“You don’t actuallywantme to improve, do you?” I say quietly, the words tasting bitter. “You like the version of me that gets arrested and starts fights and drags you into stupid shit. The ‘bad boy’ thing. That’s what gets you off.”
She laughs, but it’s nervous, not warm. “What? No, that’s not…”
“Cici,stop.” I cut her off, my voice cracking with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You know what? I’m clearlynot what you want. So, let’s not pretend this relationship is going anywhere. We’re done.”
I hang up before she can reply, the silence that follows ringing in my ears. I stand here in the middle of the kitchen, phone still gripped tight in my hand, utterly stunned. Is thatreallyall she ever wanted from me? The thrill of dating the troubled kid who keeps fucking up? Why would anyone want that? Why wouldn’t you want the person you’re with to get better, to build something real?
The hurt doesn’t come from losing her… I didn’t even want her that much. I was just trying to make it work, to be normal. The real pain is deeper, sharper. No matter what I do, people don’t seem to want me. Slade rejected me. My mom walked out when I was fourteen and never looked back. And now Cici only liked me when I was the screw-up.
A shaky laugh bubbles out of me, wet and broken, as hot tears spill down my cheeks. I swipe at them angrily, but more keep coming. I take deep, ragged breaths, trying to steady myself.
Time to start living for yourself, Andrew, I tell myself, determined. Because that’s all you’ve got left.
…
The emotional crash hits harder than I expected.
After hanging up on Cici, I drift around the kitchen in a daze, the weight of everything pressing down until my legs feel like lead. I make myself a glass of iced tea justto have something to do with my hands, then sit at the table and open my laptop.
The community college website is still up from earlier. I spread the leaflets out, flip through the course catalogue, and even pull out the local newspaper I grabbed on the way home… the one with the property rental section circled in red. Before I know it, the entire table is covered in my future: bright pamphlets about software development tracks, financial aid forms, campus maps, and columns of tiny rental ads that all look too expensive or too far away. I stare at it all until my eyes burn.
…
I don’t remember deciding to rest my head on the pile of leaflets. One second, I’m reading about intro to programming, the next my cheek is pressed against cool paper.
A sharp ping from my phone drags me awake. I jolt upright, disoriented, the newspaper sheet that was stuck to the side of my face fluttering to the table. My neck aches from the awkward angle, and my body feels heavy, like it’s made of wet concrete. The laptop screen has gone dark in sleep mode, the cursor blinking lazily when I tap the trackpad. I rub my eyes hard with the heels of my hands, clearing the fog, then pick up my phone.
Slade: Will be home late, kid. Me and the guys
ended up at an auction two hours away
today. Will be home around 9pm. Please eat
something.
I glance at the time. Just gone half past seven. No wonder I passed out… I’ve been running on pure adrenaline and crashing emotions all day. The excitement of the campus visit this morning feels like it happened weeks ago instead of hours. Then the phone call with Cici drained whatever was left.
I sit here for a long moment, staring at the mess I’ve made of the table. Leaflets, forms, rental listings, my half-finished drink. It’s all evidence of me actually trying, but right now I’m too exhausted to feel proud of it. Still, I force myself to move. I close the laptop with a soft click and gather everything into a somewhat neat pile… leaflets stacked on top of the newspaper, the catalogue tucked underneath. It’s messy and uneven, but it takes up less space than it did.Good enough.
With heavy eyes and dragging steps, I push the chair back and head upstairs. Planning to crawl under the covers and let the darkness swallow me whole.
Chapter Seven
Slade
The truck’s headlights sweep across the front of the house as I pull into the driveway just after nine. I kill the engine and step out with a genuine smile still tugging at my mouth.
Larry’s wife had insisted on stopping for a couple of celebratory drinks after the auction, and none of us had argued. It was a good day. We’d never been to that quirky little town before, only ever passed through on the highway… but it turned out to be full of old folks with big homes and even bigger garages packed with hidden gems. We scored the exact front and back seats we needed for the ’73 Mercedes restoration: perfect period style, barely worn. The shell they came from was scrap, but those seats are going to bring our client’s car back to life. A damn good score.
I close the front door behind me, lock it, kick off my boots, and hang my jacket on the hook. My shoulders feel lighter than they have all week, the kind of easy satisfaction that only comes from a solid day’s work and a little unexpected fun.
The house feels strangely quiet, the kind of heavy silence that immediately puts me on edge. Only the hallway light is on, casting long shadows down the corridor. I frown, moving deeper into the space. The living room is completely dark, the TV screen black and lifeless. I continue toward the kitchen and flick on the overhead light. Still no sign of Andrew. He’s usually up at this hour, sprawled across the couch with his feet on the coffee table or rummaging through the fridge.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with cold water from the fridge door, taking a long sip while my eyes drift across the room. That’s when I notice the mess on the kitchen table.
I set the glass down and walk over, brows furrowed. The table is covered in papers. I slide the closed laptop aside and pick up the top leaflet. It’s for a community college, about twenty miles away. The photos on the front look modern and inviting… sleek new buildings, students laughing on a sunny quad. There are multiple copies scattered across the table. On the back of one, someone has neatly filled out the contact information section. Mr. Ramirez. Below it is a short handwritten note:
Hope to see you in August, Andrew. Get in touch if you
