Chapter Twenty-One

Maren

Three weeks. That's how long it's been since I last saw Mac. Not that I'm counting. Not that I'm looking out my window every morning, hoping to see a glimpse of him.

Not that I care.

"You ruined it for all of us, you know." Nina, my empathetic roommate, bumps into me on her way to get coffee while I pretend I haven't been standing at the window for a half hour. "All you have to do is go beg him to take you back. Is that asking too much? Because those of us who haven't been getting it on the reg would like to see a little ab action again."

I haven't told Nina everything about Mac, like how he once knew me before he was hot and rich, or how he was actually brothers with my fuck buddy, or how he stopped me from giving up seven years of sobriety, or the hurt look in his eyes when he knew it was over.

I also didn't tell her about the lawsuit, because as mad as I am at him, I don't need Nina to feed the rumor mill and paint him as a slumlord.

But I did tell her how he not only sold the building, but he also owned it, thus making him the one who kicked all of us out with practically no notice. And for that, Nina should be on my side. After all, it's why I'm here, encroaching on her space.

However, Nina's allegiance lies with Mac's sculpted abs. But judging by my morning station at the window, the way I watch the door at Insomniacs, how many times I've come close to calling him or stopping at Benji's house, it appears I'm on Mac's side too.

I won't cave though. All it takes is thinking of how he covered up the mold issue, or how sick Molly's son had been. How sick I had been without even knowing it. He covered all of this up instead of just dealing with it, and then he gave us thirty days to find a new place, knowing full well none of us would ever find anything in that price range.

No, Mac and I don't belong together. His world is too different from mine. He has no idea what it's like to skip a meal because there is literally nothing to eat. He doesn't know what it's like to turn on the lights and nothing happens because the electric bill hasn't been paid. He's never had to sleep in his car with a screwdriver in his hand in case anyone wants to rob him, rape him, or kill him.

He has no idea about the impossibility of finding a new place to live in just thirty days when every other apartment is almost double what we were paying. Yes, we were all lucky to live in a place with such low rent. But when the floor dropped out from under us, we were all screwed.

Thank goddess Nina stepped up, because I can never go back to the streets again. There were things I did back then in an effort to survive that I will not do now. That I can't do now.

I am not that person anymore.

If I were forced to live on the streets again, with no place left to turn, I would not have survived. For all of that and more, I cannot forgive Mac.

In the meantime, I've been left with a lot of time on my hands. I've taken a break from performing at Hillside, which means I've been wandering Nina's house in the hours I'm not working at Insomniacs. Every room is now organized. No clothes are hanging in the kitchen, the living room has clear spaces to sit, and I even cleared out another bedroom which Nina immediately took over as her closet .

However, as grateful as Nina was for the organization help, she also told me I needed to find a new hobby to keep myself busy.

She was right. If I didn't distract myself with something soon, I was going to end up painting every wall and re-staining the hardwood floors. Or worse—calling Mac and telling him I missed him.

So a week ago, I posted an index card on the bulletin board at Insomniacs, offering to teach music to beginners. The day hadn't even ended before I got a call. Now, at any moment, my first student is going to walk through the door.

There is no word to describe the mixture of nerves and excitement I'm feeling.

On cue, the doorbell rings and the butterflies I'm feeling do swan dives in my belly. I've stared death in the literal face, but this feels scarier.

"You got this," Nina says, shaking me loose from my anxiety. It's a rare moment when Nina is supportive, and I flash her a grateful smile in response. Then I gather my wits, put on my best mask of confidence, and head to the door.

The lesson proves to be nothing to be afraid of. Dylan is a fast study, which I fully attribute to the fact that he's eleven. He soaks up everything I teach him, and by the time his mom comes to pick him up, he can play Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds," a personal favorite of mine that only uses three of the chords he's memorized.

"Mom, you should hear Maren play," Dylan says once he's shown off what he can do. I feel my face heat up as his mom, Lacey, looks toward me. After a little coaxing, I finally play an acoustic version of Paramore's song, "You First," off their latest album. I only play a few lines, but it's enough to remember why I love performing, and that I actually miss it. When I look up, Dylan is beaming while Lacey looks a bit starstruck.

