dealer's choice

How was she meant to stay still? Warm hands on her waist, skin on skin, kept her squirming. Just her luck. Grayson unhooked her hoop earring from a snag in her sweater and lifted it up and over her head. Bailey was glad to be free, but it came at a cost. Now she stood, bra and tank top, in front of a stranger. Practically exposed… Was Grayson a stranger? Bailey never thought she’d be the type to go inside a stranger’s apartment, just on pure personality type alone–not to mention the stranger danger mantra drilled into her head as a child. So maybe she’d think of Grayson as a friend, instead. A quick friend, sure, but a friend nonetheless. Everything felt less complicated that way. Bailey tried to sift through her running commentary to distract from her discomfort; arms over her chest as if she had the capacity to hide her body from view. 

She tried, at least.

“Thank you.” She said politely. Twisted the hoop around her ear, to make sure everything was a-okay. 

The rack didn’t look like earlier work. It looked professional. If Bailey had the confidence or the budget, she’d love to wear the types of clothes that Grayson made. She grabbed the yellow suit jacket off the coat hanger and slipped her arms inside. It was a good substitute for her sweater while Grayson repaired it. “It feels so nice.” She commented, fingers rubbing the fabric of the sleeve. “How do I look?” ‘Cause that’s what you were meant to say, in these types of moments.

“I love that store. They’d be lucky to have you and your designs.” 

Grayson tore her eyes away from the sweater in her hands for a brief moment, and she was glad she did. The suit fit Bailey like a glove -- a very sexy, fitting glove, that is. The last time she remembered, the yellow suit had worn the model. In Bailey’s case, she was wearing it. Clicking her tongue, Grayson let out a subtle wolf whistle, openly taking in the sight in front of her.

“Hot damn, I think you might have to keep that.” After another glance, she returned to doing her job. “And I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

In fact, there were actually a couple of pieces that would look fantastic on Bailey. Grayson had always been fond of the female body, so why wouldn’t she create clothes that flaunted it to the world? Fashion, in her opinion, was a powerful tool in creating (and retaining) confidence, and she had found her new muse.

“Have you ever thought about modeling?” Grayson said rather nonchalantly as she finished up. “My model, to be exact. Nothing creepy, just promotional stuff for my website and Instagram.”

Grayson had a whole rack of clothes. Clothes that she designed and fitted and made. Bailey felt grateful to be a small part in it. A witness to her talent. She hovered her fingers over a few coat hangers, staring in awe, her mouth fixed open in amazement. “Damn, these are gorgeous.” She said. It wasn’t even flirting, or her trying too hard: it was simple truth. Genuine honesty. Grayson pulled something specific off the rack (Yellow! Her favourite colour!) and Bailey scooped it up in her arms, thumbing the material. Taking it all in.

She paused. Birthday suit. No one had ever seen her completely naked before. It was alright– Grayson didn’t need to know that. Bailey rushed to get her sweater off, yanked it over her head so quick that another thread got caught on her hoop earring. Completely blind, with her arms up in the air, Bailey started to panic. “Oh God, I think I’m stuck.” Her bra was spilling over her tank top, exposing some cleavage. Right now, that was the least of her problems! Grayson had said something before about no boundaries. Bailey needed that sort of attitude now to get untangled. “I think my earring is caught. Help me, please.” She sounded small, like a child. Shy and embarrassed and clumsy and Oh God–why did this have to happen to her? Right now? Ever? Why? 

The image of a woman suddenly rendered helpless by a yellow sweater was oddly endearing. Grayson couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, letting Bailey stew in her current predicament before getting up to help her out. She grabbed onto her bare waist (somewhat deliberately, mostly curiosity) firmly, as if touch alone could convince the tangled woman into staying still. If anything, it had done quite the opposite.

“Stay still,” Grayson said with pseudo-gravity, tip-toeing to look over Bailey’s head as she searched through her thick hair for the culprit causing so much distress. “The wrong move could either rip your ear off or put another tear on your sweater.”

It was honestly just an earring stuck in a garment -- Grayson had seen this one too many time while dressing models for fashion showcases during her short stint as a student. She wondered what her life would have been like if she had stayed in New York; she would probably be doing the exact same thing with another model.

