I can’t help but feel furious that Tyler genuinely thought it was a good idea to invite me along to a stoner party. Did he really think I’d have a good time with a bunch of people sitting around getting high? It was miles away from a good idea, and I wondered why Tyler even invited me. What was he thinking? Was he thinking?
Jake is less stupid. He’s got enough brain cells to know what’s good and what’s bad, and it’s because of this that I’ve ended up in the passenger seat of his car. And wanting to hurl my fist through the windshield.
“I’m actually meant to be meeting Dean in fifteen minutes,” says Jake, glancing at me with a sort of bummed expression in his eyes. “You can come hang with us or I can take you home. Choice is yours.”
The idea of going back home after being stuck inside all day alone doesn’t strike me as fun, and right now all I really need is some decent, non-drug-related human company. And thankfully, Dean is sweet. “Are you sure it’s okay if I come with you?”
“Sure it is,” he says. “Nice choice.”
I heave a sigh as my body cools down a little, and I sink into the seat and adjust the air conditioning. It’s easier to feel relaxed in Jake’s car than it is in Tyler’s, simply because I don’t feel like I’m on the verge of death each time we turn a corner. “Who were you looking for?”
“Dawson Hernandez,” he says, and I’m not sure why I even asked. I don’t know anyone here. “Sophomore. I gotta watch out for him.”
“Where are we meeting Dean?” I ask, changing the subject, hoping to forget about this wonderful stoner party. The more I think about it, the more I feel sick.
“Some band he likes—La Breve Vita?—is playing a free gig downtown. We’re gonna check it out.”
Admittedly, I’ve never heard of this band either. But given that they’re playing a free show, they must be pretty unknown. “Okay,” I say. “Sounds good.”
It doesn’t take us long to hit the busy downtown nightlife of Santa Monica on a Saturday evening, and the club signs are electric, the music loud, the people drunk, the prostitutes plentiful. We pull up in a small parking lot around the back of an even smaller building, and I can’t quite figure out if it’s a club or a bar or a restaurant or a weed dispensary. Either way, we head inside.
The room looks like someone’s basement, and is dim and crowded and stuffy and hot. There’s a tiny stage, and on this tiny stage there are four figures, either strumming or drumming or singing. I step over some crushed plastic cups.
“You finally got here!” Dean’s voice echoes over the music from somewhere. He steps around from behind us, his face aglow from the flashing spotlights. “Eden? I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Found her when I was looking for Dawson,” Jake explains, and I watch as Dean’s expression falters and they exchange a knowing look.
“At Declan’s party?”
“Yeah,” Jake says, and he tilts his face up to the stage, laughing as though I’m not even present. “She had no idea.”
The song finishes, the small crowd cheering and applauding before the singer gestures them to be silent. He steps forward to the microphone, clutching it in his hands before pacing the stage with it. “Thanks for coming out tonight, guys. You’re all fucking awesome. All of you. Even that middle-aged virgin at the back who’s only here for the free beer. You’re great, man. You’re fucking great.” He breathes a heavy laugh into the microphone, gazing at his audience as they throw in some chuckles.
“You’re better off here,” Dean whispers to me, his eyes fixed on the stage. “I love this band.”
“Alright, before we move on to the next piece of the set,” the singer says, “I gotta remind you all to not give a damn what anyone else thinks. Your life is your life, your music is your music, your choices are your choices, and your vodka is your vodka. Don’t waste your time doing dead-end bullshit. Do shit you wanna do. Go clubbing every night, throw yourself out of a plane, visit Bulgaria. I don’t care. Do shit that makes you feel happy as fuck, because LA BREVE VITA! Enjoy the set. Tanto amore.”
The crowd erupts into further applauding and whooping as the drumming starts again, the guitarist and the bassist and the singer all joining in sync.
“Is La Breve Vita Latin or something?” I ask, turning to Dean. He seems more likely than Jake to know the answer.
Dean laughs and shakes his head. “It’s Italian. So am I. Well, half.”
“No way,” I say. I raise my voice to compete with the music. “Did you live in Italy?”
“No, I was born here,” he admits, a small smile on his lips as he glances between the stage and me. “My mom’s Italian. My dad met her while he was on vacation in Naples and she moved over here. I’ve never actually stepped foot in Italy. Weird.”
“That’s so cool,” I gush, because it is compared with my own parents’ magnificent love story. Mom and Dad ended up at a house party together, drunkenly made out, and then went for hot dogs together the next day. Romantic. “Do you speak Italian?”
“Not much. Just a little,” he tells me sheepishly. He continues to nod his head in time with the music.
I glance at the stage and then back to him again. “So what does La Breve Vita mean then?”
“Life is short.” He grins, his smile so wide that I wonder if it hurts. “That’s why I love them. They stand for living your life to the fullest. And they have kickass songs.”
We laugh, but Jake doesn’t. Quite frankly, I forgot he was even here until he clears his throat and steps in front of me. “Eden,” he says, “are you thirsty?”
My eyes fall to the plastic beer cups on the ground, and then I study the dingy bar in the corner, and then I smile. “I’m good.”
The band’s set goes on for over an hour. All three of us enjoy it, but especially Dean, and by the time we’re piling out of the door I feel like I’ve had a good night. Chilling out at the back of a small gig and listening to indie tunes beats getting drunk at a stoner party. I’m glad I came, and we find ourselves stopping by a small store for tacos before heading back to the parking lot.
“I could give you a ride back, Eden,” Dean says as he stops by his car. There’s only two there, his and Jake’s; the rest are gone by now. “I’m passing Tyler’s place anyway.”
Jake halts to stuff his hands into his pockets, his eyebrows furrowing. “I’ll take her home,” he says firmly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, bro. Watch yourself.”
