Page 11 of I Saw You First

No surprise: I don’t sleep well. I get up at my regular time, shower and style my hair like I have somewhere to go, and take my time with a full face of makeup. I pull on a pair of black bootcut jeans and a baby blue sweater set. I even find the missing earring to my set of (imitation) Tahitian pearl studs and matching necklace, a lovely metallic gray. I make a pot of coffee and turn on the Today show. Moses curls up beside me until he gets annoyed with my leg bouncing with nerves and jumps down to lie in a sunbeam.

It’s not long before I need to get out of this apartment—too quiet, too still, too empty. I get in the car, turn on the radio, and hop on the freeway. I don’t have a particular destination. I only know that I need to go. Somewhere. Anywhere.

I’m not going to think about how my future at TC Weekly went up in flames yesterday. Instead, I’ll think about last night and how I might find Jaws. He said he’s a regular at The Golden, and we seem to have similar taste in music, so I’ll start there. Not that I’ll be able to go to any shows anytime soon now that I’m unemployed.

I try to calculate how far I can stretch my last paycheck—maybe two months unless I defer my student loan—and then I remember the second check, mocking me from the ashtray.

I should have torn it up. I’ll do it when I get home.

The new single from John Mellencamp comes on the radio: “Key West Intermezzo (I Saw You First),” a song that has stuck with me since the first time I heard it. The drumbeats, the guitar riff, the lyrics, the yearning in John’s gruff voice. I’ve been a Mellencamp fan since my brother Scout had an extra ticket to see him during the Scarecrow tour and my parents let me go on a school night, my first concert. I was thirteen.

Before I know it, I’m pulling off the freeway at the Woodlake Avenue exit and in less than two minutes, I’m at my favorite place to buy music. This location of Hometown Electronics has the biggest CD department, so they’re sure to have the new Mellencamp, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. I’ll have to buy it with my emergency credit card, but the need for new music is always an emergency.

The automatic doors swoosh open and the employee at the door welcomes me. He wears the standard Hometown Electronics uniform—a white, button-up baseball jersey with green pinstripes and the number 70 on the back. The artificially cool air feels refreshing against my sticky, sweaty skin. It’s still so hot for early September.

I find the Mellencamp, R.E.M.’s New Adventures in Hi-Fi, and the new CD from blues legend Junior Watkins on a new-release endcap. I wander over to movies. The VHS of the Tina Turner biopic What’s Love Got to Do with It is on sale, so I grab that, too. I wrote a paper about Tina’s relationship with Ike—and how she got out of it—for one of my women’s studies classes. I walk back to the rock section for her greatest hits album, Simply the Best. And now that I’m buying way more than I intended, I get in line at the one open cash register. When it’s my turn, I hand over my credit card and inwardly cringe.

The cashier staples a flyer to the receipt and says with forced cheer, “We’re hiring! If it’s not the right fit for you, pass this along to someone else!”

Definitely not the right fit, Stacy.

As I turn toward the exit, I nearly run into a tall, slim white guy holding a clipboard, dressed in light khakis and a green polo. He shifts out of my way. His icy blue eyes behind the black frames of his glasses sparkle under the fluorescent lights, a contrast to dark, thick, wavy hair.

I gasp. It’s Jaws. In sexy glasses.

Everything is always working out for me. It’s like I wished him into existence. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

I am not. And wow, is Jaws handsome in the full light of day. He looked good last night, but now I see something classic about his features, like a movie star from the fifties or sixties. His eyes flash when they meet mine. I can’t look away, and he doesn’t, either.

“Well, well,” he says. That one corner of his mouth tilts up. “If it isn’t Abbey Road.”

“Close enough, Jaws,” I reply. “It’s Abbey Rhodes.”

And suddenly, I realize that perhaps working at Hometown Electronics is the right fit after all. For the time being, of course, until I find something at a newspaper. A job here could tide me over until I figure out what to do next, not to mention help pay the bills.

I nod toward the cashier. “Stacy over there tells me you’re hiring.”

“Do you know her?” His voice is gravelly, low, like last night, dark and rich like the color of his hair.

“I don’t. I’m a customer.” I hold up my bag.

“But you know her name.”

I tap the name tag pinned to his polo. I wonder why he wears a polo shirt, not a jersey. His name tag reads Wil, with one l, and not Jaws, which is clearly a nickname. “She’s wearing a name tag, Wil.”

I lean in to read the smaller words on his name tag. Merchandise Manager - Drafted 1985. He’s worked here for eleven years, even though he can’t be much older than me. And wow, he smells good, just like last night. I recognize the fragrance: Originaire for Men. Brianna covered a coworker’s maternity leave at the men’s cologne counter this spring, and one night, while I waited for her to finish her shift, I ranked my favorites. Originaire made my top five. Not cheap but not obnoxiously expensive or pompous. Fresh and woodsy and crisp.

Wil raises only one eyebrow and tilts his head. “If you’re serious, I can tell you what positions are available.”

“I’m serious.”

“Do you have retail experience?”

“Is it required?” I frown. I don’t think shopping here counts.

“Not necessarily. We’re hiring for customer service, entertainment media, audio, and computers.”

If “entertainment media” is code for music and movies, I’m in. “Tell me about entertainment media.”