Lift, unhook, and Bailey was a free woman. Flashing an amused smile at her, Grayson turned to begin working on the sweater. It was obvious that Bailey wasn’t very comfortable with being only in her bra, and especially so in a complete stranger’s apartment -- Grayson had to remind herself that.

“These are just some of my earlier stuff,” She said nonchalantly as she worked, chin nodding towards the rack. “I’m also working with Wildflower Boutique on getting my work in their store. That yellow suit though? One of a kind.”

          “Oh really?” Lisa raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised, definitely not a piece of information she had any idea of, “well would you look at that.”

          There wasn’t many culture in the Morgan household. Lisa had worked many odd jobs growing up, even waitressing in a Chinese restaurant when she was about thirteen or fourteen years old during a summer, but nothing that had her knowing anything in depth. New York, however, was another life entirely. Between Carlos, Belinda and the dancing community she was exposed to a lot more than she thought now she should have been exposed to. To say that she was still feeling the ripple effect of it all was definitely an understatement — thinking about it made her take one solid swig of her drink. 

          Lisa had to laugh out loud at Grayson’s confessions, for one, she never really had the opportunity to do things like that, it was definitely wilder than her school days self would manage. 

          Taking her position pointing the stick to the ball before taking a shot— finally it landed one ball in the left corner of the table, “I remember you sleepin’ with socks quite well,” she winked before taking another aim, the way the balls were dispersed right now was almost easy to take shots and hole them. 

          Another shot in, “when I was younger my brothers used to laugh at me because I always closed the silverware drawer with a pelvic thrust,” she laughed while she aimed another, waiting until the ball rolled into the hole.

          “Back in New York among the dance community they called me trouble, and said I had a magic pussy, ‘cause there was always someone wantin’ to be attached to it.” She said before she missed the next one and flagged the bartender for more tequila shots before taking hers.

Oh, thank God Lisa ordered more shots. Grayson was just about done with her beer, and she was definitely still far too sober to be dragging up embarrassing, stupid stories. (Nonetheless, that didn’t stop her from having fun.) She hip-bumped into the redhead as she made her way around the table, suddenly adamant about winning this godforsaken game. Curse her innate competitiveness -- maybe she wasn’t that sober after all.

Grayson laughed as she bent over the table, readying her next shot. “Magic pussy, huh? Well, I can attest to that. Maybe it’s from all that pelvic thrusting.”

Bam, Watching the ball roll into the corner pocket, she leaned back on the table and swiftly threw back a tequila shot. “Speaking of New York... I had my tongue pierced when I first got there; I was drunk and a stranger dared me to do it. Didn’t really mind it though, because it was really popular with the ladies.”

After landing another pocket, Grayson took a moment to muse. “I hate thunder. When I was a kid, I used to hide in the closet with earmuffs whenever it rained. It’s actually super ironic because my Chinese name literally means thunder.”

There were a lot of simple things in life that brought Grayson joy, but she had also grown accustomed to happiness being fleeting. Smiling, she gazed at Lisa just long enough to capture the moment and resumed her focus to the game. She hit the cue ball and barely scratched a striped ball. Hopefully that made the night last a little longer.

“Yeah but….only ‘cause I was the one who was loud. The other guy? He’ll get what’s comin’ to him. One way or another.” Gale tried to fix his jacket, then scrubbing his jaw to try and brush any dirt off of it. “You drive a hot bargain, baby. I don’t mind you playin’ catch up, but you’ll never catch me,” he joked, wrinkling his nose before he looked towards Legends. 

“Gone soft? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten whiskey dick if that’s what you mean,” he grinned lopsidedly, scanning one of the men that had walked out of the bar. Dissatisfied, he turned his attention back to Grayson, “Cheap shit, huh? C’mon, first one to pass out loses.”

Licking her thumb, Grayson wiped away a faint smudge on Gale’s chin. “I’m sure everyone at that last bar must’ve found you incredibly charming.”

She throw another shot back, definitely tasting the cheapness of the alcohol this time. From the way that it smelled, tasted, and burned, Grayson was almost convinced that she had just ingested lighter fluid. Lighter fluid still got you drunk... right?

“If you’re buying, I’m not opposed to drinking better tasting shit.” She grimaced, stacking the empty shot glasses. “I could pass out by the smell of your whisky sweat alone, dingus. You smell like a truck stop. Might want to take a shower if you’re looking to go home with someone -- I saw you looking.”

