Lost and Found Read online

  Lost and Found

  Katrina M. Grillo

  Copyright © 2020 Katrina M. Grillo

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To myself. I always knew you could do it.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Thank You!

  About The Author

  LOST

  AND

  FOUND

  KATRINA M. GRILLO

  Chapter One

  Spence

  I’m sitting on the porch when the U-Haul pulls up. The porch is where I go when I need some peace and quiet to think. Lately I’ve been feeling restless and cooped up and being outside in the fresh air tends to help. Today, despite the fact that it is January and my fingers are near frozen, I’ve brought my guitar out with me. I’m trying to practice a new song, but it’s proving nearly impossible with frost-bitten fingers. I should go back inside, since I’ve got a band meeting later and the rest of the guys will expect me to have a handle on this song, but I’m too intrigued by the commotion happening on the street below.

  The U-Haul parks next to the apartment building and a tiny girl with a blonde ponytail jumps out of the driver’s seat. She’s dressed entirely in black - black fleece jacket, black jeans, black Converse. She sticks her head back in the truck and says something I can’t hear, and then another girl hops out of the passenger side, looking annoyed.

  The second girl is also blonde, but her hair is darker and curlier. She’s wearing a massive white puffer coat and glaring down at the cell phone clutched in her hands. She cranes her neck, looking up and down the street, and says something to the girl dressed all in black. The girl dressed in black shrugs, goes around the back of the U-Haul and lifts up the door. She makes it look so easy and effortless it’s like the door is no heavier than a balloon. Quite a feat, considering her small stature. She flings it up and locks it into place and then calls to puffer coat girl, who comes around the back, pouting.

  Another car pulls up behind them, a shiny black SUV, and Puffer Coat perks up considerably. She waves at the two guys who get out of the SUV, and all four of them start unloading the U-Haul.

  From my spot on the porch I watch as the four of them start carrying cardboard boxes into the building.

  As I watch them, I decide it must be the girls moving in, judging by the amount of floral duffle bags and mirrors being taken out of the U-Haul. I can say with certainty that my roommate Lucas and I don’t own anything floral, and the only mirror in our apartment is the one attached to the wall in the bathroom. And that came with the place.

  The girl in the puffer coat isn’t helping much - the rest of them are handling all the unloading. Instead, she’s mostly doing a lot of talking and pointing. I hear thumping noises from inside now, and I head back in the apartment so I can listen to where they’re going, even though I already know. There are only three apartments in this building, one on each floor. Me and Lucas live on the second floor and the only empty one is on the third floor.

  We’ve been wondering who would move in, and I’m more than a little thrilled it’s a couple of girls that look like they’re my age. The building is in a neighborhood adjacent to a state college, and the apartments in this area are popular with students and recent graduates. The first-floor apartment houses a couple of stoner kids, and the third floor used to be home to a couple in their late twenties who were working on their master’s degrees and hated noise of any kind. We weren’t sad to see them move out.

  “Pivot!” One of the guys yells in the stairwell, and I hear girl’s laughter. I settle in on the floor by the door and keep listening.

  “No, Dex, bring the big stuff in first, leave the small stuff for later, it will just get in the way.” Girl’s voice.

  “This is too heavy!” Another girl’s voice, whiny. I’d bet everything I own that it belongs to the girl in the puffer coat.

  “Where do you want this?” Guy’s voice.

  I wonder if they’re dating. The girls and the guys, I mean, though I guess there’s a number of possible combinations there. The guys sound like idiots - goofing off and banging things into the walls as they make their way up the stairs. The voice I’ve attached to the girl in black is trying to keep them in line, bossing them around.

  I strum my guitar, half-heartedly practicing that new song, while I listen to the commotion in the hall. After a while the noise dies down, and I hear engines turning over outside. When I look out the window, the U-Haul and SUV are gone.

  Chapter Two

  Spence

  I spend the rest of the afternoon practicing and cleaning the apartment in preparation for the band meeting. I’m not a neat freak by any means, but I figure the least I can do is make sure the kitchen table is clean.

  That’s where Lucas - my cousin and roommate, and Max - the third member of our band, are now sitting.

  “We can’t fuck this one up, guys,” Max is saying. “If we manage to make a good impression and draw a crowd this could become a regular thing.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” I say. I’m lying on the couch drinking a beer and watching soccer on the Spanish channel on TV. I have no idea what the announcers are saying, but I understand the rules, so I don’t really need them to tell me what’s going on. Besides, the TV is on mute anyway, because I’m supposed to be focusing on this very important band meeting Max has called.

