Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(21)

She’d giggled and turned her face to the sunlight. “Free, Jonathan. I wish to be free.”

I’d unpinned one of her shoulders to pluck a seeded dandelion out of the grass. “Blow.” I held the white puffball in front of her.

She’d blown hard, and the seeds went into my face. We laughed, and blew the rest of the seeds off together, wishing her free from the constraints of her family and her scarcity. They floated away on their sinuous parachutes, like little messengers to God, saying take me, take me, take me. Set me free.

Chapter 19.

The bus. West on Sunset. South on La Cienega. Hour and a half. A cab ride from my house to Jessica’s studio was fifty bucks one way. I wished I could have taken the hundred for a round-trip cab out of Jonathan’s ass, but that would have to wait for another day.

I wore three-quarter sleeves and long pants. I wrapped a scarf with a spider web pattern around my neck to cover the bruises. I felt lucky it was getting cold, but I had no idea how I’d hide the roughness of my private life in the summer.

The walk was a quarter mile, but it was cool, and I’d worn comfortable shoes. Jonathan hadn’t texted me back the night before, nor had I received a nine a.m. ding. Was he angry? Was he shutting me out because I hadn’t fallen for the busted starter trick? Or was the emergency that pulled him away so dire he couldn’t answer me? Both concerned me. I had a gnawing anxiety that grew worse with every step toward Jessica’s studio.

Up ahead, a big white truck was parked and running outside a light industrial building. The building was painted west-side tasteful—charcoal, with white trim and a chartreuse door—and guys in bunny suits trotted in and out with six-inch diameter hoses. I checked the address, and I was sure I had the right one.

A guy in a polo shirt put orange cones on the sidewalk, stopping me. “Street’s closed.”

“Is that twelve thirty-eight?”

“Sure is.”

“I have an appointment here.”

“Not today, you don’t. Got a lead and asbestos removal team coming in. It’s a hazard, so you’re going to have to go around the block if you want to pass.”

I pulled out my phone. No message. Crossing the street, I craned my neck around the truck and saw Jessica in the side alley, arguing with a guy holding a clipboard. Her smooth veneer was slipping, just a little. It seemed to be as much of a surprise to her as it was to me.

Of course.

Jonathan.

Well. Didn’t that just suck ass.

I started calling him and thought better of it. I texted him and deleted the whole thing. I’d already thrown out one unfounded accusation and gotten no reply. A string of them would do no more than make me look psychotic.

I walked to Washington Boulevard, where I’d at least be able to find a café where I could sit down and blow my cab money. I found a purple building housing a tea shop called Yellow Threat. I got something hot and herbal and sat down on the outdoor patio.

She texted me soon after.

—So sorry. I’ll be held up 30 min—

I felt like her co-conspirator at that point. Jessica and me against Jonathan. I was determined to understand the situation so I could help him. His ex-wife, perfectly content with his broken heart until she saw him with me, was hell-bent on destroying him for money and spite. She wanted to meet so she could use me, and Jonathan wanted to prevent that so I didn’t hurt myself or him. Both of them underestimated me.

They forgot I was a musician, that I’d gone to a performing arts school and been the victim of manipulation and backstabbing. I’d already opened my case and found my strings cut and my staff notes swapped. I’d already been given the wrong time for auditions. I couldn’t come out of that world without learning a thing or two.

—I’ll be at Yellow Threat for an hour if you want to come by—

Jessica and I, working against Jonathan to see each other. Ridiculous, yet somehow inevitable.

I checked my watch. I’d definitely lost a writing day. I wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing I could do but warm my hands on my tea. The sidewalk made the block walkable, but it was empty. The light industrial street had been taken over by architects and production companies at the turn of the twenty-first century, and they’d painted everything in bright colors and edgy murals. I noticed one of Geraldine’s half a block away. She’d painted the side of the building to look as if I could see through it to the highway, as if she wanted to negate whatever happened inside.

I saw him walking across the crosswalk in a dark suit with a blue shirt open at the collar. His black hair caught the wind, and his eyes scanned every plane and surface.

“Mr. Santon,” I said when he reached me, “what a coincidence.”

“You believe in those?” He sat down.

“No. I’m assuming my lover sent you to talk me out of seeing his ex-wife?”

“Close. But no. I can’t tell you what he hired me to do, except I’m not supposed to be sitting at a table with you.”

“You must have put your own cameras in the house. If you know where I’ve been, I don’t know how. I haven’t seen you.”

“That was off the table, obviously. We’re not watching you. We’re watching the other one. And you’ll never see us, Ms. Faulkner. Any trace of us is gone before we even are.”

“Big scary ops guys. My dad always said he could take any of you in a brawl.”