Toiling away behind the crook of his arm & the amber bottle evidently wasn’t enough as the woman came right for him like a shark to blood. Perhaps if he just didn’t look up she wouldn’t put the pieces together. He should be so lucky. Before he could even pray for it, she was addressing him. “Huh?” Southby asked, peeking around his arm to look at the television. The jig was long up, but Southby clung to it for an extra number of seconds before he finally looked her in the eye & polished off his beer. Nothing like a the vague threat of violence to bring about some simpering guilt for writing the girl a ticket. Something Miller. He couldn’t remember her first name, though he had some inkling that it had been different. “There’s still penalties,” Southby reminded her, but if any sport was expected to have violence, it was hockey. Southby stared at the screen for a moment, mouth a bit dry now that he was trying to decide if he could muster an apology or if it was even necessary. “I feel bad alright!” He blurted out. It wasn’t exactly ‘I’m sorry’, but he wasn’t necessarily convinced she deserved it. Flagging down the bartender, Southby passed him his empty bottle. “Another one & whatever she wants when she finishes that one.”

The apology took her aback, but it was more so the way that he exclaimed it that thoroughly surprised her. Judging from the pompous way he had written her up on the road -- kind of like a school monitor penalizing a wayward student -- Grayson almost thought that Southby wasn’t capable of guilt. Still, she nodded with a grimace, appreciating his apologetic gesture. Well, if he was offering, she might as well take advantage of his supposed remorse.

“Macallan, top-shelf.”

She polished off the rest of her beer then pushed it aside. When the whisky arrived, she took a quick sip. Okay, maybe the night wasn’t that awful, and she wasn’t that mad at Southby anymore.

“So, do you frequently go around ruining people’s day?”

Whenever Bailey tried sayin’ “fuck it”, it usually didn’t work out too well. Her car, completely destroyed and written off, was proof enough of that. She didn’t say it, though. Didn’t need to tell someone she’d known for a hot minute how depression—how her depression, at least—worked. Instead, she latched onto something else Grayson said. “You make clothes?!” She asked, grinning. Not surprised, now, that the offer had come up to fix her favourite sweater. Everything was starting to make a little more sense. The intrigue dampened her anxiety enough that by the time Grayson unlocked the door to her apartment, Bailey could look around in wonderment, not panic. 

It wasn’t messy by any means. A little empty, with boxes and suitcases scattered around the place. A mannequin in the corner. Bailey immediately crossed over to it, and the sewing machine on the desk. “This is so cool.” She said without a second thought. Traced her hands over the sketches on a design board, thoroughly impressed. “I was right before, y’know. You’re really talented.” Bailey was a musician, and artist—but couldn’t even draw a stick figure properly. This type of work she could appreciate. “Can I see some of the clothes you’ve made? Is… is that okay?” Bailey turned, looking at Grayson for the first time since they’d stepped inside her apartment. She shyly smiled over at her.

Vodka, this early, was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea in general. For a moment, though, Bailey considered it. “Oh, no, nah, I’m alright. Thank you, though.” She played with the sleeves of her sweater. “Do I need to… take this off?” It was only 60° Fahrenheit (max) outside, so she went light under the sweater. Only a bra and tank top. Her anxiety peaked again. Maybe she’d need that shot of vodka, after all.

Grayson was someone who took pride in the things she did, and especially so if she did them well. From being a star player on the soccer field to drinking someone under the table, she didn’t necessarily sought for the spotlight but relished in it when it landed on her. Ironically enough, despite having spent the last years crafting on her workmanship as a fashion designer, she never quite felt the same sense of achievement. It was a cutthroat industry, and she was just small-town mediocrity.

“Sure,” Putting aside her hesitancy, Grayson rolled out a clothes rack from her bedroom. She ran her hands through her work, pulling out one of her first projects  that she thought would look good on Bailey -- a two-piece yellow power suit. It still smelled of her old New York apartment, but otherwise, the garment was in perfect condition.

“Take it off,” She said nonchalantly, turning away to rummage through her materials for yellow yarn that matched the vibrancy of Bailey’s sweater. “Not unless you want a needle poking at your skin. “Try on whatever you like, or if you feel so keen, feel free to get in your birthday suit. I’ve seen plenty of naked ladies.

