Music Inn

Surprisingly little changed. I still worked at Music Inn, Sam still waited tables and played in his band. The only difference was that now we had sex.

At first, it was only one or two nights a week. Then, Sam started coming around during my lunch break (I would later find out he adjusted his own to match mine), and then we started walking to work together, and then I started hanging around after his shows on Fridays, and then “one or two nights” became every single night and sometimes at random points during the day.

I’d attempted to plan out the time and location we’d meet, but quickly realized that Sam wasn’t interested in things like that. “Just go with the flow, Lexi,” he’d said airily. “We’ll fuck when we fuck.”

So I did my best to listen to him. Sometimes, it was kind of like a game, like when I decided to blow him with one minute left of our lunch breaks in a back alley behind the restaurant, or when we randomly decided to go at it with the rest of the boys in the next room, or when Sam would pull me into a closet backstage right before one of his shows. It was reckless and stupid and fun.

“Your skin looks good,” Kiera commented one morning. She was sitting on the toilet, waiting for me to finish brushing my teeth so she could wash her face and brush her own, since our bathroom really wasn’t big enough for two people at once. “It’s like . . . glowing. Did you get a new highlighter or something?”

I furrowed my eyebrows as I spat out my toothpaste in the sink. “No. I’m not even wearing makeup.”

“Huh. Maybe it’s the light.” She paused. “Or maybe it’s from all the sex you’re having.”

“Maybe,” I said, keeping my voice noncommittal.

“Does Sam ever jizz on your face?” she continued. “I hear that’s good for your skin.”

“This conversation is over now,” I said calmly, refusing to let her rile me up. “If you need me, I’ll be watching the Food Network.”

“Try to find a recipe with pineapple in it, I heard that makes your ‒”

I slammed the bathroom door behind me, ignoring her cackling. I’d just settled down to watch an episode of Chopped when my phone rang. It was Sam himself. “Hello?”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Um, nothing. Why, what’s up?” It was a Sunday, one of the only free days I had. The start of summer meant frequent visits from tourists, so Music Inn was getting busier and busier every day.

“I was just gonna take Lady for a walk in the park. Do you want to come? You guys have never formally met.”

I snorted. “Sure, I guess. When?”

“Well, I’m outside right now, so . . .”

“Now?” I looked down at my pajama shorts and ratty gray t-shirt that for some reason said TEXAS on it, even though I’d never been.

“Yeah, now.” When I didn’t answer, he added, “I’ve seen you naked. It’s fine.”

I laughed. “Okay, whatever. I’ll be right there.”

“See ya in a few.”

I hung up with him and grabbed my keys before slipping on my sneakers and leaving, not bothering to alert Kiera. When I went outside, Sam was sitting on the apartment steps, petting a dog. “Hey,” I said.

He turned and smiled, standing up. “Hello, friend,” he said. Then he addressed the dog. “Lady, this is my good pal Alexa. Alexa, this is Marmalady, also known as Lady.”

“Marmalady? Why not Marmalade?” I said, letting Lady sniff my hand.

“Because when we were trying to decide what to name her, Fletcher was drinking some lemonade and said it tasted more marmalade-y. So it stuck.”

“Very clever.” We walked to a park that was a few minutes away from our apartment. “Thanks for inviting me,” I said jokingly, watching Lady pee on a bush.

Sam shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You saw me last night,” I pointed out, unimpressed.

“Well, whatever. Come on.”

Sam and I made casual conversation as we strolled around the park with Lady. At first it was just about our friends: he updated me on the band and I told him stories about Kiera, Jesse, Dan, and Matt. But then it moved on, like it seemed to always do with us, into music-related things.

“Okay, name an album that changed your life,” I challenged.

“Easy,” Sam said. “Radiohead, The Bends. Bought it when I was thirteen. You?”

“You’re gonna laugh.”

“Probably, but you should tell me anyway.”

I sighed. “Okay. Your Favorite Weapon by Brand New.”

Sam was silent, and then he began to laugh. “Told you,” I said grumpily.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chortled, almost letting go of the leash, “that’s just . . . wow. Emo.”

I shrugged. “Guess so. I just think it’s one of those albums that gets better every time you hear it.”

“Is Brand New your favorite band?”

I thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I would say so. I’ve seen them a couple times, and they’ve always just been a band that I’ve connected with. I was young when they first started putting out music, but so what, you know?”

“Yeah, I feel that. That’s like me with Zeppelin and Radiohead. They’re pretty before my time, but I love them still.” Sam watched Lady sniff a tree before he said, “I don’t really think music has an age limit, you know? And I hate when people try to do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like when people say you can’t like a band or an artist because you weren’t around when they were putting out music. So fucking what. I sure as hell wasn’t around when Abe Lincoln was president, but that’s still my fucking boy.”

I began to laugh. “Great analogy.”

“Thanks,” he said with a grin. We walked in companionable silence for a while longer, pausing here and there to let Lady sniff around. It vaguely occurred to me that I was happy right here: the sun was warm on my face and I was fond of the person beside me.

Suddenly, Lady abruptly stopped and squatted. “Oh, dammit,” Sam moaned. “I hate cleaning up her shit.” He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket before he whipped around and threw it at me. “Think fast!”

Startled, I caught it. “What the fuck?”

“You catch it, you clean it,” he said proudly, nodding at the pile of poop Lady had produced.

“Are you kidding me? It’s your dog.” I tried to throw it back, but he dodged it.

“Nope. You catch it, you clean it.” I made several more attempts to get out of picking up the dog crap, but Sam merely repeated the phrase over and over. When it didn’t look like he was going to budge, I sighed and picked up the plastic bag, going over to the poop.

Bending down, I put the plastic bag over my hand, grabbed the poop, and then pulled the bag inside out. Pleased with myself, I turned back around. “Look, I did it! I didn’t even touch the poop at all, either.”

Sam was looking at me with an odd expression. “We’re going back,” was all he said, and then he turned around and began to walk towards the park’s entrance, giving me no choice but to hurry after him.

“What’s happening? Why are we going back?”

He didn’t answer for a second. Then, he said in a strained voice, “You just bent down in those little shorts and now I have a complete hard on and I’d really like to get out of public and fuck you, okay?"

It took me a moment to register everything he’d just said. Then, feeling a rush of heat flood to my navel, I answered, “Okay. Let’s go.” And we practically raced each other back to his apartment.