particles of the desert floor to its side and spins for a few seconds in a perfect funnel formation. Then, just as abruptly, it widens and evaporates.
“You hungry?”
It’s Ren. She followed him and she’s standing at his side.
Exhaustion, August had said. Addiction. Anguish. Mental breakdown. Oscar has never spent too much time trying to puzzle out Mina Savage. It’s always been impossible. She’s been running from herself for so long. Why did she drag him into her world in the first place? Maybe he filled some lonely spot in her heart. Maybe she needed another human being who needed her in some way.
Ren moves closer to him. He can hear the kind sympathy in her voice. “Lita can’t cook for shit. I’m making barbecued chicken wings.” She touches his elbow. Gently, like she’s unsure whether it’ll crack like eggshells between her fingertips.
He looks down at her and has no thoughts about how good it would feel to get her naked. He only thinks what a relief it is to drop the fucking façade of Oscar Savage. The tough guy, the callous heartbreaker, the owner of a name he didn’t earn.
“I’ll help you,” he says.
She raises her eyebrows. She’s pleased though. “You can cook?”
“No. Teach me.”
“All right. I will.”
And so he follows her lead toward the house. They share a glance. Her brown eyes are full of curiosity and kindness. Oscar couldn’t say what his own eyes might show. The shock of Mina’s abandonment has already receded. This won’t be his dream summer but he’s okay with being here. Ren’s shoulder brushes his accidentally and he’s glad she’s here. On one of life’s more fucked up occasions it means a little something to find a friend.
CHAPTER SIX
REN
Sometimes I think about how nice it must have been in the old days.
Not the horse-drawn carriage, shitting-in-the-backyard kind of old days.
Just a few decades back, before the perpetual intrusion of modern technology.
Don’t want to hear about something? Turn off the television.
Don’t want to read it? Close the newspaper.
Avoid grocery stores and their tabloid-littered checkout stands.
Leave the radio off in the car.
Ignore the phone. Allow it to ring and ring until the caller’s ears bleed from the sound of silence.
Voila. Ignorance. Bliss.
It’s not so easy anymore.
When I reach reflexively for my phone before I’m fully awake a vague alarm hums somewhere in my fuzzy brain. Too late. Along with everyone else in my generation I’m accustomed to checking on the state of the world before I brush my teeth. My eyes have already caught the top newsfeed headline, along with the first three lines of the article.
“Savage Family Values: In yet another naked attempt to capitalize on celebrity bad behavior, the troubled Savage family is joining the reality television circus. Famed only for their genetic link to dead Hollywood stars, this current generation represents the worst-“
I do not click on the article. I do not need to. Over the last few weeks I’ve plodded through at least a dozen similar ones, summarized as follows: The talentless remnants of a famed family have sold their pride and their privacy to Vogel Television Productions. Premiering this September, the cast of Born Savages present themselves for your mockery and contempt every Wednesday night at 8 pm.
A flutter of dread wanders through my belly. It’s become a familiar companion lately, along with an eerie sense that I am standing on the spot next in line to be struck by lightening.
Because I always had trouble with sidelong glances and chronic whispers I left my casino job the day after the press release broke. For the most part I’ve been holed up in my apartment and engaged in a repetitive loop of Netflix programming.
It’s really not as sad as it sounds.
Unless the situation involves crouching before your MacBook; un-showered, withered bologna sandwich in hand while episodes of The Walking Dead swallow up time.
Yeah, I just might have become a little pathetic.
I’m all packed. The apartment is being sublet to a seasonal Cirque du Soleil acrobat for the next two months. I’m wondering if anyone in Gary’s circle will whine about my wardrobe. I have jeans. I have t-shirts. I have two pairs of expensive shoes that were gifted by sympathetic designer ages ago, a trusty old pair of brown cowboy boots, and three pairs of everyday Converse. I am aware that if a gene responsible for fashion sense exists, it seems to have skipped me.
The knock on the door comes just when it should. I’ve been sitting on the edge of