Irene knew Trabuco Canyon was special the first time she and Tim arrived to see the little house for rent. They’d been living in an apartment near Houghton Beach, where Irene had received one too many passive-aggressive emails chastising her for the beach towels they left drying on the balcony. Plus, their little family had grown. They now had two cats and Hyde, a hyperactive collie they’d inherited from their friend, Shelby. Having reached their mid-twenties, Irene and Tim agreed it was time for a bigger place.

One evening after work, they sped north along the wide freeways before peeling off and heading inland. Tim lowered his window and Irene did the same, feeling the air cool as they drove down into the canyon. Scrubby pines and fragrant junipers eclipsed the desert sun. Passing the Mexican restaurant the landlord had noted, Tim steered his pickup onto a sandy dirt road. Ahead, they were surprised to see a man on horseback. He wore a cowboy hat and held the reins in one hand, upper body swaying as the horse ambled along. Despite the Range Rovers and shiny chopper motorcycles in people’s driveways, Irene thought the neighborhood had a rural feel.

The house had a fenced front yard—ideal for Hyde. In the backyard, an old oak tree with a broad canopy stretched over the deck, its branches like cracks of lightning across the sky. The place seemed removed from the worst of Orange County—the traffic, plastic surgery, and the strip malls with chain stores and chain restaurants and red stucco roofs. Irene had loved living near the ocean, where she ran with Hyde on the glittering sand, sending flecks of seawater flying behind her. But she was happy to trade their anonymous two-bedroom apartment for a home in the serene canyon.

***

Irene waved goodbye to the people on the screen and closed her laptop with a snap. Her cat opened his eyes at the noise, lounging in the top nest of the cat tree. He stretched out his paws and blinked at her while she slouched in her computer chair, dangling her arms over the arm rests.

She was pouring food into the animals’ bowls when her cell phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—Shelby, with a picture of her astride an electric bike, head thrown back laughing.

Irene turned on the speakerphone. “Yo.”

“Suuup bitch?”

Irene chuckled. “Just finished working. Might go for a swim in a minute.”

The collie barked and whined, looking up at the counter where his bowl was.

“Is that Hyde?” said Shelby.

“Yeah. It’s dinna-time.”

“I miss him.”

“Well… he misses you too.” Irene lowered the bowl to the floor and Hyde attacked it, jostling the dry food around the metal dish. The cat leapt onto the counter and began eating from his own bowl.

“You’re coming next weekend, right?” asked Shelby.

Irene heard a lighter click on the other end of the phone. “What are you smoking?”

“A spleezy, baby! I’m driving home right now.”

“I think we’re in for next weekend.”

“Hell yeah! Have you talked to your cousin?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s so hard to get good coke in L.A. Did you get that invite to Chloe’s wedding?”

“Yeah. It’s on my fridge.”

“Mine too. When’s Tim gonna propose?”

Irene and Tim had fallen in love at college during the two weeks before Tim’s gap year. It was a no risk-trial, and neither of them had held anything back. It was a whirlwind of mischief, fucking, and real, real love. After Tim left for New Zealand, Irene sent him tantalizing pictures until he cut his trip short and they moved into their first apartment together.

“We’re pretty much married already. It’s funny,” Irene said, stroking the cat while he ate. “We’re reaching that age where all our friends are getting married. Four weddings this summer! But in our seventies and eighties, it’ll be a bunch of funerals.”

“If we’re lucky. Live fast, die young baby.”

“Yeah… keep your eyes on the road, girl.”

“Mhmm. You gonna talk to your cousin?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call him right now.”

But after Irene hung up, she didn’t call her cousin. Traffic was thickening by the second. If she was going swimming she had to go now. Shadowed by Hyde, she began racing around the house, stepping into her one-piece, ripping her weed pen, and dumping a scoop of Tim’s pre-workout into a glass of water and swirling it around. She tilted the glass and drained the sour pink concoction, which lingered, gritty, on her teeth. She said goodbye to Hyde, ruffling his head in her hands, assuring him she’d be back. Then she donned her sunglasses, locked the front door, and hopped into her all-black Subaru Forester.

She zoomed up the snaking hills and out of the canyon, blasting the kind of poppy country music Tim couldn’t stand. Sunlight glinted sharply off the shiny cars as she wormed her way through rush-hour traffic. Her face tingled; the pre-workout was beginning to take effect. She was ready to be underwater.

Irene eased herself into the pool. She rolled her neck a couple of times and pushed off, swimming a choppy crawl. Sunlight was streaming in through the huge windows and illuminating the turquoise water. Ghostly, iridescent scribbles wavered in frames along the bottom of the pool. Irene’s hands were small and couldn’t push much water. Her hips felt inflexible, her form unsymmetrical, but still she surged forward, back and forth along the lane.

