“I’m okay,” I said quickly—too quickly. “Really. I just needed to vent.”
“Sarah—”
“I mean it. I’m fine. The offer’s sweet, but I’m okay.”
It wasn’t pride that kept me from telling her the truth. Well, maybe partly. But mostly it was shame. How do you tell your best friend that you’ve spent two years paying off a dead man’s gambling debts to loan sharks? That you’d just made the final payment last month.
And for the first time in two years, I could actually start saving for myself. I’d save enough for my exams; there was no need to trouble Delia.
“Anyway,” I said, needing to steer us away from the disaster of a life. “I heard Melissa got married. Twins now, apparently.”
“Yeah, I saw the photos on Facebook. Very suburban. Very minivan. Very, ‘I haven’t slept in three years.’” Delia laughed. “Meanwhile, I’m still trying to convince Jake that commitment doesn’t equal death.”
“Still fighting about that?”
“Always. But we’re good. I think. Maybe.” She sighed. “Oh, and Daniel asked about you yesterday, by the way.”
Daniel. Her brother. My ex from another lifetime. We’d dated in high school when everything felt massive and forever. Took us until twenty-three to realize forever was just a very long time to be wrong about someone. We ended it, stayed friends, moved on.
“Tell him I said hi,” I said. “How is he?”
“Good. Seeing someone new. Seems serious this time.”
“Good for him.”
And I meant it. Daniel belonged firmly in the category of fond memories and zero complications.
We talked for a few more minutes. Delia told me about the ballet recital she was planning, about a difficult client who wanted impossible lighting for their wedding photos. Normal friend conversation. The kind that made life feel less heavy for a moment.
When we hung up, the apartment felt quieter than before. Emptier.
I looked at the time. Almost six. The light outside was dying, turning everything gray and cold. I meant to get groceries today. It wasn’t too late, I could still get it.
I grabbed my jacket from the back of the couch. My umbrella from beside the door. The weather had threatened rain all day, heavy clouds pressing down on the city like a warning.
The apartment door stuck. The lock had been broken for two months. My landlord kept promising to fix it and never did. I’d learned the exact amount of force needed. Jiggle twice, shoulder against the wood, wait for the catch.
The bodega was around the corner. I grabbed a basket and moved through the aisles. Bread. Eggs. Milk. Coffee. The essentials. My brain calculated costs without being asked. Eighty dollars left for the week. Rent was paid. Phone bill could wait another few days. This would work.
Then I passed the art supply section.
There were drawing books with thick paper sitting on the shelf. Next to them, crayon sets in colors I’d never seen at the penthouse.
Lily would love them.
I grabbed them before my brain could stop me. I added them to my basket, telling myself it was fine. I’d skip lunch this week.
Lily needed them more than I needed food anyway.
At the register, I counted my cash twice. Left me with less than fifteen dollars for the week.
The rain started the second I stepped outside. I opened my umbrella and headed home, my grocery bag swinging from my wrist.
That’s when I felt it.
That awareness that crawls up your spine and settles in your stomach. The kind that says something is wrong, that you’re not safe.
I was being followed.
