And Then There Was Us (And The There Was 2)

His expression was stern, but finally his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair, conceding. He grumbled something I couldn’t quite hear, but I knew I’d won this argument.

“I have a job interview at a jazz club in the city.” This seemed to perk him up, jazz being his favorite type of music. More times than not, he’d have the radio playing softly in the background, pretending he was playing a saxophone.

When I was younger, it embarrassed the hell out of me, but now, at twenty-one, I was really fond of those memories.

The truth was, I’d applied to the jazz club in the city as almost an homage to my father, and, well, myself. I was making this extra money for him, so it seemed fitting to be able to work at a club that played music he was passionate about. I just hoped I got the job, because the sooner I could start working, the sooner I could make money and ease the strain.

Before I left, I made sure he had the TV remote, a bottle of water, a bag of pretzels—his favorite, ’cause they were extra salty and dry as hell—and of course his ancient flip phone right beside him.

I gave him a kiss on the forehead and left, locking up behind me and adjusting my purse over my shoulder as I headed down the apartment complex stairs. I pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped outside, the weather not as cold as it normally was for this time of year. They were predicting flurries later this evening, but the shit weather didn’t bother me, especially since I was only walking a few blocks to the jazz club.

Living in the city had its pros and cons. We didn’t live in the best part of town, but then again, unless you were rolling in money, chances were you couldn’t afford one of the luxury spots. But our neighborhood wasn’t awful, and we were close enough to the park, as well as shopping.

Before my father was too sick to leave the house, he’d take me to the park, and we’d walk the lake a couple of times, talking about everything and nothing at all. Ever since my mother passed away when I was twelve years old, it had just been Pops and me.

We’d become best friends, so the very thought of him so sick ate away at me. I also knew he hated not being able to provide. But he’d worked so hard while I was growing up, allowing me to go to school and not worry about rent or paying for groceries or even helping with bills, that I felt it was my responsibility to pick up the slack.

Like I told him, he’d do the same for me in a heartbeat.

I put the hood over my head and started making my way down the street. Traffic in the city was god-awful, and people were so damn aggressive it was like acid ran through their veins. And I normally just kept my head down, plastered a smile on my face, and focused on my dad and myself.

For me, that was the only way to survive in the sardine-packed city.

The breeze picked up, and I shivered, the weather seeming to get colder the more I walked.

We had a few good days of decent sunshine, even allowing some of the snow to melt, but that just created that dirty slush the cars splashed up on you if you weren’t careful and walked too close to the curb.

But I couldn’t wait for the warm weather, when we could shed the layers.

About ten minutes later I stopped in front of Lyrics. I had to admit, I was secretly praying I got this job. I loved this place, even though I’d only been here a handful of times over the years.

They did open mic nights and had some of the most incredible amateur jazz singers and musicians I’d ever heard. The atmosphere just called to me, and although I was applying for a waitressing job, I was still pretty excited at the prospect of working here.

I pulled the heavy wooden door open, the hinges creaking slightly, and stepped inside. The lights were low, the sound of a vacuum going somewhere in a back room breaking up the silence.

It was the middle of the day, and the bar didn’t open until the evenings, so the place was dead. I exhaled and tried the door, but wasn’t surprised it was locked. I brought my knuckles down on the scarred wood and took a step back. A moment later it swung open, two men carrying large empty wooden crates walking out. I stepped aside as they made their way past me.

“Can you hold that door for us, please? We’re just grabbing a couple more.”

I nodded to one of the guys who’d asked, and propped the door open as I watched them head to a van parked right in front of the bar by the curb. Only a few moments passed and then they were heading back inside, a large wooden crate in each of their beefy arms. The brand of liquor was burned onto the side of the wood, and the sound of glass bottles clanking together as they were lightly shifting from the movement, echoed in my ears.