From the Jump(4)

Sadly, it’s all still there in black and white. The building that contains my rent-controlled apartment has been sold, and I have until the end of tomorrow to declare my intention to buy the place I’ve been living in for the last seven years or let it go. Which is why I’ve made sure to always have at least six months’ worth of rent in my savings, just as Seeking Security: A Woman’s Guide to Securing Her Own Future told me to. It’s going to be fine. I’ve prepared for this.

Except, of course, I have no idea what I’ve prepared myself to do. Am I supposed to buy my apartment and bury myself under a mountain of debt when I was just starting to see glimmers of light from beneath the boulder of student loans? Or am I supposed to start over somewhere else? Both options cause my chest to tighten, my heart hammering. I always imagined I’d have a partner by the time I attempted homeownership. There was supposed to be room for a child, or maybe even two.

But I don’t have a partner and, for now at least, I only need space for myself. I’ve made my apartment my home, and I swore to myself that I’d never be forced out of my home again. And maybe walking away won’t leave me homeless in the way I’ve experienced before, but I’ll know I can’t trust myself any more than I could trust my mother. So who’s left to make sure everything doesn’t crash and burn once again?

“You look lonely,” says a guy who leans an elbow on my table, pressing into one of the many glasses left behind by its previous occupants. He has artfully mussed hair and a rakish grin that says he knows exactly how attractive he is.

“Alone and lonely aren’t necessarily the same thing, though, are they?” I keep my voice light because the internet’s Husband Huntress insists it’s important to never pass up an opportunity to practice the art of flirtation. This guy is barking up the wrong tree, though. Even if I weren’t currently pondering the breakdown of my entire existence, I wouldn’t go for someone this flashy. My mom used to date someone who wore a pinkie ring very similar to this one; he left her for a woman with bigger breasts and longer purse strings.

“You’re right,” the guy says. “I’ll rephrase that. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

His grin widens. “Can I get you another drink?”

“She’ll take a chardonnay,” says a familiar voice behind me. “And a lager for me, as long as you’re making the trip.”

“Hello, Deiss.” I turn around with a warm smile. In all the Thursdays we’ve met, this might be the first time he’s ever shown up early. It’s a rare treat, having him all to myself.

“Hello, Liv.” He flashes a smile, bright white against the darkness of his full beard. “I see you’re collecting your usual stable of admirers.”

“Apparently, I looked lonely,” I say.

“I amended it to beautiful,” the guy reminds me.

“Oh, yes,” I say to Deiss. “I forgot that we decided to rewind.”

“Are you going to fast-forward to the part where you break his heart,” Deiss asks, “or should I grab our drinks and give you two a moment to talk?”

“Thank you for the offer,” I say, glancing over at the guy, “and for the compliment, but I’m going to have to pass on the drink.”

“No problem,” the guy says, backing away. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“That’s what I love about LA,” Deiss says, turning his attention to the mess on the table. “Everyone’s so friendly. They’ll give you the shirt right off their back.”

“As long as it’s guaranteed to end up on the floor at the foot of your bed?”

“Exactly.”

We grin at each other, and my skin flushes warm.

“Slow day at the shop?” I ask, referring to Studio Sounds, the record store Deiss owns.

“No more than usual. I saw your text, though, and figured I’d head over so you wouldn’t be stuck here alone.” He reaches for a dirty glass as he glances back at the slick guy, who has rejoined his friends. “Should’ve known there was little chance of that.”

I search my brain for a clever response but am distracted by the sight of him transferring the mess from our table to one next to us that has just opened up. Usually, he’s lounging against something, surveying everyone else’s efforts like we’re all putting on a show for his personal entertainment. Still, as strange as it is to see him tidying, he manages to do it in a way that looks like no effort at all. It’s like he’s yawning, his arms stretching out lazily, just happening to accomplish something in the movement.

“How is the shop?” I ask instead. Business has been slow because, shockingly, in the time of streaming music, records aren’t exactly a hot commodity. But last year, Deiss rearranged it to be able to host after-hours concerts with local bands.

“Poorly managed.” Deiss grins and leans against the now emptied table. He makes it look so comfortable that I want to slide off my chair and copy him. “I keep getting distracted by the new guitar stock, Booker is worthless, and Mia scares all the customers off. I am looking into getting a liquor license, though.”

“For the basement shows?”

He nods. “The door money is good, but a lot of the profit comes from liquor sales.”