Traces of the Indefinite

Chapter 2

Miles can feel the ray of light sear his cheek.

He shifts about, dragging his blanket up to his face for some protection. Those curtains would’ve been handy right about now.

Wait, heat?

What time was it?

Half-asleep with little to no intention of getting up, he runs his hands underneath his pillow where he remembered his phone was. He fishes it out of the pillowcase he has slipped in as he tossed and turned about in his sleep the night before.

The screen lights up. 11:00 AM, it says, white, lit numbers glaring at him from the screen.

Fuck, he thinks to himself.

He had planned to wake up early.

Shaking off whatever sleep that was left on him, he gets up and looks around within the boxes of his things scattered around his room, hoping to find a stray shirt or sweater he could easily slip into to save time.  

He finds the box he had been looking for, the box with all his clothes, and hastily pulls out the first thing he finds: a hoodie. Miles slips on the black hoodie and combs through his messy, smoke-reeked hair, smoothing out cowlicks. He walks over to the already-dead laptop next to his bed and pulls out the thumb drive stuck on one of its ports. He slips the small storage device into his pocket and heads out of his room.

Miles is about to bat the hell out of the apartment, hoping to make it to his friend’s before the said friend has other plans, when a waft of delicious scent reaches him.

He turns around to see his mother Heather, blonde hair tucked into a messy bun, in a red plaid shirt and gray sweat pants under a frilly, pink, scalloped apron, looking like a grunge, hungover Stepford wife.

Miles can barely remember the last time he has seen his mother in an apron. Hell, he can’t even recall the last time he had seen her cook.

But he does remember her before all of the mess.

She was spirited, exuberant. She loved rock and roll and would make little, seven-year-old him sit next to her in their small living room floor, playing him cassette after cassette of her favorite bands. She would scoop him up her arms, dance him around, then teach him how to prance around like a hyped rockstar on the first night of his show. All his love for bands, for rock and roll, for music, for a life of freedom, he got from her.

As much as he hates to admit it even to himself, Miles does miss his mother. If it only weren’t for this stupid hubris, this silly but humongous sense of pride – this time, things he got from his dad.

Heather looks up from the freshly-cooked pancakes she had been scooping into plates and sees her son looking at her, with either an admiring or somewhat confused look on his face, she wasn’t entirely sure. She gives him a small, warm smile.

“I was about to call you for breakfast.”, Heather says, ladling more batter into the heated pan. She leaves the batter to fry, grabs a plate full of pancakes and sets it on the table.

“Have something to eat before you go, sweetie.”

Miles is beginning to build up his usual defense mechanism of characteristic coldness to his mother but the grumbling in his empty stomach begs to differ. He had already skipped dinner last night in an effort to keep up the anguished-angry-kid trope he puts on for his parents. He needs to fill up so he can do it again.

Miles walks to the dinner table and sits by the plate full of pancakes his mother had prepared for him. A stack of pancakes, with some crispy bacon on the side. Exactly like how he loved it as a child.

“Oops.” He heard his mother say to herself. Heather grabs a bottle of maple syrup from the cupboard. Making her way to Miles, she stops by the fridge to get some butter, still in the same butter dish Miles had made in Color-Me-Mine on his 9th birthday. She sets both in front of her son, and turns around to finish frying up some pancakes for herself.

Miles takes the butter dish and chuckles at his poorly-scribbled handwriting painted on the side. Miles’ Butter, it says, in letters with decorative loops on the sides. He finds himself amused at how his mother held on to a silly little trinket all these years.

Heather sets a plate of pancakes for herself on the counter, having chosen to eat there to avoid any possible tension with her son. She watches in amusement as he laughed at his own childhood artwork, taking the forkfuls of the home cooked breakfast she felt like she owed him for years.

Miles realizes that their breakfast was missing something important, something his mother had forgotten about. Coffee.

He rises from the table, to his mother’s surprise, and heads over the counter where the coffee pot sat. He opens the cupboard and grabs a fresh pack of coffee and proceeds to pour some into the coffee filter.

“Would you like some, mom?” Miles says, absent-mindedly, as he fills the coffeemaker with some water.

This is music to Heather’s ears. She hasn’t been “mom” for a long time.

“Sure, hon,” she replies, stifling her glee.

