Her cheeks heated. “I need something uploaded onto Curt’s account.”
I blinked. “Uploading… what?”
“That’s my business.” She paused. “I don’t care how. Bluetooth, email, Morse code. I don’t give a fuck. Make it look like you wanted to share porn for all I care.”
I furrowed my brow. “Carmen?—”
“You won’t be in trouble. This is for later, something I’m saving for a rainy day.”
Silence stretched. Carmen exhaled slowly, weighing her words. Finally, she said, softer, “In the meantime… how about you come to this DJ show on Saturday at Lalo’s? Let’s play up this roomie routine we’ve got going for us.”
I dragged a hand down my face, the static of rage still humming under my skin. The idea of bass-heavy music, dark corners…. I didn’t answer right away, but I didn’t think Carmen was giving me a choice anyway.
I hadn’t been backto my hometown in years. I never bothered to return, standing there now, time hadn’t stood still for my neighborhood. Not at all.
I’d parked half a block down because I couldn’t stand the thought of pulling right into my old driveway or theirs; I was no prodigal son coming home. Walking up the cracked sidewalk, I stood outside the two-home building. There was a fence in the middle separating the two houses. My old place next door looked well-kept—the new owners had painted over the years. The scent of lavender detergent rose up from someone’s dryer vent.
Vinny’s home carried the brunt of time at twice the speed. Their duplex slumped against mine, warped and weary. The siding curved, streaked with water stains that spread like veins. Wallpaper visible through the windows curled away. It wasn’t just neglect. It was rot.
The contrast between both homes was stark. Same building, same bones. One half alive, the other half barely standing. My building had been in bad shape when I lived there. Now hers was crumbling. A twisted metaphor hitting too close to home.
Dirt crunched beneath my boots as I walked past the leaning mailbox. I mapped the inside in my head—my old room pressed up against hers, those thin walls I used to lean into to hear her muffled music. “Songbird” on repeat. She also played punk, alt rock, and Spanish ballads. Her voice was often off-key and raw, spilling through the plaster and into the silence of nights I prayed my dad would leave me the hell alone. I’d tapped the wall, but she never tapped back. Never responded. And it never occurred to me that every desperate knock, every half-assed attempt at connection, she probably just thought it was anotherone of my cruel tricks. If I’d only realized all I wanted was a chance with her.
Vin’s father, Matt, opened the door before I even knocked. His eyes were still that cold blueish silver. He scratched his graying beard and leaned against the frame, not bothering to invite me in.
“Well,” he said flatly, “you’re Vinny’s friend, aren’t you?”
Behind him, Sarah, the mom, shuffled in, sandy curls bouncing around her chin. “Lincoln. Look at you.” Her brittle smile looked forced, rehearsed.
They urged me in. I didn’t argue. It’d be best to talk behind closed doors. The smell hit me—fried grease clinging to curtains, something sour underneath.
“We talked to Vinny last week,” Sarah said, too sweet, too careful. “He told us you’d had some kind of accident. I’m so glad to see you’re doing okay.”
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets so I didn’t put one through their drywall. “You know who helped me?”
She gave me a smile too bright, too yellowed. “Who, dear?”
“Nina.” I said her name in warning. Because she deserved to beremembered, not someone whose name you’d forget.
Not even a flicker of recognition passed over her face until Matt muttered, “Your sister’s girl, honey.”
“Oh, sure. She’s a good girl. We did a good job.”
I almost laughed. A fucking good job. Overworking her. Stealing from her. She should’ve been cared for. “You realize she lived with a mold stain the size of her bed? Do you know how bad that is for her asthma?”
“Kid…” Matt started, the same slow, warning timbre my father would use before a backhand.
“I am not a fucking kid.” My fists burned.
Sarah’s smile cracked. She fussed with her curls, eyes darting toward Matt.
“How do you sleep at night?” I demanded, voice low and shaking from restraint.
Matt’s jaw shifted. He stepped forward, close enough for his stale-beer breath to hit me in the face. “Watch yourself, boy. You don’t get to come here and make accusations.”
I gritted my teeth until it hurt. “I’m not accusing. I’m telling you—I know.”
“You don’t know anything,” he snapped. “Her parents left her nothing. We took her in because we loved her.”
