I clutch the book tightly and push the memory away. I’m getting good at that. The word ghost catches my eye, and when I glance at the shelf, I find a book about haunted locations around Los Angeles. I grab it as well. I may despise LA, but certain stories and historical events that occurred in this city fascinate me. As I’m checking out, I see a rack of journals right next to the cash register and pick one up. It’s black with gold gilded pages, similar to my old ones. The ones I no longer have. I haven’t allowed myself to put my feelings on paper since after my mother’s death, since the day I gave Dahl the journal I kept for her, but I think it’s time now.
Turning the corner back toward my hotel, I spot a small coffee shop like the one in Laguna. The sign on the window reads FOUR & TWENTY BLACKBIRDS and the name catches my eye—pie. I peer in the window. Pressed-tin walls and communal tables with a few booths create a sense of small-town charm. I know I’ll be coming back here. The night’s young but I’m feeling wrecked. I still have one more thing to accomplish today before it’s over. I pull out my phone and search for her number. Making this call might be risky, but since she hasn’t phoned me back, I can only assume she isn’t checking her messages until Monday. So calling my former editor at home is my only option.
“Hello?” Christine answers.
“Christine, it’s Ben. Ben Covington. How are you?”
“Ben.” Her voice breaks. And although I know she already knew I was alive, her surprise is still genuine. Her professionalism quickly returns. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Good. That makes two of us. Can we get together and talk?”
“Yes, I’d love that. Unfortunately I’m out of town until Friday afternoon, but I can meet that night. What do you say to Novels at seven?”
“Great. I’ll be there. See you then,” I say before hanging up.
I’m almost back to the motel when a flash appears in front of me. Fuck me—the paparazzi found me already. I’m not in the mood for their shit, but game on. I weave in and out of stores until I find one with a back door. Once I lose the douche bags, I hightail it to the fleabag motel.
Not feeling nearly as tired anymore with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pour a drink. I flick on the TV, which surprisingly works, and make my way to take a shower. A few stray hairs in the bathroom make me hate my life even more. I glance at myself in the mirror. What the fuck have I done with my life? I’m twenty-seven, staying in a shit-bag motel with no money and nothing to look forward to. I stand in silence and ponder my decision, questioning this supposed new start of mine.
A few hours later, I’m struggling to get some sleep when a disturbance from next door gets louder. Male, female, I can’t tell—the voices are muffled, but the act is undeniable. The lack of light through the broken blinds clues me in that it’s either really late or really early. I roll over and cover my head with the pillow, but can’t fall back asleep. After a few minutes, I turn back around. The moans and groans are gone, replaced by quiet whispers that can still be heard through these paper-thin walls. I stare at the plaster peeling from the ceiling and watch the fan blades moving around as I try to stop my mind from thinking about how I ended up here. It wanders and I mentally scold myself for allowing any form of self-pity.
I jump out of bed to grab another drink and my journal. I run my fingers along the lines of the page and then let the ink bleed upon it. I write about Australia, how sweet life was there. I write about the upcoming trial. I even write about finding a place to live and calling Christine for a chance at a new job. When I’m done, I close the journal and set it on my lap. New journal. New beginnings. New life. I eventually drift off, spending the rest of my first night back in California alone in a fleabag motel.