Cori stops at the last door on the right and nudges it open. “Ta-da! Behold, your kingdom.”
I step in. The room’s even tinier than I imagined. Like, ‘if I stretch my arms I can touch both walls’ tiny. There’s a twin bed shoved against the wall with a metal frame and a thin mattress. The corner dresser is scratched up with one drawer handle missing. My window overlooks the alley, the glass foggy with grime and dust. And there’s no closet—just a tension rod in the corner with wire hangers dangling like sad skeletons.
The walls are as bare as a blank page and there’s the same worn hardwood floor from the living room. One single bulb dangles overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
“I know it’s not much,” Cori says, a hint of apology in her voice. “But it’s all yours to jazz up if you want.”
I turn to her, my throat tight with gratitude. “It’s perfect. Seriously.”
Marcus sets my suitcase down by the bed. “Rent’s due on the first of the month. Two fifty. Also, we split utilities three ways. It usually comes out to about thirty bucks each.”
I nod. “Alright.”
“House rules,” he continues. “Clean up after yourself in the kitchen. Don’t leave dishes in the sink overnight. If you finish something off, add it to the grocery list on the fridge. We take turns buying stuff. We each get thirty minutes in the bathroom in the morning and that’s it, so don’t linger.”
“Okay.”
“And if you’re bringing company home,” Marcus adds. “Do us all a favor and give us a heads-up. Put a sock on the doorknob or something.”
I feel my cheeks flush a deep scarlet. “I, uh, won’t be bringing anyone over.”
“Sure, California. We’ll see.”
Cori elbows him sharply. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s living in a Woody Allen film. He’s the slut of the household.”
“I’m not a slut,” Marcus fires back. “I’m a collector of experiences!”
“You aretotallya slut, Marcus,” Cori deadpans. Then she turns back to me. “Well, we’ll let you unpack. Holler if you need anything, though. We’re usually around.”
“Thanks,” I say with a faint smile. “Seriously. For taking me in last-minute. I was starting to think I’d end up crashing on a park bench or something.”
Cori waves it off. “No worries, California. The room needed filling, and you needed a room. Win-win.”
They head out, the door clicking shut, and suddenly it’s just me.
I sit down on the creaky, lumpy mattress. The room is hot, the city outside is screaming, and I am currently living in a space smaller than my mother’s shoe closet.
I smile so wide it genuinely strains my cheeks.
All of this ismine. For the first time ever, in twenty-five years, something is truly, undeniably, messily mine.
Chapter 2
LEO
“Dr. Roussos, please, I can’t—”
“Tracy, wait!” I chase her down the hallway of my apartment. She’s already at the door, yanking her denim jacket off the hook with a force that makes the whole rack rattle. “She’s four! Four-year-olds throw tantrums! Developmentally, there’s this spike in amygdala activity during early childhood that makes emotions go haywire, and—”
“She’s almost five, Dr. Roussos, and I don’t give a damn about her amygdala.” Tracy spins around, her eyes red and puffy from what looks like fresh tears. Awesome. Just what I needed to kick off my Monday morning—another nanny in tears. “What I care about is that she hurled a plate at my head during breakfast!”
“It was plastic.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a weak argument.
“It smacked me right in the head!” She points to a faint red mark on her forehead, and okay, yeah, that’s fair. Plastic or not, nobody signs up for airborne dinnerware.
“And yesterday?” Tracy’s voice climbs an octave, her hands gesturing wildly. “She told me she hated me and hoped a shark would eat me. The day before that, she locked me in the bathroom for forty-five minutes and wouldn’t unlock the doorno matter how much I begged. And don’t even get mestartedon last week when she took scissors to my favorite scarf, the one my grandma knitted before she passed!”
“I paid you back for the scarf—” I start, but she cuts me off.
