Finally, I sink into the armchair in the back office. It’s cramped and smells like burned coffee. There’s a duct tape patch on the arm, but it’s big enough to curl up in.
“Oh. I got something,” Tia says and dashes out of the room.
I lean my head on the arm, suddenly exhausted. Estelle is still stroking my hair. “That feels nice.”
“When Bella has meltdowns, she likes it too.”
“Who’s Bella?” I close my eyes. I’m so tired.
“My cousin. She’s dying to meet you.”
“Really?”
“You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, and Estelle doesn’t push. My eyes are so heavy now it feels like work to keep them open.
There’s a soft thud. Tia drops a square bundle on the floor. She pokes her long nails into the clear plastic and struggles to free a fuzzy pink blanket.
“Just picked up my laundry,” she says.
They work together to tuck it in around me. My body feels so heavy I can’t even help them by lifting my head.
Estelle tugs on a corner of the blanket, bringing it around my face and over my head.
“Bella likes to burrow when she doesn’t have her nest.”
I nuzzle the soft fabric and take a soft breath.
Everything smells like… Pierce.
Chapter thirty-one
ASH
IshovetheiPadunder a pillow the second I hear his feet on the stairs. Papa pushes the door open without even knocking, the cold air rushing in with him. I sit up straighter, pretending I wasn’t doing anything at all. The whole apartment feels smaller with him in it. I wait, quiet, hoping he’ll leave as fast as he came in.
“This place is a shithole.” Papa nudges the nightstand I haven’t finished stripping the paint from. “I don’t know why you insist on living here when you could be in the house.”
I swallow my first response, which would definitely earn me a backhand. “I’m an adult now,” I say instead, keeping my voice neutral.
“I’m an adult now,” he mimics, his voice going high and whiny. “Jesus Christ, Lynn.”
I hate when he calls me that.
Papa stops in front of the table and scoffs at the take-out containers of leftover food from the diner. “Living like a goddamn animal.”
Without being told, I start tidying up. I’m sure his kitchen looks worse.
“The bar’s getting busy now,” he says, kicking the trashcan. “Hangman’s Tavern needs another server. Tips are good.”
“I have a job.”
“That little shithole diner? What do you make there, minimum plus a couple bucks in tips? Hangman’s does three times that business.”
“I like the diner,” I say, sitting on the folding chair.
“You like the diner,” he sneers. He moves closer, rests his hands on the back of my folding chair. I feel his breath on my neck. “You know what I like? Paying the fucking rent. Keeping a roof over your ungrateful head all these years.”