Miles sits back down and continues to wolf down his breakfast, much to Heather’s delight.

After a hearty home cooked breakfast, Miles sets out to his friend Greg, a retired rock guitarist who owns a thriving dive bar in the city. He needs his help with a project he was up all night finishing: a new song.

Walking down the street - with Greg’s bar, Malcolm’s, not that far away - he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He fishes it out, hoping for a text from Louise.

Dad, it says.

He sighs, exasperated. 

If Miles had any contempt for his mother, he had twice more for his father. In fact, if there was one thing he and his mother possibly agrees on, apart from music taste, it is that in everything that ensued in their household, it was Abe and his misplaced entitlement that were to blame. The fact that he almost always plays it off that their problems were non-existent, that these issues were petty, was largely the reason why everything built up and weighed so heavily the walls cracked and their home fell apart.  

He taps the message open.

Hey sport. How’s the new place? Hope we can catch up soon. Love you buddy.

Typical Abe. Out of sight, out of mind. 

He slips the phone back into his pocket and continues walking. 

A few blocks and he finally reaches Malcolm’s, a dive bar named after Greg’s father, a madman who played guitar so good he got his small band of Irish rebels open for a Beatles show back in the day.

He steps in. While the bar is open early, it isn’t a busy hour so he finds Greg grooving to some Spandau Ballet while wiping down newly-washed glasses dry like a real barman.

“Hey, Greg,.” he says, propping himself up on one of the bar stools.

“Hey buddy,” Greg says, looking up from the glasses with a smile. “Aren’t you a bit early?”

Miles places the thumb drive onto the counter. “I made this last night,” he says.

“Whoa,” Greg says, eyeing the small, worn out thumb drive on the counter. If there is anyone - well, except Louise and Abe - who believes in Miles and his music, it is Greg. He is some sort of a mentor to him, both of them having to grow up in a messy family with nothing but music to rely on in the toughest of times. He looks out for him and Louise like the fun uncle who enabled them just right.

“Let’s give it a spin, shall we?” he continues.

Greg invites Miles behind the counter, plugging in his thumb drive onto his speaker, as Miles sat at the bartender’s stool that stood next to Greg. Soon, sounds of a characteristic acoustic guitar riff fills the room, followed by Miles’ smooth, breathy vocals over a simple plucking rhythm. 

Miles sits there, half-awkward, half-embarrassed, silently thankful that there were very few patrons at that hour, as his dingy demo played over the bar's speakers. Greg listens intently, taking in Miles’ words and rhythm as he continues to work his way through an array of freshly-washed beer glasses that needed drying. 

When will I be sure?

I’d hate to know

Should I stay the same?

I’d lose you either way

Miles sings, a cocktail of melancholy, absurdity and pain evident in his voice. Greg occasionally stops working. He pauses, takes in Miles’ words, and nods his head to some distinct guitar riffs he had impressively concocted.

While it isn’t the first time Miles had asked for Greg’s opinion (and approval) in his songwriting, it was the first time Greg actually felt compelled to give it. Miles is amazing with his words and his playing, but there is always something lacking. Sincerity. Emotion. Both things he would always hold back, to his disappointment. 

“You can’t be a musician and not feel, Miles.” He remembered telling him the first time he had played him one of his demos. “If you can’t connect with your own music, how do you expect people to?” 

“This is pretty good, kid,” Greg says, beaming with pride, acknowledging how Miles has considerably improved in relating to his own craft. “You fall flat on some chords and you need a bit more conviction in your singing, you know, whine a bit more about how it hurts…” 

Miles listens intently, taking in Greg’s advice, while also somewhat wondering within how he could “whine a bit more” without sounding like he’s about to die. He’ll figure it out, he decides. He always does. 

“Thanks,.” he says to Greg, who playfully gives him a small hand salute. 

“Now,” Miles begins, mood lifted by the positive feedback from his mentor-friend, 

“How about some whiskey?” 

Hours and a dozen glasses of neat whiskey later, Miles is slumped over the counter, as Greg fills glass after glass of liquor for the patrons that had flooded his bar since late afternoon. He affectionately taps Miles’ shoulder to check if he is alive, and Miles rises briefly, gives him a weak thumbs up, then falls back onto the counter that had been his bed for the past half hour. Greg laughs. He knows it’s time to call for backup.

