“Thank you. Really.”
“Of course.” She squeezed my arm. “Why this gig? From your resume, I’d think it’s a waste of your talent.”
“Oh, you know corporate companies. It wasn’t the right fit.” I lied easily, hands tightened into fists so hard my skin lightened. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Do you need more hours?” she asked tentatively. “We don’t need a full-time social person, but we could use help on-site. That’d get you tips too.”
I nodded.The unavoidable sting of failure creeping in the closer I was to accepting this job.Any money was better than no money.
“Alright!” She went behind the counter and into the kitchen, moving with excitement. Why wouldn’t she? Her career wasn’t going backward.
My breathing kicked into overdrive as I thought of the last time I’d worked as a barista and put my apron down, thinking I’d never pick one up again. I reached into my bag just as Lynnie came back with some paperwork.
Her eyes flicked to the inhaler, my chest, then back up at me, her brows knitting together. “Your attacks weren’t like this.”
I stared at the swirl-patterned tiles and shrugged. The words clogged my throat, when I forced them out, my voice came out rough and unsteady. “My asthma got worse. Stress makes it worse.”
Her face crumpled into pity I couldn’t bear. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s really fine.” I smiled through my lie, and she smiled right back, oblivious.
“Welcome to Reality Bites,” she murmured. “Let’s make some sweet magic, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, throat tight. “Let’s.”
I leftReality Bites in the early afternoon. The soft wind gave the city a soundtrack of flowing leaves and chirping birds. My feet ached from standing most of the day, frosting cupcakes in uneven swirls and pretending I wasn’t terrified of dropping everything. Lynnie had hugged me twice more before I left. Three days a week, I’d work there. Any additional hours, I’d focus on social from wherever I wanted.
I checked my bank app while waiting for the bus—727.16. Rent was due in ten days. My income from the marketing firm had to go toward rent and bills. Mentally running the numbers, I walked into the pharmacy, and my reflection looked pale and unsteady. Ifeltpale and unsteady.
The tech located my prescriptions in the system without unnecessary small talk—daily inhaler, rescue inhaler, nebulizer medication, and birth control.
She frowned at the screen. “Without insurance, your total comes to… six fifty-three.”
The number weighed heavily on my chest. Impossible. I needed to eat and pay loans. They must have ended coverage on the last day of employment. “Is there a discount or… a generic?”
She shook her head. “We have here that you don’t respond fast enough to your generic rescue inhaler. We could try for your daily, patients do report that the brand helps with symptom stabilization. How often are you using your nebulizer?” There was warmth in her green eyes. “Some patients get away with refilling it only every other month.”
“There’s a patch of mold in my studio.” It was an explanation I didn’t owe, but my embarrassment demanded.
Her gaze shifted, the softness brightening as the weight of my explanation settled. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
I nodded, blinking fast. Heat crawled up my neck and burned at the tips of my ears. “Take off the birth control.” I swallowed. “And generic for the daily as well.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure? You’ll have to wait until next month’s?—”
“I’m sure.”
I couldn’t look at her as she bagged up the prescriptions. Number one priority: keep myself from landing in the hospital with a full-blown asthma attack. I swiped my card and sighed when the transaction went through. The cost of breathing might suffocate me all the same.
Back home,I pulled my old wooden lockbox from under the bed and placed it onto my lap. Inside were mementos from my childhood: photos with my parents, a yellowed notebook, drawings. And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, lay my dad’s vinyls. Fleetwood Mac’sRumours, sealed, pristine. I’d hidden it the day I packed my things, never telling Aunt Sarah or Uncle Matt it existed.
I ran my fingertips over the cover, tracing Stevie Nicks’s face, and a memory flickered through my mind. Dad lifted me onto his toes, spinning me around our tiny kitchen while “Songbird” played on repeat. For months, it had been the only song I heard. My dad’s promises, in that low scratchy voice of his, flashed in my mind.“We’ll dance this at your wedding one day, little bird.”
My chest caved in. He never would. Selling it would cover temporary insurance, maybe part of medicine, or groceries.Maybe. But it was his. Theirs. It was a part ofbefore. I had so few of those.
The song, though, was tainted now. Lincoln had mocked it. It’d also played the day I met him and through the field speakers that day senior year. Almost graduation. Senior night baseball game. Almost freedom. I needed to finish my required community service hours. May sixteenth was also my birthday. “Volunteering will keep your mind busy,” my counselor had said.
Lincoln would have known that.