After her laps, she sat in the hot tub. Pressure from a jet pummeled her lower back. She watched the small bubbles dance, bunching and breaking apart. Voices and splashes echoed through the building. A lifeguard yawned. It was lonely, working from home all day while the sun rose and fell. She rubbed her sternum and felt the years of tar buildup from smoking weed. No wonder she couldn’t swim the length of the pool in one breath. But drugs—drugs gave life its magic back. If she hadn’t hit the weed pen, would the country music have been so cathartic, so affirming? Would she have been so enchanted by the way the sunlight played on the water?

***

“You’ve still got goggle-marks, babe,” Tim said, tracing the underside of her eyes with his thumb. They were lying together in their backyard hammock, digesting the tacos they had made for dinner.

“Do I?” Irene stared up at the night sky. Two wild parrots flew overhead, their colorful plumage muted by the darkness. She wondered where they were going.

“I need to talk to Robert,” she said, squeezing her hair to test its wetness. It was still damp, but she wasn’t cold. The night was balmy and clear.

“For this weekend?”

“Yeah. Shelby wants blow. But I feel kinda weird about it. Guilty, or something. He just had open-heart surgery.”

“Damn, I didn’t know that. But you’ve gotten stuff from him before. He’s master of the dark-web, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is. But what if I’m the reason he gets in trouble? He’s the closest family I got.”

“Proximally. When’s the last time you saw him? Thanksgiving? It’s May.”

Irene resituated herself so her chin was balanced on Tim’s chest. “Oh is it?” she said. Tim smirked. “Do you think,” Irene began, “maybe… we’re getting a little old for this?”

Tim screwed up his face, thinking. “Do you still like doing this sort of thing?”

“Well, yeah. Last time was fun. It shakes up the monotony.”

“I’m excited,” said Tim. “There’ll be good music, we’ll dance, we’ll see Shelby.” Irene watched his eyes, big and blue, scanning the sky, taking in the stars.

“Rave to grave, babe,” he added with a grin.

“Rave to grave…” Irene said, trying out the words. She settled her head against the crook of his arm and studied the oak tree obscuring half the sky. She rubbed her stomach, full from the tacos, and thought of her mother. People were always telling Irene that she looked like her mother, who was the kind of woman who drank the most, beat all her friends at croquet, and, in the morning, was the first one up making coffee for everyone.

***

Irene trotted up the stairs to the fourth floor of Robert’s apartment building. She stared at the numbers on his door for a moment, then knocked. The door opened and Robert stood before her, beaming.

“Hey! Good to see ya,” he said.

His face was still doughy, covered in a patchy beard, but his shoulders looked broader than the last time she’d seen him. They shared a quick hug. He felt dense, like a football player.

Inside was a desk with double-monitors displaying excel sheets. A cushy black computer chair was facing away from the desk, as if it had just been vacated. The walls were bare, but there was a new-looking suede sectional and the kitchen was tidy. Dust particles floated in the sunbeams pouring in through the glass doors.

“The place looks great,” Irene said, sliding her feet out of her sandals and dropping her tote bag near the door. “I remember visiting you at your last apartment and it was kind of a disaster.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that,” Robert said. “I’d had a party the night before you came over, but yeah, still… I’m doing way better now.”

“Good. Still scamming churches?”

Robert laughed, sliding open the screen door which led to his small balcony. “Hell yeah. It’s a good gig.” They sat in plastic Adirondack chairs and looked out at the pool and the palm trees. Robert’s apartment wasn’t unlike her and Tim’s old place, which had given her the feeling of living in a motel.

“How bout you?” Robert asked. “How’s work?”

Irene had majored in Environmental Science with the noble intention of combating climate change. But as she began to recognize the naïveté of her ambition, she took a job handling logistics for land surveys. Her job was boring, both to herself and to those who inquired, so she’d come up with a canned response.

“It’s a chore, but it pays the bills.”

Robert nodded sagely and didn’t press her further.

“Can I see your scar?” Irene asked.

Robert stood and raised his T-shirt with both hands, revealing a thick, bulbous line along his sternum. “I’ve never felt better,” he said. “I’ve been going to the gym a lot. It’s so nice to have a heart that works the way it’s supposed to.”

Irene’s initial revulsion was washed away by a wave of sympathy. “That’s so intense.

They spread your chest open? I don’t think I could do it.”

“I didn’t have a choice. But it wasn’t that bad.” He pulled his shirt back down and leaned against the railing. “It’s been a huge wake-up call for me. Last time I saw you, I was drinking a lot. Getting fucked up all the time.”

Irene frowned. “Why?”

Robert pondered for a moment. “I guess the best way I can explain it… is that I wanted to see God.”

“Did you?”

“No. I just blacked out all the time and was miserable unless I was fucked up. I was spiraling.”

“What about Michael?”

