Sebastian Stan Short Stories

TJ Hammond [5]

"New Friend Part Two"

Approximately a year later

*

I took a seat in one of the ridiculously plush chairs in TJ's sitting area. Yes, he had a sitting area, although it was really just a couple expensive chairs in front of a picture window.

"I can smell coffee. Did you get coffee before coming over?" TJ asked, sounding desperate. I tried to scoot my empty Starbucks cup behind my purse with my foot, but it fell over and made a God awful noise on the hardwood. Luckily it was empty.

"I'm a hypocrite about coffee. You know that," I said. He appeared in the sitting room with a glass of water in each hand. I took one and tried to rinse the taste of coffee and guilt out of my mouth.

"I smell espresso too," he noted.

"Wow. That's uncanny," I whispered.

"Two shots or three?"

I held up four fingers, and he chuckled. He knew I had a problem with espresso, and he knew it was his fault.

"Nice to see some things don't change," he told me. I started to cut in, but he held up a hand. "But some things are supposed to change and get better, and I'm one of those things, and you've said it all before."

"And you listened," I laughed. He shook his head but was laughing anyway.

"You only said that a hundred times a day," he groaned dramatically.

"So how are you?" I began. That was why I was here, to check on him and make sure he was doing okay.

"Busy," he answered quickly. "Helen is already planning the one year anniversary dinner for Crescendo. She thinks it could be a big fundraiser type thing."

His philanthropy, a mentorship program and scholarship provider for young musicians. It had been his father's brainchild, but I was the one that convinced TJ to go for it. He worried it would look like a shallow move to repair his image, but he had thrown himself into the work. He was a natural.

"You've got, what? Four months until then?"

"Helen does not care," he told me. "It keeps me on my toes, but I like it. Still haven't downloaded any social media onto my phone. I mean, Mom's PR coordinator probably wouldn't let me even I wanted to, but I don't want to."

"Do you miss any of it?" I checked. A month into my being his sober companion, I had stolen his phone and given him a dinky little flip phone with about ten different phone numbers saved to it. He had thrown a fit, we argued, but six months later he was happy with it. He was able to avoid the tabloid articles about his new "female companion" and his "attempts to make amends" with his family. When I left, he upgraded to a smart phone but left it nearly devoid of aftermarket apps.

"Sometimes. I saw one of my old party friends when I was trying to find a venue for the scholarship recipient's concert, and he started showing me pictures from some new club I hadn't even heard of. I felt a little guilty knowing that once upon a time, I was that guy snorting something off someone else's ass while they were passed out. So seeing someone else take my place in the pictures felt weird," he explained. "Good, because it's not me anymore. But still a little weird."

"You still get invited out?"

TJ's eyes widened, and he took a long slow sip of his water.

"That stalled out right after you showed up. It picks up again on most of the major holidays, but I've always got a great excuse," he said. Almost on cue, his phone started playing the Presidential march. "She's good. I'll give her that."