“Played soccer,” Grayson quickly added. “No boundaries.”

          Lisa smiled fondly at the memory from where she was. Positioned on the end of the pool table, she had already collected the balls and arranged them in the triangle, already eager to get the game started and even more eager in seeing where it would eventually take them.

          “We need to keep our clothes on for this one…” she bent down with her stick in hand and position aimed at the white ball before she stole a glance of Grayson, “for now,” the red winked.

          With one hit she managed to break and spread the balls but none fell into any sockets, which she was aware that it might happen, but at least she didn’t make it easier for Grayson either. “One secret, let me think,” she said walking over to the bar counter so she could retrieve her beer, taking a swig at it, “my favorite color is yellow,” Lisa teased, “nobody knows that.”

“Yellow,” Grayson said, walking around the table to check her angles. “is the color of royalty in my culture.”

The summers spent playing pool with her dad usually benefited her in most cases (i.e. hustling people in high school), but it might prove otherwise right now -- the more shots she landed, the more she had to share. Bending over the side of the table, Grayson identified a striped ball teetering on the edge of a corner pocket. She aimed, glanced upwards at Lisa for show, and hit it in.

“I’m the punk who left graffiti in the girl’s bathroom in high school,” And right before landing her second shot, she continued sheepishly, “and then dated a guy just to expand it to the boy’s bathroom whenever we made out.”

In retrospect, Grayson was such a dumb kid. Of all the things she had done in the past, she picked one of the dumbest secrets to lay out in the open. She covered her embarrassed grimace by taking long sips out of her beer, already knowing she’s going to need another one soon enough.

She took aim again. “I like... sleeping naked with only socks on.” It missed by an inch.

“Is it that bad?” he drawled, knowing Grayson probably wasn’t exaggerating. How much did he have to drink? He couldn’t really remember, but he did remember the guy beside him saying some shitty things. “Wasn’t my fault, Gray. The guy beside me – huge pile of dicks. All of them. So many dicks,” he waved his hand idly, using the side of the building to keep himself upright. “I’m breathing,” he shot back, moreso petulantly than not. 

“Wow. Is there anything you can’t do?” he took his phone gratefully, shaking it at her. “Now are you gonna walk me home? I’ll be real scared by myself,” he joked, moving to loop his arm around her shoulders. “Or….or we can go find…another bar.”

“Well, you’re the dick thrown outta there, so who’s really winning?” Taking a swig from her bottle, Grayson grinned at Gale. “Another bar, shit-stick. But you’ll be watching me drink as I catch up.”

It was probably for the best that she didn’t take Gale home, considering that (a) her car smelled like a week-old dumpster behind Denny’s, (b) he would have piled it on with another layer of vomit, and most importantly, (c) she was in the mood to get hammered. It was kismet that Gale fell into her path. Literally.

She guided them towards Legends, a bar with lax security and less likelihood for her drunk friend (and herself too, with enough drinks in her system) to be kicked out. Ordering two shots of the cheapest vodka they had, she threw each one back like clockwork.

“Alright, goober. You still lucid or have you gone soft already?”

Shanghai and New York City were still so far removed from what Bailey was used to. They were just movie sets, in her mind. Fantasies. Something she’d only ever see on a screen, or in prose or photographs. Before Bailey could ask more questions (when was the last time Grayson visited China?) she was met with a surprising offer. It was a casual invitation. Bailey wasn’t sure if Grayson said it seriously, or if she said it because it was simply something you said. “I wish!” Bailey exclaimed, caught up in the moment and excitement of it all. She didn’t even have a passport. Didn’t have the money to buy a new-old second-hand car, let alone a plane ticket. The idea was nice. Bailey was short of breath. “I can’t remember the last time I had dumplings.” She tacked on, scared of sounding too eager.

I think you’re somebody. Bailey kept her eyes on the pavement to keep herself from falling. To keep her small smile hidden. “I wish I saw the world that way.” The depression and her own myths and beliefs about life and the universe kept her jaded. Negative. She’d never be able to draw the same conclusion that Grayson did. At least, not for herself. “Thank you.” Bailey piped up. It was a beautiful thing to say, especially to someone she’d only known for five minutes.