He grabs the handset from the rickety old phone on the wall behind the counter and dials a number he’s so familiar with he didn’t even need to check. 

A few rings and the one on the other end picks up.

“Hello?” says a husky girl’s voice on the other line.

“Hey Lou,” says Greg, rather loudly, hoping his voice makes it through all the noise in the bar. 

“Miles is here and it’s code red,” Greg says, trying to stifle a laugh from his silly little joke. “Send the cavalry.”

“I’ll be right there,” Louise says, nonchalantly, resigned to the fact that she’s a chauffeur/ambulance/nanny for Miles every time he goes full-on rockstar, drinking himself into rock-and-roll level stupor. 

She grabs her keys from a decorative pot by the door, making a mental note of getting some energy drinks along the way for Miles, whose hydration is probably 80% percent alcohol at this point. 

“I’ll be out,.” she yells to her mother making dinner in the kitchen. “Don’t wait up.”

“Got ya, hon.” She hears her mother bellow from the kitchen as she puts on her hoodie on her way out. 

Louise slips into her car and begins to drive to save her drunken prince. She drives in silence, eventually getting bored, and turns on the radio. 

So no one told you life was gonna be this way

Your job's a joke, you're broke

Your love life's DOA 

Louise smiles to herself. The absurdity of it all. As much as she loved everything Friends, she could use a cathartic kick to the singer’s ass for unknowingly mocking her predicament. 

A predicament. Is that what this is? 

Malcolm’s is less than a half-hour drive from the apartment Louise shares with her parents. She is no stranger to the bar and its crowd. After all, she has grown up around Greg, him being her godfather and all. 

She steps in, walks through the blur of drunk people making toasts, sharing loud stories, singing along to Greg’s always popular playlist. She scans the room for Miles, the stupid, drunken prince of her heart, very princely slumped over the bar while Greg tries his best to rouse him. 

She makes her way past the busy tables and onto the bar, where Greg sees her and greets her with a smile. 

“I’ll help you carry him,” Greg says, apologetically.

Greg slings Miles’ arm around his neck, while his own supported the rest of him as they walked out. Louise opens the door to the passenger’s side, where Greg hauls the half-unconscious Miles, securing him with a seatbelt. 

“Thanks, Greg,” says Louise, jogging over the driver’s side of her old Corolla. She puts her keys in the ignition and gets ready to drive off when Greg taps the window by Miles’ side.

“Hey, Lou,” Greg calls out to Louise. She turns around swiftly to acknowledge him. 

“When do you plan on telling him?” he asks, with a playful grin. 

Louise rolls her eyes. 

“Bye, Greg.”

Miles shuffles around his seat, trying to find a comfortable way of sitting, or lying down, anything to nurse his spinning head and his upset stomach. Luckily, the seatbelt is doing its job keeping him in place.

Louise drives off, mentally gearing herself up to help Heather haul Miles back into their apartment. 

In her haste, she realizes she had forgotten the energy drinks, and groans to herself loudly, loud enough to rouse Miles, even just a little. 

“Hey Lulu,” Miles slurs, looking up at her with a silly, drunken grin. 

She notices dried up spit, or vomit on the side of his lip, which she tries to wipe off with her free hand, while the other rests on the steering wheel. 

“You’re disgusting,” she says, jokingly.

“Disgusting, huh?” Miles slurs, followed by a chuckle. “What if I kiss you with this mouth, huh? Show you what disgusting is.” 

Louise can feel the smile fade slowly from her face. Never, not even once in their lifelong friendship, has Miles ever joked about them doing things friends don’t do, and being things friends shouldn’t be. 

Fuck. 

She can feel her heart beating three times faster, so fast it would have jumped out of her chest, if it could. 

Oh, I’ll let you kiss me, she thinks to herself, I’ll let you do so much more than that. 

An awkward silence follows, with Louise trying her hardest to get her head out of the clouds, to cast that silly little hope far, far in the back of her mind. She keeps her eyes on the road. 

“You thought about that, haven’t you?” Miles says, slurring, in between hiccups. “Thought about us doing it. Me f*****g you in my bed…”

What the f**k, Miles? she thinks to herself, her resolve slowly slipping away, no matter how hard she clutches on it. Her hand grips the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, palms slippery with sweat. 

