. Even his haircut screamed Daddy’s money.

As I washed my hands, I kept my eyes on him through the mirror and smiled. “Do I know you?”

His laugh echoed throughout the empty restroom, sending a chill down my spine. “Yeah, I bought you a drink earlier?” When I remained silent, unable to focus on his face, he added, “We were just dancing?”

I grabbed paper towels, bringing me next to him. From this close, I could see his acne scars and small creases around his mouth, which were now pulled down. I had no idea who this man was. “Oh, yeah! Jake, right?” 

His eyes narrowed. “Tyler.”

“I knew that!” I laughed. “Let’s go dance. My friends are waiting for me.” I reached for his hand to lead him out of the bathroom, but he didn’t move. 

He tilted his head, folding his arms. “I’d rather we go somewhere quiet. I could barely hear you out there.” 

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t act coy now, Lyra. I’ve been buying you drinks all night.”

The door swung open. I pushed past the bewildered man who paused when he saw me and Tyler. I neared the end of the long, empty hallway, almost back to the dance floor, when a hand clamped around my arm. Tyler gripped my ass and the back of my head, slamming me against the concrete wall of the hallway. It took several seconds to understand what was happening. His hot breath suffocated me as he smashed his wet mouth to mine. The smell of hard liquor enveloped me, making me gag. 

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t see.

There was nothing but him. 

I clenched my jaw and managed to shove him away. 

“Get the fuck off me!” I gritted out.

His wide, beady eyes narrowed when his fingers came away bloody from where he pressed them against his lips. At that moment, I knew, before he knew himself, that he was going to hit me. 

With strength I didn’t think he possessed, he backhanded me, sending me flying to the floor. My hand went to my stinging cheek and a metallic tang flooded my mouth. I wiped my nose, startled to see a smear of red discolored by the strobing lights.  

With the ringing in my ears, his words were almost inaudible. “Oh, God. I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’ve been drinking. I swear I’m not—”

I stared at him, his mouth moving but I could no longer hear him. Something inside me snapped. With a yell, I launched myself at him, driven by a rage that surprised me.

The sharp edges of my rings dug into the soft flesh of his face, leaving behind small welts and tears. He attempted to defend himself, but I had caught him off guard. Women seldom struck back. 

His feeble efforts fueled me, driving me to strike harder and faster. Each blow was a release, a cathartic expulsion of everything I’d kept inside up to this point.

Strong arms pulled me off Tyler. I wailed as if I were the one lying bleeding on the floor. “You touch me again, and I will fucking kill you. Do you hear me!” My voice broke, overwhelmed with too many emotions fighting to surface.

“Get out of here before I call the cops.” The security guard said to him, keeping my trembling body upright and from pouncing at him again.

The prick scrambled to his feet, blood dripping from the wounds on his face. His swelling eyes widened as his gaze met mine and fled without a backward glance.

One of the girls I was dancing with found me as I limped toward the women’s line, ignoring their complaints as we cut the line. 

“You good?” she asked, her large pupils reminding me of hockey pucks. 

I stood before the mirror, my eyes even more hollow and sunken, my bottom lip swollen and bruised. Dried blood caked in the crevices of my mouth and nose, making it look as though I had torn into a bloody steak. 

“Yeah,” I breathed, pushing my hair away from my face to splash cold water on it.

As I used a rough paper towel to pat dry my face, I paused. I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me when I noticed an angry, red zit forming on my forehead.  

The girl looked at me as if I had gone mad, dialing the number I gave her. 

Lane arrived shortly after. I met him outside the club, his eyes widening as he took in my swollen lip, the heels in my hands, and my smeared makeup. “Lyra? Oh my god, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Don’t be,” he said softly. “The girl who called me said you were assaulted. Do you need me to take you to the hospital or call the police?”

I shook my head, dropping my heels beside me. “No.” My hands trembled as I struggled to light my cigarette, cursing, until Lane had to take the lighter and do it himself. I leaned against the brick wall of the club.

I had never been a violent person. I found no use for it knowing most could overpower me. But my words? They were sharper than any knife I could twist, and I felt a strong urge to unleash them on Lane when I noticed his gaze soften and a fleeting look of pity cross his features. His cerulean blue eyes held sincere concern that threatened to unravel me, and I wanted it gone.

“My father’s dead,” I hissed, exhaling a shaky breath laced with smoke. “And I don’t need you trying to take his place.”

Lane filled the space next to me. Unsure what to do with his hands, he settled with tucking them in his pockets. “I know.”

“Okay? So, why did you come?” My voice shook and the cavernous pit of anger inside me widened, threatening to swallow me whole. 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”  His lips curled in a self-deprecating smile, shaking his head.

