Tonya Hurley_Ghostgirl_03 by Lovesick

commute to reality.

“Welcome back,” Charlotte said to herself. “To the same old stuff.”

She sat down on the couch and waited for Damen to arrive.

Scarlet slept in stereo, having nodded off to Eric’s demo tape blaring from her new heart-shaped earbuds. It was late when she awoke, and she rushed to grab a shower and get dressed. Dressing, she found, was an unusually difficult chore for her today.

With nothing for her to wear coming to mind, the ever-shrinking pile of potential discards on her floor caught her eye. She picked up a black, oversize off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she used to love and turned it back to front a few times.

She remembered just about everything she’d ever done in it. The more she looked at it, the more she realized that she still loved it. She threw it on over some dark, iridescent leggings, and wore it as a cool minidress.

The whole issue of what to wear should not have been such a big deal, because Scarlet didn’t have anything major planned, just some errands. But she would be passing by Split along the way, and she just never knew who she might run into there.

On her way out the door, she stopped in the kitchen and grabbed the set of keys to her old car, which had been sitting in the driveway with a “For Sale” sign in the rear window since Thanksgiving. At first, Petula put it there as a prank—she hated the car so much—but after a while Scarlet decided to sell it. It just wasn’t her anymore either, as Damen had so incisively or insensitively—she still wasn’t quite sure—noted about her wardrobe. She’d been driving around her mom’s Jetta ever since.

Scarlet pulled open the heavy driver’s side door, got into the black jalopy, and dug herself into the cracked and worn leather upholstery. She pumped the gas pedal a few times; turned the ignition, prompting a couple of coughs from the tailpipe; cranked up her stereo; and then hurried on her way.

After hitting the dry cleaner’s and a few vinyl shops, Scarlet found herself near the club. She drove up and parked right in front, making sure the car would be completely visible to anyone inside.

Another load-in was in progress for another band, and as Scarlet poked her head in, she had very low expectations that Eric would be hanging out. She looked around, and there he was, same as the day before, watching the stage like he’d never left.

“Hey,” she called out as she walked over. “I listened to your tape.”

She didn’t tell him what she thought of it right away; it wasn’t like Scarlet to give too much. She wasn’t sure what she was reading on his face, but it definitely wasn’t surprise. He almost seemed to be expecting her.

“You came all the way down here to tell me that?” he asked.

“That,” she said flatly, “and that your drummer could use a metronome.”

He laughed a little, knowing she was definitely right about that, but when it came to punk music, sloppy beats were a sign of cred, of rawness. The best music, she always felt, was about emotion and energy, not so much about structure, precision, or even ability. She prided herself on making her own music in that way, and she definitely heard a lot of it in Eric’s.

“So, you’re into timing?” he said with a wink, but not the cheesy kind. It was kind of cool and flirty.

“Don’t you want to know what I thought about the tape?” she asked, playing it up a little.

“Well, seeing that you came all the way down here to tell me, I think I already know,” he said.

He came off as arrogant but was the kind of guy who was sweet, deep down. He didn’t rely on his looks; he was more attitude.

“It was a little bit… awesome,” she said.

The thing about Scarlet was that she was usually reserved and sarcastic, but once she got to talking about music, she became like a kid fresh off Space Mountain. She exaggerated details because that’s how she experienced them—with a heightened sensibility.

“Do you play?” he asked.

“I