Page 1 of A World Apart (Between Worlds #1)

T hey say spring brings new beginnings, but for me, it meant navigating the absurdities of Los Angeles one chilly morning at a time.

As I stood in front of the mirror applying eyeliner while Becka bundled up in layers, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what adulthood felt like — an endless cycle of unexpected moments wrapped in laughter while simultaneously wondering what was for dinner.

“Seriously?” I laughed as I watched Becka wind a scarf around her neck.

“What?” She said defensively. It’s cold!”

“It’s…” I lifted my smart watch up to my face to briefly inspect the home face, “16 degrees,” I teased, “it’s a balmy spring day.” I lifted my foot to rest it on the little bench by the front door so I could tie the laces of my Vans hi-tops.

“What’s that in real-world temperature?” Becka had moved on to fluffing her mid-length blond hair in the mirror.

I put my leg down and raised the other one, taking a moment to think. “Um, like, 60ish?” I supplied.

“Kaiya, that’s practically arctic for LA. ”

I laughed as I turned to unlatch the front door, but Becka stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“Hold on, you’ve got something tangled in your hair.”

I turned back to look at myself in the mirror, running my hands through my long, chestnut toned hair, eventually finding and picking out a shred of paper.

“I swear, I’m going to be finding this stuff for days, with all the shredding Jeremy is making me do,” I grumbled, discarding it. Life as an intern at Pisces recording studio was not the glamorous gig I had expected it to be.

“Count yourself lucky that’s all you’re doing.” Becka groaned. “Trevor Kyle has been in and out of our office all week, having ‘secret’ chats with Celine.” She put air-quotes around the word, but she might as well have just said ‘bullshit’, as her tone implied.

“Oh hey,” Becka said suddenly, “I forgot to tell you. He asked about you yesterday.”

“Me?” I’m baffled by the idea he would even deign to notice me.

“Yeah, he asked who the ‘exotic’ new hire was.” The air-quotes got more airtime while I mimed throwing up.

“Oh, ew!”

As if to emphasise my point, I threw open our front door. We made our way down the short hallway, jogging down the stairs to the big front doors. “Are you even allowed to say that anymore?” I scoffed, pulling open the heavy doors.

As always, I’m struck by how bright and loud it is beyond the front door. It’s like being hit by a cartoon-version of life. Everything is just so frantic, and this isn’t even downtown.

“God, no, but he does what he wants and everyone’s too scared to upset the money-maker to tell him when he’s being a racially-insensitive, misogynist asshat.”

I laughed, but he wouldn’t be the first person to point out my half-Japanese appearance, and no doubt he wouldn’t be the last.

“Gah, it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”

“You’re so soft,” I scoffed.

“We can’t all have developed the thick skin of the Brits,” Becka paused a moment to tuck her scarf into her tan trench coat.

“You’re used to the cold and the wet. Some of us have evolved to thrive in more forgiving environments than ‘ jolly old Lundun ’.

” Becka thought the way she pronounced ‘London’ was hilarious.

I’m not actually sure I’ve heard her say it properly yet.

Truthfully, London and LA were strikingly similar in April.

They shared similar temperatures and even rained about the same.

Or, at least, so far as I’d been able to tell.

I’d only been here about 3 weeks and so far, the only real differences were the accents, the colour of the taxis and the alarming number of skateboards.

When Becka had first raised the idea of me coming to LA, I have to confess my mental images were vastly different from the reality. For starters, we were nowhere near any beaches. Becka had laughed when I’d pointed this out.

People were the same wherever you went ? despite how insistent Americans are that they are far nicer than us Brits.

They got cross at you for taking too long at a street crossing, but they held doors open for you if you were right behind them.

They offered you a seat on the bus if you looked like you had too many bags.

Or they pretended to ignore you. People are people.

“Speaking of thick skin,” I said, “we are not getting an Uber. We’re catching the bus.” Becka groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

“Whhyyyy?” She whined. “It’s cold and the morning bus smells like gas.”

“Oh, it does not,” I laughed, reaching out a hand to grab her elbow and pull her along with me. “Besides, we’ve spent so much recently on Ubers. Food doesn’t buy itself, you know.”

Becka grumbled, but didn’t argue. “It’s your fault, anyway,” she muttered darkly.

“Behave! How is it?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at her but not slowing down.

“Well, I can hardly show you around from the back of a bus, now can I?” Becka clearly thought this was a solid argument, but I only rolled my eyes.

“Alright then, now you’ve shown me around, I’d quite like to enjoy the benefits of food security for the rest of my time here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit manhandling me, crumpet-muncher,” Becka laughed as she pulled her arm free from my grasp, but continued to match my pace all the same.

I scoffed. That was one of her better ones.

“That would hit harder if it wasn’t coming from someone who microwaves her tea.”

“I’ve started taking the bag out first!” She protested .

I clutched my chest and pretended to keel over. “Y’know, you wouldn’t be allowed to step foot in Yorkshire.”

She looked at me with a frown. “The Shire?”

I sighed. “Never mind.”

Suddenly, Becka pointed away from me and cried “Yo! That’s our bus. Run!” And without waiting for me, Becka began to double-speed it down the road to where a bus was just now pulling up at our stop.

“Bollocks!” I muttered, earning a scandalised look from a middle-aged lady just coming out of the Seven-11 on my left.

Becka was already on the step of the bus by the time I caught up to her. She smirked at me as I fumbled for my pass.

“Not bad for someone who microwaves her tea.” She laughed as we moved towards a couple of free seats in the middle of the bus.

She’d been right though; the morning bus did smell like petrol.

Just like every morning since I’d moved here, I looked out of the window as the city sped past and I smiled. Would the novelty ever wear off?

I’d come to LA on a whim, a vague, fuzzy sort of hopefulness for a bright future that wasn’t yet fully formed in my mind. Isn’t that why everyone moves to LA? To follow their dreams?

All I knew was that I wanted to be involved with music. From its inception to its creation. I loved everything about the journey it took from pen to record, and I wanted to be right there in the process.