Play Maker(69)

“Welcome, ma’am,” he said with a lovely twang. He looked barely eighteen, with puberty’s last zits fading on his chin. Not that I really could talk; I had just turned twenty-three and was practically an infant to most of my co-workers, who had been reporters for the length of my entire life.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

I opened my mouth and my phone rang. Loudly. Nick again. I switched it to vibrate, put it in my pocket and turned back to the clerk.

“Checking in,” I said. “Sophie Hall.”

“Of course, Ms. Hall,” the clerk said. His nametag said Greg. “We’ve been expecting you.”

My phone vibrated.

“Sorry,” I pulled it from my pocket, doing the obnoxious “one minute” finger that I had hated being on the other end of during my years as a waitress. I knew it was rude to answer the phone, but I didn’t think Nick was going to stop calling. “It’s on the top shelf,” I said, as my greeting. Might as well get to the point as quickly as possible.

“Sophie.” Nick’s usual baritone voice took on a high-pitched whine through my beat-up phone speakers. I winced. I definitely needed a new phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Austin, Nick,” I said, trying to control my frustration. This happened each time I had to go somewhere for an assignment. “I told you three times. And I left you a note. Two notes actually.”

“Why are you in Austin?”

“I’m interviewing Nathan Ryder,” I told him patiently. “The Longhorns’ star player, remember? Houston boy? The one who’s probably heading to the majors next year?”

I was sure he wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Nick didn’t know anything about sports. If it didn’t play an instrument he wasn’t interested.

“But my band is playing tonight,” he said and this time the whine wasn’t just from the phone.

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there, but this is a really important assignment.”

He sighed. It was one of his specialty guilt sighs. I hated it, especially since I was pretty sure he had learned it from my mom even though they had never met. We’d been together for six months and this was the first time I was missing one of his shows. Sometimes I was the only person in the audience, which is probably why it was so vital I was there. But I was not going to give up this important opportunity to listen to the same five songs. Not this time.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, not sure if he had hung up on me or fallen asleep. It was two in the afternoon, which was pretty early for him. When I had left the apartment several hours ago, he had still been sleeping. He looked so handsome when he was sleeping, all tousled hair and sexy cheekbones.

“I just don’t think this is working,” he said.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, much louder than I had intended. The clerk, who been looking down at his computer politely, raised his eyebrows. I turned away from the desk, dragging my suitcase behind me, and I ducked out of the way of the people milling in the lobby. Somehow I ended up behind an enormous potted plant.

“I just don’t think we should be together anymore,” he said. “I really need someone who can be supportive of my musical career.”

“I am supportive,” I said. “I just can’t be there tonight.”

He sighed again and I wanted to punch him through the phone.

“It’s just not working,” he said, and I immediately went from mild annoyance to full-on anger.

“No,” I said between gritted teeth. “You know what’s not working. You. You haven’t had a job since you moved in three months ago. Who is going to pay your rent, Nick? Who is going to pay for gas so you can get to your rehearsals and gigs? Who is going to buy you the peanut butter you can’t find even though it’s on the same f*cking shelf every f*cking time?”

His struggling artist thing had been appealing when we first met. Before landing my job at the paper, I had been freelance writing and working nights at the coffee shop he frequented. He played with his band, but also worked at the hardware store, which I had found really attractive. Nothing like a guy who can hang a shelf for you. And that’s what he would do. At first. He repaired everything in my shoddy apartment when he had his own place; it was only after he moved in, after I got a desk at the Register, that he quit the hardware store to focus on his music full time.

“Your negativity is really impacting my work,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, my head now aching. I didn’t have the time or the energy to argue with him. “But you better be out of the apartment when I get back.”

“About that,” he said. “You’re being evicted.”

“What?!” Half the lobby turned in the direction of my shriek. I yanked my suitcase closer to me and crouched closer to the plant. “Evicted?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“Yeah.” I could hear the snap of a lighter and then the deep inhale that indicated he was smoking. Of course. Of course he was high right now. That was another thing that had changed when he moved in. Guess it had been easier to ignore how often he was high when I only saw him after shows.

“Nick!” I snarled. “Why am I being evicted?”

“Some guy came by and said you hadn’t paid rent in like, three months.”