They’d reached the apartment building. Grayson had to warn her about what she was walking into. Bailey chuckled and shrugged. “My entire house, inside and out, is a pig stye. It’s fine.” If anyone had the right to be judged here, in this situation, it was Bailey. Running off with a stranger ‘cause of her favourite sweater. “No judgement here. Scout’s honour.”

Grayson shrugged nonchalantly, her hands busily fishing for her keys from her pocket. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. The world sucks and you don’t have to lie to yourself about that; I think it’s just a matter of saying ‘fuck it’ and having fun anyway. Then again, what do I know? I’m just someone who makes clothes.”

Unlocking the door to her apartment, she sent another look of warning to Bailey, as if offering her a chance to escape before it was too late. Although Grayson could not give two shits about what others thought of her, she’d also rather not ruin first impressions with people she genuinely wanted to get to know better. She should probably consider giving at least half a shit in normal occasions -- maybe then she’d have more friends.

In reality, her apartment looked more so an unlived one than a messy one. Despite having moved back for a few weeks, half of her things stayed unpacked in suitcases and boxes while the rest were peppered in random spots all over the small space. The only place that seemed remotely ready (or, normal) was her workspace in the corner, featuring her trusty sewing machine, a busted mannequin, and a design board filled with loose sketches.

“Sorry,” Grayson sighed, haphazardly grabbing the clothes off of the armchair and throwing them into her room without another thought. “Do you want anything to drink? I only have coffee and vodka.”

[ @grayjmiller· ]

The hospital cafeteria was always crowded with people. Visitors as well as other doctors and nurses, people who just needed a break, looking for a spot and hoping that maybe the inadequate food might help make them feel better. Iris knew the food here would only make things worse and it was probably her least favourite part about this place. Everything else she could handle, she had been studying and working towards this career for so long after all but the cafeteria food wasn’t going to be the thing to break her.

Usually, she brought her own food, it made the most sense anyway. Today was a rushed day however, so she was forced to buy food during her break and try to live through it. Most of the tables were full by the time she got there and scouting around, awkwardly turning her head to see if there was anyone finishing up and getting out of their seat or a free table she didn’t see until she saw a somewhat familiar face.

The girl was here a lot, if Iris recalled correctly she was visiting her mother every time she’s seen and talked to her. She was at a table by herself and there were a few free chairs so Iris decided to be the social butterfly she normally wasn’t and walked over with her tray of food and a friendly smile. “Hey, mind if I join you?” She asked sounding hopeful.

Go get a snack, her mom said. Maybe you’ll meet a nice doctor and get married. It was comforting to know that even as drugs were pumped into her bloodstream, her mom still had the energy (and audacity) to sass at Grayson’s lack of a romantic relationship. She would much rather this version than the one from a week ago, weak from the side effects of early chemotherapy.

There wasn’t much Grayson could do except do as she was told; she knew that her mom didn’t want her around when the nausea began. Settling into her usual, isolated table in the corner of the cafeteria, she began picking at the fruit cup in front of her, already deciding she wasn’t going to eat it.

She spent the first half-hour absorbed in her thoughts until a figure approached her, tray in hand. Grayson nodded, gesturing with feign grandeur at her fabulous dining table. The girl looked familiar enough, but she couldn’t quite put her finger as to where she’d seen her before. Granted, her mind was preoccupied as of late.

“This feels like high school,” Grayson joked lightly, moving a blueberry around the cup with her fork.

Consistently evaluating his choices would’ve been far too difficult. Gale preferred to just take every moment as it was; his life had already been sheltered for far too long for him to play it safe everywhere he went. It’s partly the reason why he drank until his liver expressed how much it hated him, truly wondering how much his heart could take, but even now, as he felt hands hauling him towards the door of the bar, well, he knew he’d pushed everyone a bit far that night. 

The cold night air hit him like a freight train, as did the cement he found himself on just seconds later. The bouncers gave him a look that said ‘don’t come back’, and Gale had to take a deep breath to regain his bearings before he pulled himself to his feet. He glanced at the person who he’d landed in front of, managing a half smile as he cleared his throat, “Ain’t really been my night. You got a cigarette? Or how about enough courage to walk back in there and get my phone I dropped on my very graceful way out?”