  We’re playing an open mic this week at a popular bar here in town. We have it on good authority that the band that usually plays on Saturday’s recently quit and they’re looking for a replacemen
t. If we impress the owner of the bar at open mic, that Saturday spot could be ours.

  “Just don’t make a scene, okay?” Lucas says, weary.

  “That feels impossible,” I tell him. “How am I supposed to avoid making a scene when I’ll be up on a stage in front of a crowd of people? I’m pretty sure making a scene is exactly what you want me to do.”

  Lucas sighs dramatically. “You know what I mean, douchebag.”

  “Let’s talk about the set list,” Max interjects. Max is the de facto leader of our little band of misfits. “I think we should do mostly original stuff.”

  “We don’t have enough ready,” Lucas says, a whiny tone in his voice. “None of it is good enough.”

  “That’s because Spence won’t practice any of it,” Max says.

  “That is not true. I practice all the time. Which is why my playing is always perfect. Maybe you just need to write better songs.”

  “Yeah well, if you’re so perfect at everything why don’t you help write some songs, asshole?” Lucas says.

  I shrug, even though they can’t see me over the back of the couch. “Not interested. That’s your thing.”

  Lucas is our bass player and he also writes most of our original stuff. His songs are really good, too. The problem is he lacks my confidence, so it takes forever to convince him anything is ready to play live. We go through this same argument every time we book a gig. One of us will suggest playing more original stuff, and Lucas will shut us down. Then, afterwards, he’ll complain that we never play anything original and how will we ever become more than just a cover band if we don’t play any original songs? Max and I have given up indulging him when he gets like that.

  “Can you come sit at the table like an actual member of this band?” Max asks me.

  “No thank you,” I reply, not budging from the couch. “I can provide my input on the set list from over here just fine.”

  Max sighs again. “I think we should stick with more mellow stuff, since it’s a Tuesday. Not a big party night.”

  “It could be,” I chime in. “Maybe that’s what we should focus on. Making Tuesday into the biggest party night of the week. Why should Friday and Saturday get all the fun? Let’s bring fun back to Tuesdays!”

  Silence answers me from the other side of the couch and I know they’re getting irritated with me.

  “How about this one?” Lucas says, shuffling some papers around.

  “Yeah, that looks good. Let’s make a few switches though.”

  The conversation continues quietly behind me, with the occasional scribble of pen on paper. My opinion is not asked for.

  At this point I get up, having finished my beer.

  “Oh, are you finally going to join us?” Lucas says.

  “I was just going to grab another beer,” I say, shaking my empty bottle at him.

  “We don’t have any more,” he informs me.

  I chuck the empty bottle in the cardboard box we keep in the kitchen full of other empty bottles and cans. It lands on top of the heap with a clang. “Damn. I’ll go get more.”

  “We’re in the middle of a meeting, can’t you wait?” Max says, exasperated. “We need to finish this set list.”

  “Seems like you guys have it under control,” I tell them, grabbing my jacket and keys.

  “Spence, if we nail this gig and manage to score a permanent spot that’s a bunch of extra income that we really need if we’re going to tour.”

  “You know what I think the problem is here?” I say, ignoring his comment. “You guys are hungry. I’m going to go get some pizza and beer, and when I get back, we’ll get this whole thing sorted out, okay?” I slap the counter in finality.

  “Whatever, dude,” Max says. “Get me a pepperoni.”

  They’re happy to get rid of me for a while so they can get some work done. By the time I get back the set list will be sorted out and they won’t have to deal with my snarky commentary while they do it.

  I’m about to close the front door behind me when Lucas speaks up. “Maybe we should start thinking about talking to Pete Crawford again.”

  He says it just loud enough that I hear him before the door is fully closed. He wanted me to hear him, and to let him know that I heard him, I yank the door closed with a slam.

  Pete Crawford. I hate that kid. He’s a poor man’s me. The guys have been threatening to replace me with Pete Crawford for years, but they haven’t pulled the trigger yet. They do it whenever I’m being particularly stubborn and difficult, like I am tonight. Usually it works, and it’s working right now. I already know I’m going to go back to that apartment, sit down at the kitchen table, serve them pizza, and act like I’m an engaged member of this goddamn band. Because they’re not replacing me with fucking Pete Crawford.

  As I walk into the pizza place, a couple of girls are coming out. They glance in my direction and I notice them both give me a subtle once-over.

