a promise in the first place.
Promises don’t mean anything.
That was what Cary said to me, the first day I met him.
I shivered as the water cooled me off and sank into my bones. I made it quick, shutting the water off and jumping out so I could towel off before I got too much of a chill. The cool shower was invigorating after a good jog and a good sweat. I pulled on a pair of soft, cotton sleep shorts that didn’t strictly look like pajamas, with a bra and a black tank top. The bra was out of courtesy, in case I ran into Cary.
I want you to feel at home probably didn’t mean Bras are optional when you’re off the clock.
Then I grabbed my faded old Metallica hoodie. It had a picture of a fist holding a dagger, sticking up out of a toilet, and said METAL UP YOUR ASS. Because I was classy like that.
I headed out into the yard. It was already cooling off, now that the sun was down. The lanterns all around the pool and gardens were glowing, golden in the night. I saw Freddy dart into the bushes, his bell tinkling, maybe on a nocturnal hunt. Though I imagined he scared off everything down to the last cricket with that bell on.
The sweet fragrance of fresh grass and blossoms beat the car-exhaust-and-sidewalk-piss smell in the air outside my apartment, any fucking day. Part of me couldn’t believe that I now basically lived here. Cary hadn’t exactly encouraged me to go home on evenings and weekends. It was made pretty clear I was welcome here, twenty-four-seven.
But there really wasn’t much to do in the poolhouse.
It was too early to sleep, and I liked to laugh before I went to bed. Fortunately, there was that giant TV in Cary’s living room. The room he gave me a key for and told me to help myself to. And I actually felt pretty comfortable in his house.
That surprised me, in a way. But today, while I spent the day with him, any lingering reservations I might’ve had about working here seemed to dissolve. The job already seemed pretty awesome, and frankly, so did my boss.
But obviously, what I’d seen so far wasn’t the whole picture. I knew that.
I let myself in through the French doors and turned on a lamp. I went out to the foyer and looked at the doors to the studio.
They were open.
I went over and peeked up the long hallway inside the studio. The door to the control room was ajar, dim light spilling out. I couldn’t hear any sound. I wondered if Cary had headphones on.
I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch, and after some random button pushing figured out how to work the TV. He had Netflix, and I decided to watch some politically incorrect comedy—my favorite. I searched comedy specials, found Bill Burr and put on I’m Sorry You Feel That Way. And I turned it up pretty loud.
I curled up in the corner of the big couch, cuddling underneath my hoodie, laying it over me like a blanket.
Maybe ten minutes in, I heard Cary. I looked up to find him standing in the arched entranceway.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “Is it too loud?”
He studied me for a moment and maybe, just maybe, the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. He leaned a shoulder on the wall. “What are you watching?”
“My favorite comedian.”
He looked at the screen. “Who is it?”
I paused it with the remote so I could gape at him appropriately. “You don’t know who Bill Burr is?”
“I don’t really watch stand-up comedy.”
“What?”
“I mean… I saw Eddie Murphy Raw when I was a kid.”
“You need to sit your ass down on the couch, boss. Right now. Laughter is medicine for the soul.”
I didn’t wait to see what he thought of that. I just resumed watching.
After a moment, Cary came over and sat down on the enormous couch with me. He was at one end, and I was at the other. We couldn’t have touched if we wanted to.
But we watched comedy together. And after a while he did laugh, a little, kind of under his breath.
I probably watched him as much as I watched the show. I’d seen this one before anyway.
And Cary Clarke laughing was something to see.
It was late, like after two in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep.
I lay flat on my back on the