I swear-

“...because I have,” continues Miles.

Louise can’t believe what she is hearing. 

She pauses to gather herself and her thoughts. He’s drunk, she says to herself. That’s all it is. He’s drunk and he’s lonely...

Louise tries to shrug off Miles’ drunken confession, trying her best to remain within the headspace of what’s right and reasonable. While she loved Miles, she knew that risking a lifelong, beneficial friendship for a mindless hook up or a poorly-built hasty relationship wasn’t really worth the gamble, and she has accepted that. 

She’d rather have him this way, than not have him at all.

“f**k, if you knew how many times I beat myself to you, you’d lose respect for me,” Miles says, with a small, weak laugh. 

Can you f*****g stop, Miles? Don’t make me do things I’d regret real bad in the morning- 

“And you never stop talking, you know.” His drunken confession of physical adoration continues, “And all the while, all I wanted to do was f*****g ram my tongue down your throat to shut you up.”

She can’t take it anymore. While she can take a good joke, this, however, isn’t a good one nor was it a joke, in the first place. 

She floors it on the breaks, halting the car to a lit but empty roadside. 

“You need to get you head out of your f*****g ass, Miles,” she says, angrily, pulling Miles’ face up to hers. 

“You’re being a f*****g ki-”

And as he promised, Miles pulls Louise to him, crashing his lips against hers, years of pent up tension and frustration all in a sloppy, poorly-timed mess of his lips and hers. 

Louise accepts defeat. Her resolve, her sense of what was right, what was proper, what was a respectful distance between friends has slipped away and freed her. She answers the kiss with the same passion, the same want, clutching fistfuls of his wavy dark hair as she sinks deeper and deeper into him. 

Miles’ lips leave hers, but before she could sigh in disappointment, she feels him trail small, needy kisses down her neck, while his hands make their way into her hoodie. 

“You taste so f*****g good.” Miles breathes into her neck, his hands making their home under her bra, the smooth, cool skin of his palms tickling her as he molds her skin. “Just like how I imagined it…”

Louise finds herself tugging onto Miles’ shirt, relentless, hungry. She’s too far gone now. Maybe this was the only chance she’ll get. Maybe this is what the universe rewards her, after years of servitude to the love of her life. 

The universe loves to reward fools who believe. 

She begins opening button after button, running her hands on the tanned, toned skin of his chest. Miles finds her lips again, desperate for another taste of her, and just when he was about to get his fill he hears a small tap on the car window.

“Shit.”

Louise turns to the window of the driver’s side of her car, where the tapping seems to come from, and sees characteristic red and blue blinking lights - the last kind of light she would want to see in this situation, of all situations.

Louise hurriedly gets off of Miles’ lap and slides back into the driver’s seat, immediately rolling down the window for the officer. Still hazy from her little tryst with Miles, she tries to pull off her best law-abiding citizen face as she mentally searches her head for an excuse to wriggle both of them out of this situation. 

“Good evening, Sheriff Reeves,” Louise says, a forced, somewhat frightened smile on her face, recognizing the familiar salt-and-pepper man eyeing them from the car window. 

While it was definitely embarrassing, she is somewhat glad it was him and not some younger, newer cop on the force. It would’ve been a lot more trouble than she could talk her way out of. After all, Sheriff Reeves was a beloved figure in town; gentle but firm like a father. 

And forgiving too, she hopes. 

“Hey Louise,” says the sheriff, with a polite smile. “I reckon you guys should be doing that somewhere else.” 

Sheriff Reeves ducks down to the car window to check who else is inside, and sees a half-asleep Miles slumped over backwards in the passenger seat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him from crashing down the brake handle. 

“You’re both good kids so I let you off the hook this time,” says sheriff Reeves, kindly but firmly. “Drive home safe before I call your mother.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

As the sheriff’s car pulls away, Louise gears up for the rest of the drive home - not too long of a drive, honestly. She takes one last glance at Miles, now in a deep sleep, soft, small snores escaping his lips every now and then. 

She brushes off a stray fringe from his forehead, where she plants a soft, little kiss. 

Maybe some things are better left the way they are. 

“Good night, Miles.”