“Come on, you owe me,” John called.

Clara’s response was muffled behind her bedroom door. Interpreting the sound, John guessed his roommate hadn’t changed her mind.

He sat on their couch, a depressed, faded blue plaid thing with an indent in the middle. It was his favorite place to write in their small two-bedroom apartment in MacArthur Park. He set his mug on the children’s craft table that served as their dining table and coffee table. Efficient.

His phone pinged with a text. It was just his mother, reminding him of his father’s birthday. She also hinted that if he ever tired of LA, he could always move back home to Bend and work at their family restaurant. His mother sent a picture of his smiling younger brother, Henry, and his wife as they tended bar.

John was proud of what his parents had built. Neither of them had an easy path in life. He knew, however, that he didn’t want to return home until he’d accomplished his goal. He had a plan for when he would return to Oregon, and running away from LA when things got difficult was not part of it.

“What are you talking about?” Clara asked, walking out of her room.

John said a silent prayer to the god of roommates and struggling screenwriters. He had to get into this premiere tonight. He wanted a future free from washing dishes, waiting tables, and fending off advances from divorcées fresh off the slopes in Bend.

“The fact that you owe me,” John said.

John walked into the small kitchen with its avocado-green appliances and its yellowed tile floor. The walk didn’t take long. The place was cheap, and it had air-conditioning, the only things they’d cared about when they moved to LA. For the last three years, they had moved from job to job, restless but not ready for whatever came next.

“Nope,” Clara announced. “You owe me.”

“How is that possible?” John grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Clara walked into the kitchen. A single long braid hung down her back, and she wore a plain black tank top and black sweats. The tattooed outline of an art nouveau maiden with a flower crown and a sword clasped in her hands looked like an intricate coloring sheet on the tanned skin of her upper arm. Even without the yet-to-be-added brilliant colors, it was a striking work of art. After a few more paychecks, it would be complete.

“That’s my beer.” Clara took the bottle from his hand. “I bought groceries this week, for the first thing.”

John had a pretty good idea of what came next.

“For the second thing, remember when I talked our way out of Moscow. We wouldn’t have made it out of town if those women hadn’t helped us.”