“What about him? At the time we weren’t really talking. We’re still not talking. He called me after my surgery but other than that…”

“I know he’s in Denver, but you can’t lose him. I mean, your parents die, but your siblings are there your whole life. Cousins, too.” Irene wondered if she was being condescending. Robert was a few years younger than her, but she had a feeling he would be too proud to take her advice.

“I have your coke,” Robert said, moving toward the screen door and sliding it open. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Well… yeah, but I wanted to see you, too. See how you’re faring, post-surgery.” “Come back in,” he said, and she followed him inside.

He disappeared into his bedroom. Irene leaned against the back of the suede couch. She heard a drawer open and slam shut. When Robert reemerged, he was holding a Ziploc baggie. It sagged with white powder.

“Thanks dude,” Irene said, accepting the coke. “You got my Venmo, right?”

“Yeah.”

She raised the baggie to her eye level. “Where’d you get it?”

“A friend of mine deals. He said he got it from San Diego.”

“Have you tried it?”

“No. Not a great idea for me right now.”

“Right, right, of course not,” Irene said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I hope it’s good. But no promises. Best I could do on short notice. Next time give me a heads up and I’ll order you some really good shit.”

“From the dark web?” “Yeah.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

“Well,” Robert said, with an air of finality. “It was good to see you, but I gotta get back to work.”

“Okay. Me too.” Irene put the coke in her tote bag and hitched it onto her shoulder. “Thanks again, Robert. And you’re welcome to come by the canyon anytime.”

“Good to know. Stop by here anytime.”

“I will. Next time it won’t be a drug errand, I promise.”

Robert was nodding, smiling even, but his eyes were downcast. Irene thought he looked sad. Resigned. Maybe Robert was used to people making thin promises. And she didn’t want to be the kind of person who promised more than she could deliver.

She joined the horde of cars on the freeway. As she drove through Irvine, flanked by sleek glass office buildings, traffic slowed to a crawl. She kept glancing at her tote bag slumped in the passenger seat. Her meeting with Robert had left her agitated and uneasy, and she kept skipping songs, trying without success to find one that would soothe her.

***

“I just broke up with Mason,” Shelby said. She had pulled Irene from the dance floor and into one of the hallways. Techno thumped and throbbed on the other side of the wall.

“Oh, honey. Are you okay?” Privately, Irene was relieved. She’d never thought Mason was a keeper. All he had was an Adam’s apple and a dad who owned a surf shop. He was always stoned and his teeth looked like they’d never been flossed.

“Yeah… I’m fine,” Shelby said, speaking loudly into Irene’s ear to be heard over the bass. “It needed to happen. I just didn’t think it would happen today.” She shrugged, then seemed to deflate. She looked weary, wounded—somehow both childlike and elderly. Irene felt pity for her childhood friend, a feeling she tried to push away. She wanted to believe that Shelby was as strong as she was. But Shelby ate like a bird and didn’t exercise. She impulsively got tattoos and, one time, a puppy—Hyde. She’d crated the restless collie all day while she cleaned teeth.

Troubled by what they began to admit was neglect, Irene and Tim decided to step in and offer to adopt him.

“Well, what now?” Irene asked, putting an arm around her friend. Shelby let out a guttural noise, shuddered, and exhaled. It was dark in the hallway but Irene could tell she’d dyed her hair even blonder.

“They’re giving tattoos upstairs,” Shelby said, breaking free and scribbling a hand through her hair.

“I would, but it would mess with my swimming schedule.”

“Let’s find Koya,” Shelby said, eyes brightening at her own suggestion. She led Irene by the hand down the hallway and into the belly of the warehouse. About a hundred people were bouncing to the music coming from massive speakers on either side of the stage. The DJ stood at the center, twisting the dials on the controller and moving his body to the beat. Red and blue lights strobed and scanned over the crowd. Women in fishnets strutted about, spinning LED balls attached to strings. While Shelby guided her through the dancers, Irene scanned the array of faces for Mason. She spotted Tim near the rear of the throng. He looked tall standing next to his friend. They were both undulating to the music like underwater kelp.

“I’m gonna talk to Tim!” Irene yelled to Shelby. “I’ll find you in a minute!”

Shelby yelled, “Okay!” and continued on her mission. Irene squeezed through gaps in the crowd, swimming against the current until she reached Tim.

“Did you guys find mollie?” she asked, standing on her toes to speak into his ear. Tim smiled at her. His pupils were huge. “Shelby broke up with Mason,” Irene said.

Tim’s smile faltered for a second and then flickered back. “So you’re running interference?”

“Something like that! I’ll find you later!” She kissed him hard on the cheek and went away.

She found Shelby near the stage, behind the speakers. She was gripping Koya’s arm and speaking intensely while he rummaged through his fanny pack.

As Irene approached, she heard Shelby say, “We had sex the exact same way every time.”

