Our Time Has Come, and We've Got These Big City Dreams

“Tara!”

I ignored it. Shut up, shut up, shut up, don’t wanna hear it.

“Tara!” my father bellowed once again from downstairs.

“What?” I screamed.

“Get me a beer!” he screamed back.

Get it yourself! Oh, and while you’re at it, get a job! And some compassion! And sense! I wanted to scream back, but no, no. He was in a mood.

Whenever he was in a mood, the house sat on edge, waiting to plummet into the deep abyss of misery that he was slowly drinking us into.

My mother had left us when I was ten. She packed up and left. Left me with an alcoholic to deal with. I got a job at fifteen. I stayed in school; my only hope for leaving. My best friend, Ellyn, gave me half of whatever she made working. She wanted to help me get out.

It was going to take more than just money to get me out.

It would take guts. A plan. Escape route. All of which I didn’t have.

All of which were essential.

I scribbled my random thoughts down onto a piece of paper. Every word I wrote down was quickly followed by another. Plans, thoughts.

Escape.

~

“Well I’m stuck in this fucking rut, waiting on a second-hand pick-me-up,” I sang along to the sound of All Time Low blaring into my ears, through my headphones. I was rearranging the CDs at the music store I worked at. I moved Green Day from the K to the G, Forever The Sickest Kids from the G to the F. “And I’m over getting older. If I could just find the time, then I would never—”

A low chuckle interrupted my singing. I whirled around, whipping the guy standing behind me with my hair. “Oh! Sorry!” I pulled my headphones down around my neck and turned my iPod off.

He blinked rapidly a couple of times. “No worries. I’m good,” he grinned.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I took this time to study him. Dirty blonde hair, chocolate brown eyes, a tee shirt with a flying pig that said “Glamour Kills”, skinny jeans, and Converses. Overall, hot. “That’s good,” I smiled back. I held out a hand. “I’m Tara.”

He took it, and instead of shaking it like I had intended, brushed his lips across it and winked cheekily at me. My heart began to pump erratically.

And that’s when I knew he was one of those. He probably got every girl he came across. Well, no-sir-ee-bob, he wasn’t getting this girl. No matter how much I liked him.

I slid my hand out of his grasp. I smiled. “Well…” I paused for his name.

“Alex,” he told me.

“Alex, it’s nice to meet you, but I should get back to work,” I told him firmly.

“So, you listen to All Time Low?” he asked, completely ignoring what I had just told him.

“Yeah,” I answered reluctantly, getting back to the CDs.

“Do you know the names of the guys in the band?” he asked curiously, moving a little closer.

I stood my ground, not letting him show how he affected me, despite the fact that I was blushing. “Yes. My best friend is in love with Jack Barakat.”

He laughed, folding his arms across his chest. “Ever seen a picture of the band?”

I shook my head, walking to the next aisle, knowing he would follow. “Nope.”

He looked… I couldn’t describe it. A cross between skeptical, shocked, and triumphant. “Oh?”

I glanced at him. “Yup. Now…”

“You’ve got to get back to work,” he finished my sentence. “I know.” He pulled a Sharpie out of his back pocket and grabbed my hand, pushing my sleeve up. “But when you get the chance, call me.” He scribbled a number on my arm. “Okay?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

“Talk to you later,” he winked again. I could tell that my cheeks were flaming red.

At the time, I thought the problem was that I liked a playboy.

I had no idea that things got so, so much more complicated.

But isn’t that just what I needed?