West Coast

The heat hit her face as soon as she walked out the double doors of LAX. It was May and New York was still thawing out but California had never frozen over. The breeze blew her hair over her shoulder as she jogged over to a cab waiting to pick people up, visitors and natives alike. The man got out and popped the trunk for her to dump her luggage in, even though she only had a large bag and a carry-on, and he opened the door for her. She thanked him and told him to take her to a string of apartment complexes by the most beautiful beach in California.

"Si! Si, si mi belleza!" He spoke as he turned the key in the ignition. Not knowing much Spanish, she just smiled and nodded. The radio was playing smooth, Spanish riffs, quietly, but just enough to allow her to get lost in the scenery, so opposite of the sky-rise buildings and dead oaks of New York. Just by looking at the strangers on the side of the road and the architecture of this new world was enough to both excite her and calm her nerves. She didn't really know how she was going to go about all of this, she hadn't really thought about the logistics of this getaway trip.

Back at home, she blended in with the perfection of the imperfect New York inhabitants. She would wake up every morning at noon, smoke her breakfast away, go down to Georgio's for a big lunch, and end up at the Inkwell Cafe to sing the drunkards and loners into another dimension. It was always after work that she lived for. Sometimes she'd stick around with Charlie and Liam and drink until one of them passed out. Sometimes she'd wander down the street to her best friend Samantha's and crash there or drag Sam from her extended studies to a club or for a smoke. Sometimes she'd just go home and get stoned enough to shimmy up the fire escape to the roof of her Brooklyn apartment. Sometimes she'd open all her windows, put a record on, and just paint. She loved the city, but it was all she knew. She considered herself very blessed for doing so well there and managing her happiness. After she graduated Pratt with a degree in painting, she was ridden with anxiety of where her life was going to go and how to pay off this heavy debt. And though she had yet to find a steady career making art, she hadn't gone a week without painting something.

Her father was all she had, family-wise, and he was endlessly proud of her, though she was never sure why. After her mother passed when she was fifteen, she started living with her father and, after years of barely knowing each other, they had to start over. She was really proud of him as well. Even though Timothy James was just as reckless as his daughter, he managed to grow up while she stayed with him. He got sober, he got a reliable job, and he got a razor to keep up appearances. It was hard at first, he never really liked finances, but his job paid really well and he was able to keep up with him. It was difficult for Lacey to leave him behind in Brooklyn, but she knew that he could take care of himself now. A kiss on the cheek and a smile from him was enough to prove her that.
The yellow cab pulled up to a nameless curb with apartments that were half the size of her own back home. She was standing with her bags, staring the open windows and white curtains blowing out of them, alone in a matter of minutes. There were signs on the low-level doorstep about renting the rooms from a woman named Maggie M'Gill. Lacey laughed, the Doors' song suddenly getting stuck in her head. She had a good feeling about this place.

Walking in, she was met with three rows of numbered mailboxes and a staircase that spiraled up and up and up. She was halfway up when she came to a red door with a sign that read "Tangie Town; Maggie M'Gill welcomes your love." Lacey knew she would fall in love with this place.