1
Presley
My pansies in thewindow box were fighting a losing battle. Their heads were bowed, petals crisp with frost.
"Hang in there," I told them as I made my nest look as pretty as I could with the only things I brought from my bed at home. "We're all struggling."
We were. The ice on the inside of the caravan window was thicker than the frost on the grass outside, and my wallet was thinner than paper.
I scraped a fingernail against the pane, and watched the white shavings curl and fall onto the damp sill.
I exhaled and watched as my breath plumed in the air, a little gray ghost that vanished as quickly as my bank balance.
My phone buzzed. Maeve's name flashed on the screen.
"Tell me something good," I said as I picked up a furry cushion from the floor and placed it at the head of my nest.
"The raspberry and chocolate muffins and the vanilla slices have just arrived. Even better. Dave is in Ripon allday." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "It would be a tragedy to not sample the goods."
"You're a terrible influence."
"And I can hear you salivating from here."
I grinned, already pulling on my coat. "Fine. But if we get caught, I'm telling him you forced me."
"Please. Nobody needs to force me to put cream filling into my mouth."
I snorted. "You know how that sounds, don’t you?"
"I wish. Food is the only reliable thing in my life," she shot back. "It doesn't lie, the smell is real and it always delivers exactly what it promises. Well most of the time."
There was something hard underneath her words, but before I could ask, she added, "Unlike your silicone boyfriend who needs charging every three days."
"Oh my god, is anyone near you right now?"
"Just Mrs McAdams from caravan eight. She’s taking advantage of the free coffee top ups as usual. Anyway, you’re two minutes late for work, so get your arse out of that icebox you call home before I eat your sample."
I hung up on her laughter, then pulled my relic of a cardigan tighter. It was far too big but I found it in a charity shop bin in Ripon, it only cost me fifty pence. Probably because it had holes near the cuffs where my thumbs poked through, but I didn’t care. It was wool, and wool warmed me better than polyester. And it smelled nice, even if it was just cheap lavender detergent.
"Right then," I said to the caravan that was all I owned in the world. The metal box was the sum total of the Prince family estate. Mum and Dad had bought it as a holiday getaway before the sickness took them both within a year of each other. And now I owned the static home, which unfortunately sat on a plot of land that I had to pay ground rent on. The landlord didn’t care about my lack of funds or the death of my parents. It was when I moved into the caravan that I had a crushing realization that the world didn't stop spinning just because your heart had been ripped out.
I wrapped my arms around myself as I moved from my cozy nest to the kitchenette, which took all of two steps. The lino floor was so cold it could burn the soles of my feet, which meant I permanently wore thick socks. I checked the electric meter key on the counter. I had three pounds left. If I didn't turn on the heating, I could make it last until Friday when I got paid my weekly pittance from the cafe.
I had no choice but to pick the cold, just in case snow decided to fall and I really needed to warm up.
I thought of the vanilla slice as I stared at the tin of beans sitting on the counter next to a half-loaf of bread that was starting to stiffen at the crusts. That was the normal breakfast of a twenty-three-year-old omega who was trying to save enough money to buy winter boots that didn't leak.
A thud against the doormade me jump.
I cracked it open, and a blur of orange fur pushed past my ankles.
"Morning to you too, Mr. Cheddar," I muttered.
The neighbor’s ginger tom didn't belong to me technically. He belonged to Mr. Jacob from two caravans down, an elderly man who smelled of pipe tobacco, and constantly moaned about his ex-wives and how they fleeced him for all he had.
Cheddar preferred my poverty to Mr. Jacob’s sour moods.
He hopped onto the scratched laminate table and meowed in his usual demanding, gravelly sound.