Lyft passengers were always wild and unruly at this time of night. Despite the rather dull nightlife of Morgan City (in comparison to the Big Apple, anyway), people knew how to party hard. Perhaps it was their way of coping with the morbidity of the dullness surrounding them, but it sure made for an interesting night.

After spending a good hour cleaning her car of vomit -- courtesy of her last, very drunk passenger -- she decided to take a walk down the street to clear her olfactory system. What a magnificent fucking end to her day. It didn’t help her mood when a man was literally thrown out of a bar, almost taking her down as collateral damage.

“Don’t think I should be letting anything lit close to you, you smell real fucking flammable.” Sighing, Grayson glanced towards the bouncer guarding the door. “Why don’t you take a breather down there.”

There were perks to being a girl  and even more when you looked harmless, but Grayson would gladly jump right into a brawl if motivated enough. She mirrored the bouncer’s exasperation, explained her idiot brother had left his phone in there, told him about the night she had, and eventually... walked out of there with a phone and a beer.

Southby served it with a smile. “Morgan Freeman? – Nevermind.” Southby waved the reference off. “You’re all set, Miss Miller.” He tapped the top of her car. “You drive safe now.” The king of condescension turned away then to slide back into his cruiser.

The day had continued with just about as much excitement. By six, he’d gone home, changed out of his uniform & found himself seated at the bar with a cold beer in his hand. Friday couldn’t have come soon enough. It didn’t mean he had tomorrow off, but it did mean direct deposit had hit & that more than a few people would be up to have a good time in town’s dive bar. Looking up when the front door opened, it took Southby a number of seconds to place just why that face looked familiar, but when he realized why, all he did was mutter “shit” & try to hid behind his beer & his forearm.

Nothing like a good drink to end the absolute worst day; her first gulp hadn’t even reached her stomach before she caught a glimpse of Officer Southby. That son of a bitch costed her a perfect ride, which consequently stripped her of her 5-star rating as a Lyft driver. 4.9 was still a great -- it just wasn’t a 5.0.

Seeing as he wasn’t in uniform, Grayson plopped herself in the seat next to Southby and nonchalantly nursed her beer. His blatant (but courageous, she admitted) attempt to cover himself from her was enough to let her know that he recognized who she was.

“Good game, huh, officer?” Grayson gestured towards the hockey game, placing special emphasis on the last word. “Must be amazing to just be able to deck the other guy, y’know?”

          Lisa wiggled her eyebrows at Grayson’s mention of the tequila-induced craziness, she remembered all too well and with a sly smile on her lips, she downed the first of the shots and then with another raise of the second glass, she downed the other.

          “I’m guessin’ today will be both about new beginnings and old friendships, hm?” 

          There was something to be said about the level of giddiness that already seeped into Lisa’s bones, along with the well-known fire caused only by the golden liquid— in other occasions it wouldn’t be dangerous, she would dance and it would wear off, but judging how her hand had already made it’s way to Grayson’s upper thigh, it was imaginable that her intentions were less than honorable. 

          “Come on, hot stuff,” Lisa recalled Grayson’s nickname, “we’re gonna play some pool and get to know each other all over again— maybe later I’ll let you in on a secret,” she raised one finger, “or two,” she raised another before hopping off the stool and walking towards the pool table.

The hand might be gone but her touch lingered, sending tiny shock waves across Grayson’s intoxicated body. (Damn those two shots of tequila... and also the pre-bar drink at home.) She swiftly hopped off the bar stool, making sure to follow Lisa closely enough to let her hand innocently graze her butt.

"This’ll be like the last time we played strip poker,” Grayson said with a smile as she passed Lisa a cue and set up the table. “You break.”

Leaning her weight onto her own pool stick, she couldn’t help but think about that hand on her thigh again. And then her mind wandered back to reveling in how she would kiss along her collarbone, how her lips tasted like alcohol and sweet lip gloss, how her hands traveled to other parts of her body...

Yikes. All this from a simple touch.

“Alright, secret before every shot. Go.”

Southby stared down into the woman’s car, silent for a long moment. “Rush or no rush…” He trailed off, looking into the backseat. “Who’s that?” He asked nodding to the poor soul stuck in the backseat. “This some kind of weird Driving Miss Daisy type thing?” He asked, reaching for his ticket book.

