“Let me show you to the door.” I stand, leading Frank out of the room toward the front door.
He shakes my hand one last time before stepping out the door, pausing mid-step to look back at me. “If you need me for anything, don't hesitate to call.”
“I won't. Thank you again.”
Frank smiles, one not of joy but out of sorrow, and steps off the porch, rushing to his car.
I stand there watching him leave before shutting the door. Locking it. Feeling the cold wood beneath my hands.
Then I punch it.
The pain shoots through my hand like electricity through a wire. I scream in rage, backing away, clutching my fist. The pain is sharp and real. The impact leaves a dull throb beneath my skin; growing heavier by the second, radiating up my wrist in jagged waves, reminding me of what I just did. I deserve it for doing something so stupid.
Glancing down at my hand, I already see my knuckles starting to swell, the skin covering them already split open. Blood trickles down my fingers, mixing with the redness where my hand contacted the wood.
Every finger feels stiff as I try to flex them. My skin is already showing faint hints of bruising—a sickly mix of purple and red blooming beneath the surface. I head into the kitchen and grab a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, pressing it against my reddened knuckles.
Leaning against the counter, the cold seeping into not only my hand but my bones, I let the silence wrap around me.
“Why Nana? I could’ve found a way to pay for school. I could've waited to go,” I ask, letting my head fall back, knowing she can't answer.
I can't lose this house. It's the only thing I have left of her. Of my mom.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Chapter 2
Bradley
TheValueSave.Thegrocery store on the edge of town and closest to my house.
My house.
It's still so fucking hard to say that. Three days since the funeral and I still choke on the two words when I say them. I'd still be glued to my laptop looking for a job, any way to dig out of this hole I've found myself in, but it's been fruitless.
The only damn places hiring I’m either unqualified for, they want a college graduate, or I’d be slinging burgers and scrubbing toilets for minimum wage. Yet, I have an interview tomorrow at Moe’s, the local burger joint and my old hangout from high school.
I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white and scream. I don't care who hears me or thinks I'm crazy. The anguish and frustration have been building, and I feel like a volcano on the verge of erupting, ready to decimate anyone in my path.
I hate this feeling. But the refrigerator is empty except for a jug of soured milk and the only thing in the cabinet is someMetamucil. Neither sound appetizing. Normally I'd order a pizza, but money is tight, and I need to stretch it out and make it last.
“Get it together, Bradley. In and out. That's what you're going to do. Then it's home to look for some more jobs,” I mumble softly.
Turning off the engine, I open the door and step out onto the concrete. Looking around, I'm glad to see they don't look that busy. Maybe twenty cars in total in the parking lot.
I cross my fingers, praying I don't run into any of my Nana’s friends. They mean well but I'm so exhausted from all the ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘she was such a good woman, she'll be missed’. All of those things I'm firmly aware of but don’t want to hear anymore. They just remind me of what I lost.
The automatic door slides open and I step inside, pulling out a buggy and making my way around the store. I keep my head down, hoping that if I don't make direct eye contact with anyone, I can make it in and out without a single conversation.
I roam aimlessly up and down the aisles, going for anything that doesn't require skill to cook. Premade meals. Canned pasta. Cold cuts and bread. It's what I'm going to live off while I try to find a way to save my home.
Tossing a package of cheese into the cart, my eyes look up, landing on someone I haven't seen in years. Not since high school. The very man who helped me realize I was bisexual.
He still looks as handsome as he did then. Broad-shouldered and effortlessly solid, he stands with that same quiet confidence, like the world could shift beneath him and he wouldn’t flinch. His face is sharper now—more defined—with that chiseled jawline and high cheekbones that always made him look like he belonged in a magazine. His blonde hair is a little shorter than I remember, styled up and back like he barely tried but still got itperfect. And those eyes—icy blue, steady—don’t flicker when he looks at the young girl beside him.
My eyes stay locked on him, not with the attraction I held as a confused teenager, but in awe at the way he's smiling at the girl beside him. If memory serves correctly, she looks like an older version of his sister.
I don't want him to see me gawking at him, so I go to move my cart and escape down the household items lane.
