Page 44 of The Muse
I bat her hand away and slowly sit up. One of the empty beer cans falls off my lap and onto the floor.
“You’re not going to keep your job if you don’t start setting an alarm,” she says, opening the fridge to retrieve the creamer.
“What time is it?” I rub my temples.
“Five fifteen.”
I lumber to my feet and drag my ass to the bathroom.
“You’re welcome,” Naomi calls.
I don’t reply with a thank-you, but I also don’t give her the middle finger. My restraint is equivalent to a thank-you.
By six, I’m showered, dressed in rich people’s clothes, and knocking on the Rawlings’ front door. I don’t know why anyone needs inspiration at six in the morning. If she’s depressed, just keep sleeping. In my experience, the world is more tolerable at nine in the morning than it is at six.
“I left you a message,” Mr. Rawlings says after opening the door in his usual burgundy robe and old man pajamas.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s dead. “What was the message?”
He frowns as I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “Callie is not feeling well today.”
“She’s sick?”
He shakes his head. “Some days she doesn’t get out of bed for … reasons. Today is one of those days. So your services won’t be needed today.”
“Dude, I’m awake. My head is splitting. She was fine last night. She got a cat for god’s sake.” I invite myself inside.
“Well, she’s not today.” He holds out his hand to stop me as I kick off my shoes and step toward the stairs.
“What’s wrong with her?”
He scowls. “That’s not your concern. Now, I said we don’t need you today. So, I suggest you turn back around and leave. Go charge your phone so you don’t miss my messages.”
I turn around to put my shoes back on. “Ya know”—I pivot toward him—“she’s been fine. And I haven’t been able to figure out what I’m doing here. A muse? Her inspiration? For what? But on the day she won’t get out of bed, you don’t need me? That’s bullshit, man.” I shoulder past him.
He grabs my arm, and I pull away.
“Do you want me to call the police?” he asks.
I stop halfway up the stairs. “Fuck it. Call the police. I’m just going to tell your wife goodbye before I go to jail.”
“Goddammit,” he grumbles, following me.
I stay a good ten paces ahead of him. When I get to Callie’s room, I don’t knock. Instead, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. It’s dark because the sun’s not up to filter through the cracks in the pulled drapes.
“Rupert, I told you to leave me alone,” she says in a raspy voice beneath the pile of blankets on the bed.
“June is scared of me. I blew it,” I say, collapsing into her high-back chair; its wooden legs releasing a screech in protest. “And I didn’t even tell her the worst part.”
“Flynn?” Her dark silhouette takes form as she sits up in bed.
“She begged me to kiss her at the park. But no. I was a gentleman. Manners. All that good shit. Opening doors. God, you would have been so proud of me. Then I made the mistake of being honest with her about something in my past, and she couldn’t handle it.” I plant my elbows on my knees and drop my head, running my fingers through my hair. “Hell, she could barely look at me.”
“Flynn,” Callie rasps. “This isn’t a good day for me.”
“Well, join the club. I was so angry last night I drank one too many beers, forgot to set my alarm, and had to be woken up by Naomi, my roommate’s girlfriend. She technically doesn’t live with us. Yet, lately, I’ve been feeling pressure to move out. Gotta room you want to rent me?”
Her silhouette disappears. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, muffled like she’s back under the covers, but I can’t tell for sure because my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness.