“Men are creatures of habit,” Koya said with a shrug. One of the event organizers, he was always calm and had a kind of ethereal charisma that made him easy to be around. He produced a small vial of white powder and began tapping it carefully onto a key.

Irene felt a flare of annoyance. “I thought you wanted me to bring you coke?!” She patted her romper’s internal pocket and felt the small lump where the baggie was.

“No, no, this is ketamine,” Shelby said.

Koya lifted his eyes to look at Irene. “Have you ever done it?” “No, actually.”

Koya held out the key, balancing the little white mound. Irene plugged one nostril and, with an exaggerated sniff, inhaled the powder. Shelby and Koya each did a bump and then they did another round, and then another. Irene felt energized, but relaxed, too. She was suddenly transfixed by one of the performer’s swirling LED lights forming colorful shapes in the air. The pulsing beat and euphoric refrains of the techno sounded textured and propulsive. She thought of Robert’s desire to see God, his extraordinary scar, his courage. Then the three of them were dancing, lost in the crowd.

Irene wanted to find Tim. She left Shelby and Koya and floated between people. The color of their outfits and their skin was oversaturated, alien. Tim was where she had left him. Seeing him there, talking to his friend, loving the music, she felt that no one but him had ever mattered.

“I don’t care about getting married,” she said, as he took her in his arms. “Oh yeah? I know.”

“But we should have kids. I know your swimmers are compatible with me. We know it’s something we can do.”

“All in good time, babe,” he said, looking at her for a moment and then back at the stage. Irene had a sudden urge to pull out her phone and look at the black and white ultrasound photo. A lima bean in a spacecraft. All in good time, she thought.

***

Irene hardly remembered the Uber ride. Suddenly she was taking more bumps of ketamine in a mirrored elevator with Shelby, Koya, and Tim. Then they were walking quickly down a hallway, gleeful and joking, flopping onto the beds in the hotel room and breathing the air outside on the balcony with the skyscrapers, freeways, and hills of Los Angeles spread before them. The city gleamed like treasure.

“We’re gonna check out the sauna,” Koya announced.

“Sounds…hot,” said Irene, stepping back into the room from the balcony. “Too hot. I might take a shower instead.”

“You sure?” asked Tim. His pupils were still big as he twisted the metal tab off a bottle of sparkling wine.

“Sauna!” said Shelby, coming out of the bathroom and throwing white towels at everyone.

“You kids have fun,” said Irene as her three companions stripped to their underwear, wrapped themselves in towels, and left the room, laughing with each other, the bottle of wine in Tim’s fist.

“Are you really named after a Mustang?” Irene heard Tim say before the door closed with a click. Their voices faded and the room grew quiet. Her ears felt stuffed with cotton, and she heard a faint ringing.

In the bathroom, she unzipped her romper and let it fall to the tile. Staring at the collapsed garment, she remembered the baggie of coke and fished it out of the romper’s internal pocket. She sucked her finger, dipped it into the bag, and rubbed her gums gently. It tasted bitter, harsh. But a moment later, she felt enlivened. Her skin tingled like it did after a dose of

pre-workout. Tim’s shorts lay crumpled on the bedroom floor, and she dug into the pockets for his keys. She sat on the edge of one of the beds and took a bump of the coke to test it. Then she walked into the bathroom and twisted the shower knob. The water came rushing out in a hiss. All at once, her adrenaline seemed to plummet. She felt woozy. This coke is whack, she thought. There were no jitters; her hands were steady, but her eyelids began to flutter. She fumbled with her romper for her phone. Steam began rising from the stall, clouding over the bathroom mirror and distorting her reflection. She tried Tim—no answer.

Robert picked up on the first ring. “Hey!” he said, brightly. “Robert… the coke,”

“Yeah, what about—”

Irene had the sensation of entering a long tunnel. Robert’s voice was far away. He was saying her name. She tried to speak, but she had forgotten how to form words that meant anything. Her phone clattered to the floor. She was melting into herself and all she knew was that she was going to pass out, and that this was not good. Before she gave in, she dropped the baggie into the toilet and pulled the handle.

“IRENE! You there?! Where are you?!”

Robert stood at the edge of his couch. The belt on his robe had come untied and was hanging loose. On his phone screen, he watched the seconds of the call tick by without a response. He grabbed his left pec, meaty and heavy from all the weights, and pressed two fingers hard against it, searching for his heartbeat. He found his jumping pulse and sucked in a breath between his teeth, trying to steady his breathing. On the other end of the line, he heard the faint hiss of a running shower, like the sound of the ocean through a seashell.

Brent Cronin (brentcronin.com) is a writer from Seattle. He writes autofiction in a direct, deadpan style, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dunes Review, table//FEAST Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. When he’s not writing, you might find him riding his motorcycle through the Appalachian hills, exploring new places, or visiting friends.