Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe hurt, definitely understanding. “You don't have to move out. You know that, right? You're not a burden.”
“You're having a baby.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “You guys need space. And I need to start figuring out my own life.”
“Kiera—”
“I'm eighteen. I graduated. I can't keep mooching off you forever.” The words taste like chalk, but they're true. “Besides, it's a good apartment. Close to the bakery, close to everything. I can make it work.”
Kiki reaches over and squeezes my hand. “If this is what you want, I support you. But please don't think you have to leave because of the baby. We have plenty of room.”
“I want to,” I say, and surprisingly, it's not entirely a lie. Part of medoeswant my own space. Wants to prove I can survive on my own. Wants to be something other than the charity case sister who sleeps in Noah's old room.
After Kiki heads upstairs to give Skyler a bath, I look at my phone again. River's message stares up at me.
I'm doing this because I'm legitimately concerned I'm going to pass out during editing and wake up three days later surrounded by empty coffee cups and protein bar wrappers.
I switch screens. The apartment listing calls to me. Nine hundred dollars a month. Freedom. Independence. The first step toward not being a burden anymore.
My fingers move before my brain can overthink it.
Fine. I'll take the job. But this is JUST a job. You pay me, I cook, that's it. No weirdness.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
No weirdness. Scout's honor.
Were you even a Boy Scout?
No, but I played one in a commercial once. Does that count?
Despite everything—the fear, the doubt, the voice in my head screaming that this is a mistake—I smile.
Tomorrow at six?
Tomorrow at six. I'll have ingredients ready. Any requests?
A kitchen that's actually been cleaned this month would be nice.
I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Kiera.
I don't respond. Just pull up the apartment application before I can change my mind. The form is straightforward: name, employment history, references, bank statements.
Under “Current Employment,” I type:Crumb and Get It, part-time.
Under “Additional Income,” I hesitate, then add:Personal chef services.
It feels official. Real. Like maybe I'm actually capable of being an adult who makes her own decisions and doesn't immediately self-destruct.
I attach my bank statement and hit submit.
The confirmation email arrives thirty seconds later.Thank you for your application. We'll be in touch within 24-48 hours.
I lean back against the couch, my phone warm in my hands, and stare at the ceiling.
I have a job. An apartment application pending. A sister who's about to be a mother again. Tomorrow at six, I'm going to walk into River Stone's apartment and cook him dinner. This is either the first step toward independence or the beginning of another disaster.
Knowing my track record, it's probably both.
But for once I'm going to try. I'm going to show up, do the work, take the money, and not let myself get hurt.
