From the Jump(43)

Deiss scoffs. “You’ll have your credit card by tomorrow. And I’m sure they’ll restore your account soon.”

A $2,000 credit limit. A good laptop will cut that in half, leaving me with a small safety net to get me through however long it might take to resolve all this. I can’t even apply for another card if things get rough. Not while there’s a security alert on my name.

“But what if they don’t? Restore my account, that is. It wasn’t the bank’s fault. They didn’t let some cyber thief sneak into their system. He came in through my laptop.” I train my eyes slightly past him and square my jaw. “I let this happen, Deiss. I broke the rules, and there were consequences for my actions. All I can do now is try to get back on the right path.”

“Hey.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, not speaking until I give in and look up at him. “You didn’t break any rules. You made a choice to go on vacation, which, by the way, is a very normal thing to do. But if you go back to your job now, you’ll be walking a very difficult path to reverse from. Right now, you have the option to try out freelancing, knowing that your boss has provided a safety net if it doesn’t work out. But he’s not going to provide that twice. If you tell him you’ve decided to continue working for him, you’re going to feel stuck there for a very long time.”

I blink at his closeness, trying to think of an argument but coming up short. He’s right. I wouldn’t dare walk away from my job again, not with the knowledge that the first try ended in such spectacular failure. And if my life felt unsatisfying before, I can only imagine how going back to the same thing will feel now.

“I’ll only stay until I get everything figured out,” I say firmly.

“Perfect.” Deiss gives me a slow, dazzling smile. “That’s exactly how long the invitation is good for.”



* * *



—

I feel silly following Deiss to Studio Sounds, but I really would like to see his shop. I haven’t made it to his part of town since the grand opening. There’s been little reason to visit. He’s certainly never asked me to come to one of his after-hours shows. In fairness, they’re open to the public, but I’ve taken his lack of personal invitation as proof he doesn’t think I’m cool enough to enjoy them.

I use my need for a laptop as my excuse to tag along. A Google search has revealed an electronics store a few blocks past Studio Sounds. Obviously, I can’t buy anything tonight, but I can check out some models and figure out what I like the feel of before I search for cheaper comparisons. Hopefully, I can find something nearby so I don’t have to wait for delivery. The sooner I can start working, the sooner I can generate some income. But a laptop is key to that plan. I can make do with the clothes and makeup I took to Africa until my account is restored, but I can’t do graphic design on flowy skirts with a mascara wand.

Despite the fact that we sat at my condo for over an hour waiting for the police, then another hour with them once they finally arrived, the sun still hasn’t set. It’s at that angle where it makes the fronds of the palm trees that line the street glow like they’ve been lit from within. The air smells like tacos from a Mexican place we pass. There’s a general sense of relaxation in Los Feliz that contrasts starkly with Santa Monica. Bikers pedal by. Most of the people who pass us on the sidewalk have on headphones, their hands free instead of occupied by iced coffees and shopping bags. In the entire seven-minute walk, not one passing car honks with rage.

A bell dings over the door as Deiss swings it open and waves me through. It’s dim inside, with spotlights over the record bins but ambient blue lights lining the walls. A song I’ve never heard pulses through the speakers, louder than a normal establishment but not aggressively so. It has the kind of beat that moves its way through your body, making you feel unexpected things. The back wall is lined with guitars for sale. To my surprise, Phoebe is sitting on the counter, talking to a guy with dreadlocks that skim his shoulders. He’s on a stool behind a cash register and a mounted iPad.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, passing a couple with their heads bent over a bin to get to her.

“It would be more shocking if a day passed without her here,” the guy behind the counter says. Up close, I can see that his arms are covered in tattoos. They almost blend in against his dark skin, giving the impression they’re ridged in a way you could feel if you ran a finger over them.

“You come here every day?” I ask her, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. This whole time, I’ve assumed we all look forward to seeing each other on Third Thursdays. I knew Phoebe and Mac and Deiss live closer to each other than Simone and me, but I assumed they saw each other occasionally. Once a week, maybe. Certainly not daily.

“It’s walking distance from my house,” she says apologetically. “The last time I went to your place, there was a wreck on the 10, and it took me two hours to get back.”

“I take it you’re Olivia,” the guy says, clearly hoping to curtail the weirdness I’ve just brought into his den of chill. “Phoebe told me what happened. I’m really sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you . . .” I trail off, my mind churning over the realization that my failure to participate in group trips isn’t the only way I’ve distanced myself. My actual physical distance has left me on the outskirts. While I’ve been living life alone, my friends have continued on living it together. Absentmindedly, I proffer my hand like an accountant meeting her new coworker.