  “Evening, ladies,” I say, giving them one of my very best grins. Like magic, they both melt a little and smile back.

  I order a couple pizzas, making sure to get one with extra pepperoni for Max, even though I know it will make him complain of heartburn for the rest of the night. While they make the pizza, I head to the convenience store next door and grab some beer.

  I’m trying not to let it bother me, but I’m still seething about Lucas’s Pete Crawford comment. The thing is, replacing me with Pete Crawford is probably a threat they’ll make good on pretty soon.

  The band has been seeing some success lately. We’re booking more gigs; more people are coming to see us. We’ve started developing a reputation. Max and Lucas are pumped, and so am I, to an extent. This started out as a fun thing for us, but somewhere along the line it got serious for them. They want to make a go of this. Their plan for this summer is to go on tour. Which is cool, good for them, but that’s not really my dream.

  I’m not sure what my future holds but driving around the state in a smelly old conversion van with two other dudes isn’t high on my list of potential options.

  That’s why I’ve been so difficult lately. It’s not that I’m trying to hold the band back from being successful, but I’m not exactly trying to move them forward, either. I guess I figure if they don’t get popular enough, don’t make enough money, then they’ll drop this tour idea and I won’t have to feel guilty about quitting.

  If I decide to quit, anyway. Like I said, I haven’t made any concrete decisions.

  After getting the beer I swing back and grab the pizza and hustle home before it gets cold. My hands are full, so it’s kind of hard to maneuver all the doors and hallways in our building. I make it into the vestibule, but the door between the vestibule and the narrow hallway containing the stairwell is kept locked. I’m fumbling around trying to get my keys from my pocket and not drop the beers when I hear a voice on the other side of the door.

  “You need to use the buzzer.”

  I look up and it’s one of the girls from earlier that just moved in. The girl in black.

  Seeing her up close the first thing I notice is how cute she is. Actually, she’s a total knockout. She’s standing on the staircase on the other side of the door, looking at me through the glass. She’s holding a bunch of broken-down cardboard boxes, like she was heading to toss them in the recycling. Her blonde hair is still up in a ponytail, with little pieces coming out around her face. Her eyes are alarmingly blue, and she has a button nose and full lips.

  She’s still dressed head to toe in black, though she’s added a leather jacket and a pair of badass, beat-up looking biker boots. Her face doesn’t match her wardrobe. She’s like a punk rock Miss America.

  A grin spreads across my face and it’s not even one of my good, on-purpose ones. It’s just my regular, legitimately happy smile. Because I’m not controlling it, it probably looks goofy and psychotic. “Hello,” I say.

  “If you’re making a delivery you need to use the buzzer,” she says, her tone serious as she points to the buzze
r to my right.

  At first, I don’t know what she’s talking about, then I remember I’m carrying pizza. “I’m not making a delivery, I live here.”

  She narrows her eyes like she doesn’t believe me.

  “I swear, I just can’t get my keys while I’m holding this stuff. Can you get the door?”

  “How do I know you actually live here?” she asks. She hasn’t moved from her spot on the stairs, so she’s looking down at me. It’s weird to have someone looking down at me like this, especially since she’s so short.

  “I’m not lying. I am honest to a fault,” I tell her. “Spencer Hurley, my name is on the mailbox and everything.”

  “I can’t see the mailbox from here,” she points out. The mailboxes are in the vestibule with me and she still hasn’t moved from her spot on the stairs. “And you could have just read that name two seconds ago.”

  “Okay, fair enough, but I swear I’m telling the truth. Can you open the door?”

  She hesitates, and looks at me through the glass, and I look at her, but neither one of us moves or says anything. It’s clear she needs to get out, and it’s clear I need to get in, but it’s also pretty clear she doesn’t want to open the door for a stranger and she also doesn’t know how to remove herself from this situation. I decide to put her out of her misery.

  “Never mind.” I put the pizza and beer down on the floor in the vestibule. “I’ve got it.” I pull my keys out of my pocket, open the door, and keep it pushed open with my foot as I pick up the pizza and beer and shove my way into the hall. She still hasn’t moved from the stairs.

  “See? I have a key,” I say, triumphant.

  “Okay,” she says. “Good for you.”

  Then she jogs down the remaining steps and slips past me out the front door, leaving the scent of clean laundry and spring air in her wake.

  “Hey, wait!” I call after her. “You didn’t tell me your name. You should introduce yourself, seeing as we’re neighbors now and all.”