Some days it feels like three minutes; other days, more like three years. Lung cancer took her fast. The doctor used the word “aggressive,” and she was gone less than a month after he said it—barely enough time to understand what was happening. Barely enough time to say goodbye.
The calls started about two weeks after the funeral. When I answered the first one, I thought it was a mistake.
It wasn’t.
Mom had been taking out loans and credit cards in my name for years. I don’t know when it started—all I know is I woke up one day owing $80,000 to companies I’d never heard of, and there was nothing I could do about it. The number just keeps going up, bloated with interest and late payment fees.
I should probably feel angrier than I am. Heck, it hits me sometimes: an all-consuming burst of rage that sets my skin on fire. But it never lasts long. I don’t have time to be angry. I don’t have the mental energy for it. All I feel is grief.
My mom was a complicated woman. Flawed. Growing up, she dragged me from apartment to apartment, city to city, desperate to follow whatever man she was dating at the time. Her relationships were all the same: burning hot and fast, leaving nothing but ash. Every new man was “the one” until he wasn’t, and I learned early not to bother unpacking, waiting for the inevitable night when Mom would shake me awake and say, “Come on, Willa. We’re out of here, honey.” Then I’d grab my tiny bag of belongings and dutifully follow her to another guy’s apartment, waiting for the cycle to repeat.
She wasn’t a good mother. I can see that now. She was a broken woman—desperate for someone to fill the void inside her. But there were still these moments…fleeting moments between boyfriends…when I would suddenly become my mom’s whole world. Her best friend. She’d swear she was done with men, promising me she was going to do better. And for a fewglorious days, she’d really mean it. We’d dance in the kitchen to Shania Twain, Mom swinging me around and singing at the top of her lungs. We’d stay up late watching trash TV, snorting at the stupid parts, setting each other off until we couldn’t breathe from laughing. Then she’d meet another guy, and it would all end as fast as it began.
But I loved her.
I still love her.
And now I’m all alone with the mess she left behind.
With a heavy sigh, I grab my phone from my pocket and open my contacts, finger hovering over Everly’s name. My best friend lives in Chicago, where she moved for college four years ago. She’s the only person in the world I want to call right now, but I can’t make myself do it. Everly has listened to enough of my problems lately—she doesn’t need my name popping up on her screen with even more bad news.
I close my contacts and reach for my laptop instead, opening the job listings. My night shift at Fireside Lodge starts in less than six hours, and I want to crash for at least five of them, so I don’t have time to do more than browse. I scan through the listings until one catches my eye, posted today, short and to the point.
Admin Assistant at Calloway Logging.
Competitive salary, immediate start.
Must be organized and comfortable working in a rural setting.
The hours look flexible enough to fit around my other shifts. I don’t know anything about logging, but I know how to work hard and learn fast, and admin assistant sounds like something I can handle. I send off a quick application and close the laptop, curling up beneath my covers.
I need to sleep before my hotel shift. I know that. But my brain won’t stop running numbers and coming up short.The silence of the apartment is pressing in on all sides, and eventually I reach for my phone and open the browser app.
The tab is already open. I’ve been opening and closing it for weeks like a light switch flicking on and off.
First Encounters
Verified. Exclusive. Discreet.
It looks like any other dating site, except each profile has a price. I’ve done my research, seen the numbers other girls have made from selling their virginity, and right now, it feels like my only way out. I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s no big deal. One night with a stranger, that’s all.
Heck, it’s not like there’s anyone special waiting for me.
I’ve never dated—never had the time or the stability for it. Prince Charming isn’t coming to rescue me, and I’ve made my peace with that.
My throat tightens as I click the link to open the application form. I’ve opened it before — stared at the blank page until my eyes crossed. Now, I fill it in. I already took photos last week.Just in case, I’d told myself. They’re not revealing — just me forcing a smile in the bathroom mirror, wearing makeup and the only dress I own. My hands tremble a little as I fill in the description, but I don’t let myself read it back.
Then I hit submit before I can second-guess myself.
Done.
I close the browser and set my phone face down on the nightstand.
For a moment I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, the dark patches of mold collecting in the corners. Somewhere out there, a form with my name on it is being processed. My photo. My description. Ready to be shown to strangers who will decide if I’m worth bidding on.
I wait for the panic to hit, but it doesn’t. I’m too tired for panic. Instead, a hollow kind of resignation settles in my gut asI set my alarm for an hour from now. Then I curl up under the covers and squeeze my eyes shut, wondering how the heck my life has come to this.
2