No no no no no no please god no please not the book not the -- and there it was, a brand spanking new ticket slipped into her palm. Fan-fucking-tastic. On top of food, gas, and rent, now she also had to somehow fund an incredibly unnecessary ticket for an incredibly minor violation. God, she could run the car right into a brick wall right about now.

“The what?” His reference had completely gone over Grayson’s head -- not that she cared, anyway. All she wanted to do was get this ride done and dusted. “Am I good to go now, officer?”

“That’s awesome.” Bailey grinned, genuinely interested. “Do you go back and visit a lot?” Going overseas and travelling sounded amazing, in her book. She wasn’t sure if it was really in the cards for her or not, since she hadn’t even left the state before, but it sounded incredible. “New York, China… Where else have you been?” Maybe she could live out her wildest dreams second-hand, through Grayson’s experiences. That’s sort of why she agreed to go to her house in the first place, right? Trying something new, learning from other people… 

Her smile was quick to disappear. “Oh, oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Overstep? Be completely rude and inconsiderate? She picked up on the topic change and ran with it. Bailey was good at that, at least. “No, no, I’m…” What was she? “I’m pretty much a nobody.” She wouldn’t call herself a musician, or an aspiring musician anymore. Fast food worker? Domino’s douchebag? Still-single-and-almost-thirty-and-still-living-at-home? Depressed and lonely? Bailey shrugged, still feeling guilty for putting Grayson in a sore spot. “I’m just trying to make conversation, I guess. I don’t have many friends, I—I don’t really know how this goes. Especially with someone I just met.” She explained, anxiety palpable in the way she spoke and shakily drew in breath. 

This strange girl might just very well be Grayson’s undoing. Bailey was so unsure of herself, so quick to put herself down that she reminded Grayson of all the freshmen soccer players she used to play with. All she wanted to do was wrap them up in blanket burritos, put on a family Netflix movie, and make sure no one ever hurt a single one of them.

“Nah, just the two. I used to visit Shanghai a lot, you know when I was younger and had all the time in the world.” Grayson chuckled. “You should totally join me the next time! I’ll show you around the city; oh my god, there’s this place that makes the best chive dumplings.”

There was certainly enough room at her dad’s place for Grayson and Bailey -- hell, if she wanted, she probably could have roped in a couple more stragglers from Mama G’s or something. In most cases, she didn’t believe in boundaries.

“Nobody? Listen, I’ve met you like what, five minutes, and I think you’re somebody. You like that canary sweater, right? Then you’re somebody who likes brightening up the world, thread by thread.”

Grayson pointed at the rundown apartment building across the street, a terrifying horror suddenly washing over her. “I might have some dirty laundry lying around. Please don’t judge me for it.”

Semi-local, huh? Times like this reminded Bailey that Morgan City wasn’t as small as she thought it was. They’d probably met before, or crossed paths somewhere; maybe even went to the same school, but Bailey didn’t remember her. “Where are you from originally?” If she kept the questions coming, the attention off herself, and the silence filled and not awkward, maybe she’d make it through this. 

“New York. Wow.” Bailey said, amazed. New York was a place for the movies, in her mind. Too far away and glamorous and out-of-reach. “I’ve never even left Louisiana.” Hopefully that answered Grayson’s question. Nola was too big for Bailey. She couldn’t even imagine Manhattan. “It must be a huge adjustment, huh? Comin’ back here…” Bailey said, an off-handed comment. “Why leave?”

Grayson stiffened slightly. Bailey’s question reminded her of her childhood, when kids would taunt her endlessly because of how she looked and spoke. Kids were nasty little creatures, especially when they encountered things they didn’t understand. Old Morgan City was not very friendly when it came to foreigners; perhaps that was the source of all her uneasiness with the place.

Still, it was home. 

“China,” She said fondly. “My dad’s side of the family is from there.”

Never left Louisiana. God, that was Grayson’s worst nightmare. Not that she had anything against Louisiana as a state (hello, amazing Southern food!), but she never thought she fit in much around here. Then again, she never fit in in the Big Apple either, so maybe she was the oddly-shaped puzzle piece.

“My mom. She’s, uh, sick.” Grayson cleared her throat. After a pause, she grinned impishly and glanced over at Bailey. “You a detective or something? Asking me all these hard-hitting questions.”