Back when I was doing open mic nights, singer-songwriter style, I had fleeting tastes of what it could be like when my music resonates with other people. But those were a shadow compared to this. Tonight was a technicolor experience, and I can’t go back to sepia.
My mom needs me to be sepia because it makes her feel safe. Bryce the Weasel needed me to be sepia so he could shine. But tonight, I was glitter and growl and manic energy, and there will be no turning back.
Westoreourequipmentin our practice space, the pool house behind Rodney’s McMansion. Or his parents’ McMansion. Actually, given that it’s on two acres, it’s just a regular mansion. It’s perfect because we can’t bother any neighbors there, even if it’s a bit of a trek from my part of town. It’s worth it for the free space.
It also has the benefit of a shower I can use to rinse out my pink hair. It’s the cheap spray stuff you find in the stores at Halloween, but it washes easily, and I don’t have to explain to my patients—or my roommates—why I have pink hair.
My hair is still damp when I get home after 11:00. I’m still amped from the show, and I need time to come down, so I decide to sit out on my balcony and let it air dry for as long as I can stand the chill. That way, I don’t wake anyone up with a hair dryer.
My balcony overlooks the parking lot, but the Austin skyline shines in the distance. The view is a fair trade for Ruby getting the bigger closet.
I wrap my comforter around me and settle into my cheap plastic deck chair, leaning back to prop my legs on the railing and replay the night. I’m running the final song through my head, wondering how I missed Josh in the crowd, when the sliding door for his balcony rattles, and a few seconds later, he steps out.
He reaches high above him and stretches. He’s in joggers and a T-shirt now, and a strip of skin shows between his shirt hem and waistband. I should let him know he’s got an audience in case he doesn’t want one. But in a few seconds. I’m liking this view too.
“Hey,” I finally say.
He drops his hands and twists my way. “Hey, Sami. Didn’t see you. Hang out here much?”
I give a tired tilt of my head to the doors behind me. “That’s my room. So yeah, I come out here a lot. Especially after shows. Decompress.”
“That was something.” He pauses, then adds softly, “A good something.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
He leans against the wall and crosses his arms like he’s settling in for a chat. “Want to tell me about the secret identity?”
Not really. I let my head fall against my chair. I want to stay in the quiet, enjoy the glow, and not chase it away by talking about it. “You’re out here kind of late.” We’re creeping toward midnight.
“Night owl. Always have been. Came home and got some work done to knock down my to-do list for tomorrow.”
“Two of my roommates were asleep before you left Crimson, and you came home and worked?” I shake my head and nestle farther into my comforter.
“Me? What about you? Did you work a full shift today?”
“Yeah.”
“And then you went out and played a concert?”
“Different kind of energy.”
He nods and rolls slightly so his back is against his wall. “Need to get a chair out here,” he says lazily after a while.
“These are five bucks at the grocery store.”
He laughs. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
This time in the quiet, I hear other sounds beyond the rush of adrenaline in my head. A distant bark. An even more distant siren. The soft hoot of an owl.
“Look,” I say. An owl flies past, caught for the briefest second at the edge of the light cast by the parking lot bulb. “That doesn’t happen too often.”
“That’s a barn owl.” His voice is soft but sure.
I glance over at him. “You a birder?”
He shakes his head. “My grandfather. But you pick up things.”
It’s quiet for another minute except for small sounds. A closing car door on the back side of the complex. A muffled yip from inside Mrs. Lipsky’s apartment.
