Two YearsLater
Wakingup on someone else’s couch had stopped feeling weird a couple of months ago. It still wasn’t comfortable, though.
I opened my eyes to the sunlight filtering through bent slats in the mini blinds and lay still for a second, trying to remember where I was. The apartment reeked of burnt coffee and whatever citrus air freshener was shoved into the wall.
My neck ached from the strange angle I’d slept in, and one of my arms had gone numb during the night. I flexed my fingers, trying to get blood flowing again while I stared at the water stain on the ceiling above me.
“You alive?” Scott inquired from the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. We’d known each other since ninth grade and had run with the same crowd long enough that him finding me passed out on his couch didn’t even earn more than a half-second look anymore.
“Unfortunately.”
He snorted. “Good. There’s coffee. It tastes like shit, but it’s hot.”
As I pushed myself upright, every muscle in my body protested the movement. Between working at Sal’s, barely sleeping, and taking fights wherever I could find them, I lived in a near-constant state of soreness. My knuckles were healing from the last fight, the bruise along my ribs wasn’t quite as tender, and the cut above my eyebrow had closed up enough that I no longer looked like I’d gotten jumped in an alley.
Scott stepped farther into the living room, wearing a wrinkled shirt from the auto body shop he worked at and cargo pants, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug. His dark hair stuck up in the back as if he hadn’t checked a mirror yet.
He glanced at me and lifted a brow. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Are you working today?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the lunch shift.”
“At the pizza place?”
“No, the other glamorous job I have,” I replied sarcastically.
He nodded and walked down the hall toward his room.
I headed for the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. He hadn’t been lying. It did taste like shit, but it was caffeinated, which was all I really needed.
As I reached for one of the protein bars I’d bought, my phone pinged with an incoming text. I checked the screen and saw it was from my mom:
Can you bring me some things from the storage unit this weekend?
No “hello.” No “how are you?” Just her asking me to do something for her.
I’m heading to Reno this weekend
So you have time for fun but you can’t help me out?
I ran a hand over my face and let out a breath.
A year ago, she told me she was moving in with my aunt in Colfax. I remembered sitting in the living room while she explained how the house was too much for her and that she’d already called a realtor. During that conversation, she didn’t ask where I would go, if I could afford a place on my own, or if I needed help. She just assumed I’d figure it out.
The house sold right away, and as soon as she signed the escrow papers, she’d packed up all her shit and took off.
Watching her drive away was a little too similar to when I’d watched Rowan do the same thing. But I refused to think about that.
I’ll see what I can do
I didn’t bother explaining that I wasn’t going to Reno for fun. She wouldn’t get it anyway. I just threw my phone on the counter and took a few deep breaths.
Scott came back into the kitchen. “Everything okay?”
I rolled my neck. “Yeah. Just gotta figure out how to get some shit to my mom before I head out of town this weekend.”
