Page 17 of Tell Me Goodnight


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Jon simply shrugged,looking unamused as he asked, “But you liked it?”

I cocked my head. I hadto consider the question for a moment, and I looked back over the years oftaking those odd jobs. “Well, yeah, I guess …”

“So, then,” he leanedforward, fixing his gaze on the coffee table, “if I may ask, what made youstop?”

My lips parted toanswer before I was even aware of what I would say. “Um …” My lips pursed andpulled to the side, and I decided to be honest. What did I have to lose? “I’vealways wanted to write, but it wasn’t my life-long passion to write quirkyarticles for mid-tier blogs; I always wanted to write a novel. My grandmotherwas a bestselling author for over twenty years before she couldn’t anymore, andI want to be just like her. But you know, you get so caught up in life, thatyou barely find the time to really do the things youwannado, so … I never wrote my book.”

Jon lifted his head andeyed me questioningly, silently asking me to continue. “Well,” I went on,shifting on the lumpy chair and nearly impaling myself on a protruding spring,“about seven months ago, my grandmother went for a walk by herself and gotlost. She was wandering around for a few hours in the cold before someonestopped to help her. And because my family lives almost an hour away, mydad—she’s his mom—wanted to find her a nursing home closer to him.But,Grandma isridiculously stubborn and didn’t want to leave her house.”

He nodded with sincereunderstanding. “My grandparents were the same way.”

“Yeah, it’spretty common, I guess, because my mom’s parents weren’t anydifferent. Except that they lived so close, she could be there every single dayto take care of them. That made things a lot easier.”

I puffed my cheeks outwith a heavy exhale and continued, “Anyway, it was a never-ending battlebetween my father and grandmother. He was spending most of his time down hereand missing a lot of work, and that was no good. So, one day,Ioffered to spend the weekend with her,to give him a break, and while I was there, let’s just say she gave me an offerI couldn’t refuse.” I shifted uncomfortably, trying to dislodge the spring frominappropriate places, and said, “Grandma told me she hated that I wasn’t doingwhat Ishouldbe doing, and she knewthat I was never going to do it while I was too busy working and paying rent.So, she told me to move in with her and live there rent-free while I got mywriting done, and since I’d be there to keep an eye on her, she wouldn’t haveto leave. It was a win-win.”

I finished my story andsettled my back as best as I could against the chair. Sometimes, there’s a verydistinct feeling people are struck with, when meeting someone they’re meant tohave in their lives. We might not know their purpose, or how long they’re meantto be there. But it’s almost as though our souls are aware when another pieceof our existential puzzle has come to find its place. That’s the feeling I hadsitting across from Jon. It was that unconscious acknowledgement that pushed meto open my mouth and tell him the truth, without even fully understanding why.

“Wow,” he finallyreplied after a couple of moments passed. “So, how long ago did you move in?How much writing have you gotten done?” Now my cheeks flourished crimson and Isank deeper onto that damn spring. Jon’s mouth quirked into a sympatheticsmile. “It’s hard,” he said gently, understanding. “I get it.”

“I’ve thought aboutquitting, but telling stories is all I’ve ever really wanted to do.” I wet mylips, took a sip of my juice box, and went on, “It’sstillall I want to do, but you’re right; itishard. And I’m just at this point where I needed to get out ofthe houseonce in a while, hence why I went lookingfor a little job to give me a break fromTheFamily Feudand Grandma.”

“The Family Feud?” he chuckled.

My eyes rolled.“Grandma is a Richard Dawson fanatic.”

With a dropped gaze tothe coffee table, Jon nodded, taking in the truth of my life and why I was nowsitting in his living room. His shoulders lifted and fell with his deep inhaleand exhale, and I wondered what was on his mind. Why he wasn’t talking. Iassumed to know what he was thinking. That I was pathetic and how he didn’twant that kind of loser mentality around his kids.

I let a few momentspass before I reached out for my juice box and sipped until the last drop. Iwas fully prepared to show myself the door, but I didn’t want to waste a drinkthat I knew wasn’t cheap. Then, just as I set the empty box back on the table,Jon finally lifted his once-studious glare to meet my eyes, and there, I nowfound a startling amount of empathy.

“Can I show yousomething?” he asked, but before I could reply, he was pulling himself to hisfeet and gesturing for me to follow him toward a closed door, justoff ofthe kitchen.

Thoughts of Grandma andher serial killer comments flooded my imagination. Warning bells rang and redflags waved. But despite all that, I found myself standing up and followinghim. Because like I said, sometimes our souls know things we don’t.

***

I was standing in his bedroom, and maybe,somewhere off in the distance, there was a weak siren blaring. Warning me toget out of there and far, far away from this man that still could’ve been aserial killer.

But my soul was far toointrigued to move.

His room was just aboutas outdated and drab as the living room. Right inside the door was a dresser,nicked and dinged at every corner. A mattress and box spring were laid on thefloor, but made neatly with a clean comforter and pillows, and a small shelfstood on one side, obviously in place of a nightstand, as made evident by thealarm clock.

On the other side ofthe bed, was a keyboard.

“I’ve been playing thepiano since I was a teenager,” he told me. “It’s allI’veever really wanted to do.”

I resumed my nervouspicking, then laid my hands over my stomach. “What do you do now?”

Turning to glance atme, I noticed the somber lift at the corner of his mouth. “I play piano. At mybrother’s club.” With a quick sweep of his gaze around the room, his eyes metmine again. “Obviously it has me living in the lap of luxury,” he mutteredsarcastically, then chuckled.

I wanted to laugh too,but it felt inappropriate, so I didn’t. I just pressed my lips together,unknowing what I should say, if anything at all. I couldn’t tell what point hewas trying to make. Was he teaching me a lesson? Was he saying that stickingwith my dream of being an author was foolish, if it meant living innear-poverty? Was he admitting the failures of his own life,and wouldn’t wish that upon anybody else?

“Being successful doinganything creative is hard,” he continued, dusting his fingers over the array ofbuttons above the keys.

I nodded, grasping atthe opportunity to chime in. “Tell me about it,” I muttered sardonically.

“I’ve been playing atJeff’s for most of my adult life, and I’ve been sending demos to recordingcompanies even longer than that.”

I didn’t need to askhow old he was to know he’d been trying for a long time to make something ofhis art, and I felt for him. Just as Iassumedhe feltfor me, as I began to understand what he was trying to tell me.