I end the call and drop my phone to the table before running my fingers through my hair. It has been a long few years, but I’m not giving up hope. It’ll happen. It must.
In the meantime, I need to stay busy and keep on working to put money aside.
Before I realize it, my bottle is empty, and it’s my signal to hit the sack. I aim the glass toward the trash bin and toss it five feet into the air, listening for the swish as it hits the contents inside. No one else knows how long I’ve gone without missing a shot. It’s a good thing, or I’d be sweeping up glass all the time.
I hit the light switch and immediately slap it back up as I hear a thud against the wooden storm door. It’s been a couple of weeks since there’s been a knock this late at night. I was starting to think the unexpected visits were over.
A groan gurgles through my throat as I step into the foyer and stare straight at the front door as if neon lights are screaming the word “stop.” I yank at my belt, adjust my pants, and clear my throat—a nervous habit.
I open the door, spotting my next-door neighbor, Didi Jones. She’s one of the two women—the thirty-something-year-old-one who uses her daddy’s money to pay the rent for her duplex every month.
Didi stands before me with her blonde curls cascading halfway down her back, red-painted lips that match her nails, a revealing black blouse leaving too little to the imagination, and silver skintight pants.
She’s a pretty woman with her ultra-white smile and lashes so long they cast shadows on her cheeks. Didi insists she’s worried about me living all alone in my house. She thinks I can’t take care of myself without some assistance—the typical female type I tend to attract. If I thought she was concerned about my well-being that would be one thing, but I know she has more on her mind when she comes over.
“Evenin’, miss Didi. What can I do ya for?”
Didi offers her usual crooked smile and lifts a cellophane-wrapped plate in the air. “I made fresh bread tonight,” she says, handing over the plate. “I thought you might like some too.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I always think of you, silly.” She flaps her hand at me as if I’m a passing fly.
The only thing I can appreciate about this neighborly relationship is that she’s never bold enough to invite herself inside or ask me over to her place. However, I have a strange feeling she might be watching me through my windows on the nights I forget to pull the blinds. Hopefully, it’s my head playing tricks on me when I hear twigs snapping outside the thin walls.
The scent of bread makes me feel like I haven’t eaten anything all day, but my appetite dwindles when I recall she only bakes when she’s had a tough day. “Is everything okay with you?” We are neighbors, so I try to do the decent thing by being attentive, but if I’m not careful, my next words could earn me a heart-to-heart conversation on my couch for the next hour.
“Oh, sure, I’m fine. It’s been a long week, but we all have those, right?”
“Sure do,” I tell her.
“Well, it’s late, and I have to help Daddy out at the office tomorrow morning for a bit, so I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Thank you for the bread, Didi. I appreciate it.”
“I know you don’t cook, so—it’s my pleasure. Goodnight, Chancey.”
Once I close the door, a sigh of relief escapes my throat. My twenty-year-old mind would have made a move on Didi by now, but the thirty-year-old I am is looking for something different.
Different as in, a life many people might not understand.
Chapter Six
August
I should have knowna headache would follow the actions from last night. The burning sun sneaking in through my blinds highlights the pain. I open the rickety drawer to my nightstand and pull out a bottle of aspirin. The irony of relieving physical pain from what I’m using to alleviate emotional pain proves this mindless cycle of destruction.
I swallow the two pills, choking them down through the dry coating on my tongue. I throw the bed sheets onto the ground, throw Keegan’s pillow to the other side of the room, and grab the jeans I wore yesterday. I pull them on and find myself standing in front of my mirror.
The black circles beneath my eyes are overshadowing my complexion. I’m not sure I can hide the truth with a simple concealer. I’ll need to invest a little more money into a better brand, with full coverage, to hide this kind of truth. My eyelids look puffy. I suppose ice could help with that, but I’m not sure that all the make-up in the world will cover my coarse lips, pasty skin, and the worry lines extending from the corners of my eyes. I look horrendous.
Pain ages us. The therapist said this too.
I grab a clean shirt from my closet, noting I only have a few clean ones left before laundry becomes necessary. I slip on the flannel button-down and realize the buttons are tugging along my midsection. I need to stop stress eating before having to go shopping for new clothes in the next size up.
I unbutton the top buttons and let the shirt hang open over the black camisole I wore to bed. I slip on my flats and head to the kitchen for my instant liquid breakfast before rushing out the door, knowing I’ll be late if I take any longer.
Once I close myself inside my Jeep, I thrash my head back against the headrest. “All I have is this damn headache, Keegan. That’s it.”
