Mr. Homewrecker

“Thanks for being here tonight. I’ll see you next week. I’m Noah William—and this is Ain’t No Sunshine.” The crowd claps, loud enough to make the walls shake, and I give them a small nod from the stage. Stardust Café smells like coffee that’s been burned one too many times and old wood soaked in stories that aren’t mine. The lights are low, warm, forgiving. I like it that way. Makes it easier to pretend no one can really see me. When the room finally quiets, I play. I sing like I always do—like I’ve been carrying something heavy all day and this is the only place I can set it down. My voice fills the space, deep and steady, and for a few minutes I forget about everything else. The guitar rests against my chest, familiar and solid. It used to belong to my dad. Sometimes I swear it still remembers him. The way it sounds softer when I’m tired. Sharper when I’m angry. By the time the last note fades, the big clock near the bar says 1:25 a.m. Stardust stays open late on Saturdays, but even good things have an end time. People start standing, grabbing jackets, whispering like they don’t want to break whatever just happened. I’m packing my guitar when Martin walks over with two beers, already cold, already sweating. He hands me one without asking. I twist the cap and take a long drink. The cold hits my throat and I breathe out slow. “Thanks, man.” Martin takes a sip from his bottle, eyes on me. “You ever think about playing here every night?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Can’t. Classes start soon.” “Right,” he says. “College.” What I don’t say is that college isn’t the hard part. Paying for it is. Los Angeles doesn’t care how talented you are if all you’ve got is a high school diploma. Jobs pay just enough to keep you stuck, and tuition at a private art school? That’s a whole different monster. Visual Communication Design sounds cool on paper. In reality, it’s just another bill waiting to ruin me. There was a time I never thought about money. It used to show up whenever I needed it, no questions asked. My mom would transfer cash like it was nothing, like numbers didn’t matter. Then everything changed. My dad died before I was old enough to really know him. Heart attack. One minute he was there, the next he was a name people spoke carefully around me. He’d been big in the automotive world—one of those guys whose name actually meant something in Los Angeles. After that, it was just me and my mom. Ellen didn’t have anyone else. Her family cut her off years earlier for choosing love over tradition. When my dad died, she was left with a collapsing company, a kid, and no safety net. She rebuilt everything from the ground up while raising me, and she never complained. Never dated. Never slowed down. She didn’t live for herself for over twenty years. Then, when I was twenty-three, she met someone. A photographer. Tattooed. Quiet. Kind. He looked enough like my dad that it hurt a little. When she told me about him, I didn’t hesitate. I told her to go for it. She deserved happiness more than anyone I knew. He tried with me—really tried—to be something like a father before he ever became her husband. I let him. We figured it out. The wedding was small. Simple. Real. “I’ll double your pay,” Martin says now, hopeful. “Might help.” I smile and set the empty bottle on the bar. Even triple wouldn’t make a dent. “I’ll think about it. I’m heading out.” Music isn’t how I survive. It’s how I stay sane. Stardust is the only place that lets me breathe without thinking about bills, deadlines, and how close I am to screwing everything up again. Martin knows it too. Ever since my first night here, the crowd’s been bigger when I play. Outside, the Los Angeles summer night hits me full in the chest. I swing onto my bike and pull onto the street. The air’s warm, thick with the smell of asphalt that’s been baking all day. Somewhere nearby, the ocean breathes salt into the city. Jasmine drifts from dark yards I can’t see. Downtown is quiet for once, stripped bare and honest. Streetlights blur gold as I ride, the engine humming beneath me like it understands. This is when my brain gets loud. Two years ago, I was an i***t with too much money and nothing to lose. Living in a sleek house my mom bought me for my birthday, blowing cash on dumb thrills just because I could. Illegal street racing was the worst of it. That night, I didn’t think. I just agreed. The bet was insane—my car, a gift from my stepdad. I’d never lost before. Confidence turned into arrogance fast. I didn’t know the guy waiting for me was a legend. By morning, my keys were gone. He offered a rematch. One week later. Win, and I’d get the car back. I said yes. I borrowed a friend’s blue sports sedan. I lost again. That car wasn’t mine. They came to my house a few nights later. No shouting. No drama. Just smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. When I told them I didn’t have the money, fists did the talking. I remember the floor. The taste of blood. The sound of my own breathing. They gave me a week. Selling the house was the only way out. I didn’t tell my parents. I priced it low. It sold fast. Too fast. The money disappeared even faster. I lived in hotels for a while, selling watches, collectibles—pieces of a life I didn’t deserve anymore. Eventually, I found a tiny studio apartment. At first, I still had enough to survive. Then my phone rang. It was my mom. Her voice was shaking before she even finished the sentence. “Tell me this isn’t true.”