I scoffed and pressed my head against the stone wall, my eyes drifting upward to the swollen, bruised clouds. “Jake won’t bother me again.”

  Lane ran a hand through his dark hair looking like he would rather be anywhere but here. “I know we’re not exactly close, but I’m here for you, and I think I might understand some of what you’re going through if you wanted to talk about it.”

“Oh, so your dad was hit by a truck and your mom is a narcissistic asshole that you have to forgive now because she has cancer?” 

Lane shoved his hands back in his pockets, not meeting my eyes. 

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” 

I pushed off the wall, ready to be done with today.

“I wish I handled things better when my wife passed,” Lane said behind me. “It’s been over two years and I still don’t know how to talk about it.”

He plucked the cigarette from my frozen fingers and inhaled it as if it were oxygen and he was drowning. “We would’ve been married three years yesterday.”

Oh. I chewed on my busted lip, tasting blood as it split again. I leaned against the stone wall in front of him. Sorry seemed inadequate, like trying to place a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. 

Lane scratched his trimmed beard, and his eyes had a faraway look to them. “We had always been active, healthy people. So we didn’t find out until it spread to her brain, of course.” He laughed, hollow and broken. “We’d just gotten married—hadn’t even talked about kids yet. Cancer’s like that. Creeps in and gets you before you have a chance at a fair fight.” 

He paused, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. “When your friend called me, I knew you were out, probably trying to suffocate that horrible feeling of losing someone you love. I almost didn’t come. Who am I to comfort you?” He laughed again, his back sliding down the alley wall. “I keep telling myself things have to get better. But some days, I don’t know if I believe it.”

I sighed as I lowered myself to the spot next to him. “I didn’t know,” I said, meeting blue eyes weighed down with years worth of grief. What I’d mistaken for pity was genuine understanding. “God, I’m such an asshole.”

“Only sometimes,” he replied, bumping my shoulder with his. 

I lit my last cigarette. I brushed my thumb over the crude initials carved into the lighter.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, breaking the silence between us. 

“I wish I had a clue how to make this easier for you, but I have nothing. I still feel like I just lost her. She was my best friend.” He paused, then, “I guess all I can say is: I understand and I am so fucking sorry for your loss.”

I nodded, swallowing down the burning lump in my throat. I hadn’t known how much I needed to hear those words. My tears left damning trails as they slid down my cheeks. I fell apart in front of a man I had continually pushed away, terrified of being understood. Everyone I had ever trusted had left me fractured in a way I feared I could never recover from.

Lane let me cry. He didn’t try to comfort me or say empty words to make me feel better. 

“It’s not fair,” I choked out, the ache in my chest swelling until it was almost unbearable.

“I know.” 

I might’ve imagined his own eyes bloodshot and glistening. 

“I thought I had more time,” I whispered, wiping away snot and tears. “My dad, he uh, he wasn’t around growing up. He tried to reconnect since I turned eighteen, and I would blow him off each time. I just wasn’t ready yet. When I moved away from home, my mom told him where I went. “He called me, and the first words out of his mouth were, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He was actually on his way to see me for the first time in,” I blew out my breath, “years. And now? I’ll never get the chance to tell him I forgive him.”

I wasn’t sure why I was spilling my heart out to Lane, but the words kept spilling out. “And now my mom’s dying, but she can’t seem to care about anything beyond herself. She’s not dead yet, but she might as well be, and that’s so messed up to say.” I sniffled, then whispered, “And the cruelest part? There was still this stupid, foolish hope she’d call back today, and apologize—not only for my father’s death but for the shit she put me through as a child.”

I lost my father, but I’d been grieving my mother all my life. The realization that I’d never know the comfort of a real parent hit me harder than anything.

Lane stayed silent beside me, his lips still wrapped around my cigarette. Taking it from his mouth, I sighed. “I’ll never understand how life has a way of destroying me more than death ever could.” 

“And we probably never will,” he said, his sorrowful blue eyes finally meeting mine. “Life fucking sucks sometimes, so we gotta make the most of the good moments we do have. And this?” He gestured between us. “This is where we can start, Lyra. Let me in.”

With one last burning drag, I flicked the cigarette to the asphalt, watching the red ember die out. We sat together in silence while the club’s music and the laughter of passersby filled the air, reminding me that life would always carry on even if it felt like the world around me stopped. 

There was a certain allure to death, a seductive promise of escaping the pain of being left behind. To be the one mourned instead of the one mourning. To be a survivor felt more like a punishment, a burden that weighed down with emotions too heavy for one person to carry. But if you had someone willing to help you carry just a pound, well…

When the sky leaked heavy tears, we didn’t run for shelter. 

We didn’t need to.