I also learn why Los Angeles is so quiet at four in the morning: all the bars close at two a.m., a cockeyed choice for a city that revels in its degeneracy. But scattered throughout the urban sprawl are run-down houses with big yards that don’t seem to belong to anyone. It’s in these pop-up gatherings where Neon knows everyone and everyone knows Indah that I, the complete unknown, start to find my rhythm with the couple I’ve found myself sandwiched between.
“You’re Neon and Indah’s boy, right?”
I pull my eyes back from searching the darkened yard for Indah’s warm skin to look down at the petite and pretty woman in front of me. She’s got short, spiked hair, piercings all up and down her ears, and I’ve already forgotten her name.
“What?” I ask, thinking I must have misheard her question. There’s no way they’d consider me theirs, make that claim to other people. Not even They felt that degree of loyalty or possessiveness, and those things were supposed to be hard-wired into Them.
“I work at the shop with Neon,” she says, smiling, “and she keeps talking about a stray puppy they’ve adopted.”
“I am not a puppy,” I snarl, suddenly defensive in my disbelief, and the easy smile on the woman’s face drops.
“Right. Sorry,” she says sarcastically, eyes widening.
She turns on her heel and walks into the party, leaving me blissfully alone in the shadows on the edge of the yard. The glow of a heat lamp warms my face and I close my eyes, tilting my head toward it and soaking up the artificial sunlight. I’ve been here for a month and already I feel addicted to the daylight. I’ve spent so much of my life in darkness—the shadows of corn stalks, the hollow shade of a house when the electric bill hasn’t been paid, the inky black of the desert—that the triplet suns of Neon, Indah, and the Los Angeles sky have warmed me so thoroughly I never want to slink back into the blackness.
Just as the rays from the heat lamp are starting to singe my eyelashes, a shadow crosses over my eyelids, a solar eclipse. I blink open my eyes, expecting to see Neon’s grin, ready to make fun of me for falling asleep standing up, but instead I find myself staring at a narrow chest wrapped in a black button-down. My eyes roam upward, until I’m looking into the face of a tall, thin man, his bright green eyes peering silently at me.
“Uh, hey, dude,” I say dumbly, shifting from foot to foot. “Can I help you?”
“What’s your name?” he asks, his head tilting unnaturally to one side. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I catch Neon’s eye across the yard. She tilts her head at me as well, but it’s fluid and human. A question—a friend checking in on a friend. I widen my eyes at her, the “rescue me” look I’ve seen Indah give her from behind the bar when we hang out at Lubitsch during her shift and a slimy agency bro won’t stop hitting on her. I see Neon start to walk toward me before my eyes snap back to the man, who has repeated the question.
“Um, Cory,” I lie, wanting this guy to leave me alone and wondering why he hasn’t. It’s chilly out, the kind of desert winter cold that ignores how bright and hot the sun is during the day, but the long black coat hanging from the man’s shoulder seems more decorative than utilitarian. He’s standing perfectly still, except for the tilt of his head, like there’s no air around him, like he’s not even inside his own skin.
“Nice to meet you, Cory.” He smiles, the gesture stretching the tight skin across his gaunt face like a Halloween mask.
“Yeah … you too…,” I say, feeling distant and disassociated. I try to reach out, push my desire for him to leave onto him, but it’s like he’s a moving target and I can’t get a grip.
“So … Cory,” he continues, chewing the name like it’s in a foreign language, “what do you do?”
“What do I do?” I echo, before switching tactics. “Listen, I should—”
“Hey, Rob, you okay?” Neon’s voice pulls my eyes away from the man’s rubber face and I internally curse at the sound of my real name. Even though I’m now looking at Neon, I can feel the man’s gaze narrow at me.
“Rob?” he asks, his voice smooth and expressionless.
“Gotta go, man,” I say, not looking at him. I grab Neon’s hand and she pulls me out of the spotlight of the heat lamp and into the different warmth of the crowd. I didn’t notice how cold I got with the man blocking the lamp, and between the hum of the people milling around and the heat of Neon’s hand, I come back into my body.
“Who was that guy?” Neon asks, dropping my hand now that we’re a safe distance away. I only take a moment to mourn the loss before she grabs it again, intertwining her fingers with mine. The surprise nearly stops me from answering before I remember to relish the comfort she’s giving me, asked for but unverbalized.
“I have no idea,” I say, gripping her fingers a little more tightly. “But I think he brought the end of the party with him. What do you say we find Indah and get out of here?”
* * *
“I bet he was an agent,” Indah suggests lightly, her eyes on the road. We’re in her car, Neon in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard, me in the middle seat in the back. Despite Indah’s insistence that everyone wear their seat belt, I’ve unhooked mine so that I can lean forward between the front seats and regale the two of them once again with my impression of the creepy tall man, now a lot less scary in my overdramatic retelling.
“You think every creepy guy is an agent,” Neon teases.
“Well, it’s usually true!” she says, sending Neon laughing in a way that I haven’t unlocked yet. “I bet he was trying to get our dear, handsome Rob to model for him or something.”
She smiles at me through the rearview mirror, somehow both genuine and teasing. Neon turns to make cooing kissing noises at me and I playfully push at her shoulder, the close atmosphere and late hour making me more confident. I don’t touch people much and people don’t touch me. But Neon held my hand earlier, so pushing softly on her shoulder feels safe, and when she smiles and pushes back, it feels like sunlight brightening on my face.
“What do you think, Rob?” Neon asks. “Think you’ll become a model?”
“What, with a face like this?”
“It’s a good face.” She shrugs and I realize that she’s not teasing me.
I know the truth about how I look—soft, blank, and unremarkable. I’ve seen the billboards that line the streets of LA and know that I don’t measure up to the most generic of models, know that I’m too short, too chubby, too speckle-faced to be one of LA’s glamorous residents. But without my focusing on it, I clearly want Neon and Indah to think I’m attractive. It’s not the first time something like this has happened, but it’s no less embarrassing than it was the last time.
“I don’t really think the lifestyle of the rich and famous is for me,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“What is for you, then?” Indah asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, what do you want to do next?” Neon clarifies. “You’ve been here a few weeks now, you must have some reason for being here.”