The Hardest Part of Today is a Hangover.

I was outside smoking a cig when Christian rolled up with someone in the passenger’s seat of his Dotson. I couldn’t tell who the person was—nor did I really care. I had just unloaded an entire truckload of my shit into a spare room of my friend’s house because my parents had kicked me out because I thought I was a badass in high school.

Yeah—I really cared who was in Christian’s car.

“Anna!” Caitlin shouted from inside, appearing through the door with a pair of Oli’s boxers in her hand. “What the hell is this?” she laughed, waving them through the air mockingly.

I groaned. “Oh, shut up. He left them behind when they left for tour and the cleaning lady caught me before I left. I kind of forgot about them,” I sighed, flicking my cigarette out on the pavement.

“Who’s Christian got?” Caitlin asked, dismissing the boxers into the living room and joining me on the front steps.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

“Well,” she laughed, standing up and brushing her ass off, “He looks cute. I’m going to go say hi.”

“You do that,” I laughed, watching her walk over to the car with a certain swagger to her hips—I have to admit, she has it. That it to get anybody into bed. It was clearly evident in her—you could practically sense it a mile away.

I watched her walk over to the car, a smile on my face, but when I saw her stop in her tracks I knew something was wrong. She just froze mid-stride, one foot halfway in the air and the other one planted firmly on the ground. I expected her to topple over, but she lunged over to the opening driver’s side door the second it opened and Christian’s goofy scruffy hair popped out.

Really, I couldn’t hear a damn thing they were saying, but I knew that they were pissed as hell—both of them.

Christian just plopped back down into his car and drove off, tearing out of his space and burning rubber right in Caitlin’s face. He took the corner harshly and then they were completely out of sight, Caitlin standing in the middle of the road with her arms crossed triumphantly, a pissed off look still adorned on her face.

It took her a few seconds before she walked back over to me, still pissed off.

“What?” I nearly laughed—I wanted to, but I almost had a feeling I knew who was in that car back there—and stubbed out my cigarette.

“Oli was in his car,” she muttered, walking right passed me, her sandals clacking against the pavement, the noise ringing in my ears long after she was gone. And it was suddenly silent in Portland, not a thing to be heard except the thoughts rushing through my head—like: Why couldn’t I see him? and What the hell is wrong with me?

Truthfully, I couldn’t even answer those questions.

[-During the Summer-]

“Shove it, then!” I wailed, picking up the sandal I had thrown at the manager from the sidewalk, slipping it on my foot angrily. “I don’t want to fucking work here anyways,” I muttered under my breath.

The manager sighed. “Really, ma’am, I think you should calm down.”

“Oh, shut up, Georgiou—or whatever the fuck your name is. I don’t want to hear it,” I spit, my hands gripping my hips so tight I thought I was going to split myself in two, “I can understand that you don’t like my tattoo’s, okay? But you’re going to not hire me because of them? That is completely ridiculous!”

“It’s against the restaurant policy, ma’am. If you can’t cover them up, then you can’t work here,” he said calmly. It was probably the drugs—the crack, most likely—that kept him that way all of the time. Douchebag.

“Restaurant policy, my ass! You just don’t fucking like me, you stupid herpe-infested elephant ass!” I shouted, laughing inside my head.

Really? Had I really just said that?

“Just calm down, okay? You’re attracting a crowd,” he pleaded through clenched teeth, looking around the people that were once brushing passed us and had stopped to listen in to the conversation.

“No!” I boomed, crossing my eyes at him. “It’s not my fault you’re an asshole! Just give me a change, seriously!”

Frankly, this had just turned into entertainment. I didn’t even want the fucking job that bad—the only reason I knew French was because I grew up in Canada. This was just the only place in walking distance from my apartment that was hiring.

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave or I’ll call the cops,” he warned, trying to seem intimidating.

A small laugh escaped through my lips. “Yeah, okay—whatever. I’ll be back.”

He nodded meekly and disappeared into the snooty French restaurant, the crowd that we had attracted dissipating…except for a rather large—pregnant, I think—girl standing against an open door with her arms crossed over her bulging stomach.

Yeah, definitely pregnant.

“Hi, I’m Erin. You need a job, I assume?” she questioned, raising her eyebrows.

I laughed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I muttered, suddenly feeling slightly stupid for throwing that damn stunt. Every store and restaurant owner was going to find out about this and put a large DO NOT HIRE! sign with a picture of me on it in their office.

“Well, come in. I think you already have the job,” she laughed, jerking her head towards the record store, a smile apparent on her face.

“Alright,” I mumbled happily, following her into the store, a new bounce in my step.

“You new to Portland?” she asked, waddling to the back room.

“Yup,” I chipped, “Just moved here yesterday.”

“Oh, really? Where from?” she asked, roaming through filing cabinets.

“Well, I did live in Canada, but I was touring with some bands for a while—you know, their guitar tech and stuff. Now they’re off tour and I decided it’s time to start a real life,” I explained, leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh,” she smiled at me, “That’s awesome. You play guitar?”

“Yeah. Fifteen years.”

“Would you be interested in working here and teaching guitar lessons?” she asked, walking back into the store area—well, it was more of a waddle.

“Sure,” I shrugged. “Anything for some cash.”

“Cool,” she laughed, slapping a piece of paper and a pen down in front of me. “Sign here,” she motioned to an ‘x’, then another, “And here.”

I did, then sighed. “Alright, what now?”

“You tell me your name,” she laughed, her hand rubbing at her swollen stomach.

“Christie,” I clarified.

“Well, Christie, you’re hired.”