I am not one to ever feel embarrassed about performing in front of other people, and yet, I feel a little shy as I put my guitar away.

"You're really good," she says.

"I'm just having fun." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and stand. She fishes a check out of her purse, and I discreetly glance at it, then do my best to keep my eyes from bugging out of my face. It's five times the amount I quoted her.

"I'm pre-paying for the next month, if that's okay," Lacey says, and I nod as nonchalantly as I can. Inside, I'm squealing. "Also, if it's okay with you, I'd like to pass your name to someone I know in the business. I can't promise anything, but she's looking for new talent to work with, and I have a feeling you might be the perfect fit. Do you have any samples?"

Do I? Only a few hundred of them. In my room, I have a whole box of thumb drives that hold music, photos, videos of my performances, and my contact information, plus links to my social media. I retrieve one, but as I'm placing it in Lacey's hand, I realize how meager it is.

"I don't have a website or anything," I say, "and I'm not on Spotify." I start to go on, but she waves me off.

"That just means you're truly undiscovered," she says. "Talent is talent. Let's just wait to see what my friend says, okay?"

An hour later I'm racing out the door to make it to Claire's house to hang with my favorite kid while my best friend enjoys a much-needed date with her fiancé. I can't seem to lose the permanent grin on my face, which hasn't quit since Dylan and his mom left. Lacey's words are swimming through my head. Even though she stressed that this was a long shot, it was still a shot. It was closer than anything I'd experienced in my life. I mean, what if it turned into an audition? A contract?

A fucking album and concert tour?

"Don't get ahead of yourself," I mutter, but the grin remains as I slide into my car and turn the key in the ignition. I plug in my phone, and of course Paramore comes on since that was the last thing I was listening to.

But my smile falters .

The song is "Ain't It Fun," a song I've heard at least a million times. Except, all I can think of is the orchestra version, surrounded by thousands of flickering lights, and my hand safely encased in Mac's.

I miss him, and now that I have this news, I want to share it with him. Even if it amounts to nothing, especially if it doesn't, I need him to anchor me, to be thrilled with me, to dream up the possibilities—and if it all falls apart, I want him there to pick up the pieces.

Because I have spent my whole life being my own savior, and I'm tired.

"I'll just drive there," I tell myself. The car is already heading in the direction of the house where Mac's been staying, as if I'm not the one in control. "If he's not there, I'll take it as a sign."

Please be there. Please be there.

I turn down one street, and then the next until I'm slowing in my approach to the house. Before I've even pulled up, I can already see I'm too late.

A "For Sale" sign hangs from a white post on the front lawn. There's been some landscaping since the last time I was here, and the house appears to have much more curb appeal. As if it's waiting for new owners.

Because no one lives here.

I park in the empty driveway, and even though I'm already late for work, I get out of my car. Peering in the windows, I see there is no furniture. The place is completely emptied out. It's like no one has lived here for years.

I wanted a sign, and I think I got it.

I bite my lip, feeling the hot sting of tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I force them back, swallowing hard as I turn to the street. In the distance, a woman is pushing a jogging stroller as she runs, her ponytail bouncing with each step. At a nearby house, a teenage boy wears large headphones as he mows the lawn, making perfect lines in the grass. A young girl rides her bike up and down a driveway as her dad stands nearby.

My whole world is one big ending, but life goes on.

Ain't it fun?

I shake my head, a small laugh escaping my lips. I could go search out Mac's house on the hill. I think I remember the way. But why? This was a momentary lapse of reason. Mac is still Mac. And me? I'm still Maren. Long after this day, I'll still be doing what I need to do to survive. It's a different fight than the one I battled years ago. But it's a struggle, nonetheless.

And I'm here for it. Because I'm Maren Huerta, and I'm in charge of my own destiny. I have survived this long without Mac Dermot. I can survive forever.