Dean offers a single nod. “No problem. Catch you guys later.”
As he slides into his car and starts up the engine, Jake and I are left alone in the lot, comfortable in the silence. Although it’s not exactly silent. There’s still the irritating thudding of house music bouncing from the clubs nearby. Dean waves as he drives past and away from us.
“So,” Jake says, and then laughs lightly, “what do you wanna do now? ’Cause I really don’t want to take you home yet.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after midnight.” He stares down at me with his eyes smoldering, his lips parted. Throughout the week that I’ve been here, I’ve grown comfortable around him.
I’ve also noticed how attractive he is.
“So you want me to take you home?” he offers, but it’s an empty suggestion. “Or we can hang out for a little while longer, if you’re up for it.”
I think about how tired I am, which isn’t very, and I think about how mad Dad probably is, which is very. I don’t want to go home quite yet. “Can we keep hanging out? I want to avoid my dad.”
Slowly, a smile spreads across his lips. “It’s getting late, so how about a movie at my place?”
“Only if it’s a Disney movie,” I say.
“Will The Lion King suffice?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
Jake rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he turns away from me and walks toward his car. “C’mon, get in. We’ve got a movie to watch.”
Jake’s house is in the Wilshire neighborhood—he tells me that mine is within the North of Montana region, which is, according to him, the city’s expensive neighborhood—and we pull up outside a pale-bricked detached house surrounded by shrubbery. It looks pretty big but nothing close to the size of my dad’s house, or Rachael’s, or Tiffani’s, or any other house that I’ve seen so far. This neighborhood seems more crammed together, like the developers were low on space so decided to just pile houses on top of each other.
But it’s a really nice place, and as Jake is leading me upstairs to his room I admire how cozy the house feels, with the overflowing rows of photo frames and trophies and ornaments and other sentimental memories. Dad’s house lacks this kind of warmth.
Eventually, Jake notices me admiring every display. “Uh, my mom’s a little crazy.”
“No,” I say, “it’s cute.”
He groans, reaching into a room and flicking on a light. So far the house has been quiet, so I’m guessing his parents are asleep. “It’s a mess, but whatever. I’ll go get the movie.” Brushing past me, he disappears into another room at the other end of the hall while I enter his.
There’s a mound of clothes in one corner, a bed in another, and a large TV mounted on the wall. I also spot a football perched atop the chest of drawers, and I run my eyes over the helmet on the floor.
“Tyler mentioned that you played,” I muse when Jake appears again, DVD in hand.
“Yeah, halfback,” he says without much interest. “Alright, time to feel sorry for Simba.”
We get the movie set up, keeping the volume down low so as to not wake anyone, and soon we find ourselves collapsed in a heap on his bed. It’s almost 1AM by now, and I’m starting to yawn. Even Jake seems too worn out to even pay attention to Mufasa’s death.
“You know,” he murmurs while he fidgets with the pillows, “I don’t just watch The Lion King with any girl.”
I sit up, my heart aching as I watch the awful scene unfold before me, and I wave him away with my hands. “Shhh. Mufasa’s dead, Jake. Show some respect.”
“God bless Mufasa, may he rest in peace in animation heaven,” he says solemnly. He bows his head and then props himself up on his elbows with a small smirk on his face.
I can’t remember when we turned the lights off, but I suddenly notice the darkness and how the TV is lighting up his face, illuminating his features and drawing my attention to his eyes. “That was a great eulogy,” I say.
“Thanks.” He pushes himself up further, sitting upright and staring back at me with interest. “So let me get this straight. You’re from Portland, which is a cool city, apparently, and you can’t pump your own gas and you order salad from Chick-fil-A and you end up at stoner parties and you love Disney movies. Nice.”
“That’s pretty accurate,” I agree, nodding in approval.
“Don’t go home,” he says. We’re talking over the movie, but by this point I’m no longer watching. I’m now staring at his lips as he talks, noticing how they curve as he smiles. “Just stay here for the night.”
“My dad will quite literally have a seizure if I don’t come home,” I murmur, but it’s not a bad idea. We’re both exhausted, and having Jake drive me home just doesn’t seem like a safe option. He’s likely to fall asleep at the wheel.
“Just stay,” he says again, his eyes smoldering so intensely that it’s beginning to give me goosebumps. “I’ve got The Jungle Book downstairs somewhere.”
“I do like The Jungle Book,” I whisper, fiddling with my hands in my lap as I glance down. But when my eyes flicker back up again, Jake’s lips, which I was busy staring at a few moments ago, are now edging toward mine, and my breath catches in my throat.
It’s a good long second before they finally brush my mouth, my chest tight as shivers surge through my body, his warm breath tickling my cheek as he pauses for a moment, his face hovering by the side of mine. It’s as though he’s waiting for me to pull away or kiss him back. I don’t even have to think about it.
My lips find his, slowly locking in place as my eyelids flutter shut, and I feel his hand move to the small of my back. There’s a soft silence, with only Simba’s quiet voice as the soundtrack.
I’ve kissed guys before, but not in these circumstances. I kissed those guys while playing Spin the Bottle, while playing Truth or Dare, while being forced into a closet with them during Seven Minutes in Heaven. But this isn’t a game or a dare or a playful interaction. It’s real and it’s happening right now and I have no idea what I’m doing and why I’m kissing a guy from California who I met a week ago while I’m watching The Lion King in his bed. I might not know what I’m doing, but I know that I like it.
And just as his mouth drifts away from mine after a long minute or so, I feel him murmur against the corner of my lips, “You probably shouldn’t mention this to Tyler. He’d kick my ass.”
My eyes flicker open to meet his soft gaze, a small smile creeping onto my lips. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
