“Yeah…” I lean forward onto the counter, defeated.“No, luckily, unlike my sanity, my sense of fashion has yet to take a hit,” I say, attempting a wry tone that probably just sounds exhausted.
I push a stray strand of sleep-tousled hair from my face and meet her waiting gaze.“Truth is, I’m between places.”
Helen stares at me for a beat, then her eyes flash.“¡Lo sabía!I knew it!I knew something was seriously wrong yesterday,” she declares, slapping a hand on the counter.“Oranges and berries when you looked like death warmed over?!”
Helen’s flare quickly gives way to horrified concern.Her gaze darts around the counter, as if searching for clues, then flicks towards the dark hallway leading to my office.Her eyes snap back to mine, wide with sudden worry.
“Wait a minute,” she says, her voice dropping, losing its sass.“Ames…” She draws my name out urgently.“Mija, where did you sleep last night?”
A heavy sigh escapes me, and my shoulders slump.I can’t meet her eyes.Instead, I just lift a hand and point toward the hallway.
Helen doesn’t wait.She hurries to my office, face tight with dread.I follow numbly.She pushes the door open, hand flying to cover her mouth as she takes in the scene.
I come to stand beside her, my gaze following hers.
My open suitcase lies on the floor in the corner.The couch has my crumpled coat discarded across it.
I bite the inside of my cheek.My head drops, eyes fluttering shut against the sudden heat of shame flooding my face.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”she asks, voice hoarse.
I stare at the floor between us.“It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”
Silence stretches, filled with unspoken questions as we stand in the doorway of my office-turned-bedroom.
Helen lets out a long, slow breath and puts a gentle arm around my shoulders.“Come on,mija, let’s get some coffee before we open.”
Helen sips slowly, eyes full of a sympathy I can barely stand.We’re sitting at the counter, cradling warm mugs between our palms.
“Ames,” she begins softly, putting her coffee down.“Look, my place… it’s tiny.Just the one bedroom, you know… But my couch is yours.For as long as you need it.Seriously.”
I shake my head, blinking back moisture.“I can’t,” I start hoarsely.“It’s so, so kind, but I really couldn’t impose.”
Helen waves a dismissive hand.“Impose?Don’t be ridiculous.It’s what friends do.Better my couch than,” she gestures toward the office, “that.”
“A couch is a couch.”I shrug.
“Okay, then why not get a motel room?Get a proper bed, a shower?”she asks, her tone practical.
I stare down into my coffee mug, swirling the dark liquid.The thought of a sterile motel room makes my stomach turn.
It triggers memories best left buried.
Transient years.
Temporary addresses.
The constant feeling of drifting.
“No motels,” I say too quickly.“All those years moving around… I’m so tired of not having a place that’s mine.Even this,” I gesture around us, “feels more like home than a motel ever could.It’s a long story.Hard to explain.”
“I understand,” she says, leaning forward slightly.“So what are you going to do?Are you going to start looking for a place?”
Hope flickers.“Yes,” I nod, latching onto the action.“I’m going to look for a small, affordable place to rent.With any luck, I’ll find something before the week is up.”
Helen nods decisively, shifting into problem-solving mode.“Bueno.People move in and out of my building all the time.I’ll ask Lucia at the front desk if she knows of any vacancies.She’ll be there Wednesday morning.”
“That would be amazing, Helen,” I whisper, gratitude surging.“You’re truly the best.”
