THIRTY-THREE
RILEY
My feet hit the pavement as I sprint to my sister’s place. She only lives ten minutes from me on foot, so I’ll get there in five, considering how fast my legs are moving.
The moment I woke up, I panicked. August wasn’t there, but his side of the bed was still warm. He must have freaked out. I don’t blame him. Maybe he realized I’m not what he wanted.
I’m a broken girl with low self-esteem who can’t even get her mommy to love her properly.
I catch my breath as I approach Hailey’s house. No need for calling, texting, or knocking when I'm in a crisis. I burst through the door because, of course, Hailey has it unlocked. I have an inkling that she’s still sleeping.
I'm greeted by Whiskey and Butterscotch, her two cats, who like to yell like it's their damn job.
"Don’t pretend you’re excited because I’m here. I know you just want treats.”
They walk between my legs, constantly tripping over them as they continue to yell and purr.
"If you guys don't stop, I'm going to make you into a fur coat," I say through clenched teeth.
I stop where I am, the kitchen to my right, and I walk in. I know exactly where Hailey keeps the cat treats, and right now, I'm desperate to give them as much as they want. The treats are put away in a cupboard that has baby-proof locks on it because Whiskey likes to push his fat body in it and gnaw on the plastic container that stores said treats.
Whiskey swivels in and out between my legs while Butterscotch patiently sits to the side and waits for me. I pop open the lid and pour brown kibble treats onto the black-and-white tiled floor.
They devour them like the heathens they are. I love them, but sometimes they annoy the hell out of me. Greedy little bastards. They act like my sister never feeds them, when in fact, she will give them a whole god damn rotisserie chicken.
I've seen it.
I put the container back and shut the burnt hickory cabinet door. I'm still getting used to Hailey's new house. It's quaint. A two bed, one and a half bath bungalow. It was a fixer upper.
There's an Addams Family vibe to it. Gothic but chic. Black frames hold photos of me and her, friends, concerts, some weird paintings, and not a lick of Mom.
Hailey’s deep red velvet couch looks classy atop a black, ornate rug. It's the most unique decoration I've seen in a home, and it screams Hailey.
I walk down the hall, a black floral boho runner rug cushioning under my shoes. Different-sized mirrors run along the wall, and I glance at myself as I pass by. The color under my eyes is a shade darker than the rest of my skin. Irun my fingers through my hair, wincing and pulling at knots.
The white door at the end of the hall is her room. I don't bother knocking. She's sprawled out on the bed, her tattooed arm dangling off one side, her black and ice blonde hair covering her silk pillow cases, with her face buried into it.
Snores fall from her open mouth.
The thing about Hailey is that she can sleep through a hurricane. Nothing can wake her up. She needs to set five alarms.
As I stride to her large, king-size bed, the cats catch up with me and jump right on her. Butterscotch lies in the corner, where sun falls onto the bed. Whiskey goes straight onto her head and sits on it. Still, she doesn’t move. I don’t remember the last time I’ve slept that well. A pin can drop on the floor, and I’d wake up.
I let out an annoyed huff, kneeling in front of her and tapping on her shoulder. “Hailey. Hailey, wake up.” I continue to tap, but it doesn’t work. I don’t have time for this. “Hailey, wake up!” I grab both her shoulders and shake her.
Whiskey bounces up and down on her head, slowly shifting off her.
"What the hell," she rasps, groaning.
"It’s your favorite sister ever, here to come bother you." I continue to shake her.
"Jesus," she mutters under her breath. "Okay, I'm up. Stop shaking me, you psycho.”
She turns herself over to lie on her back, Whiskey jumping off her head, using it like a trampoline. "Fuck! Whiskey, you asshole." She rubs her face and drops her hands down to her stomach.
Hailey exhales, clearly annoyed and pissed off that I woke her. She stares up at the ceiling, her eyelids still heavy and sleepy. It’s the most romantic ceiling I’ve seen in someone’s home. It’s painted deep blue, with big gold stars around a golden antique chandelier.
"I didn’t go to bed until four in the morning, so whatever it is that forced you to wake me up better be good.” Her eyes start to shift back into dreamland, and I’m about to lose her again.
