My phone buzzed on the counter, lighting up with a familiar name.Dad.
I stared at it for a second, debating. He didn’t text often—usually just when he had something to say that couldn’t be misinterpreted. I swiped it open.
Dad: Is it true? The Chicago Rampage hired you?
I smiled, shoulders easing. Football. He loved football. That was a neutral topic.
Me: It’s true. Temporary contract for the season.
The dots popped up right away.
Dad: Well, make sure it’s real and not a scam, please, before you celebrate.
A lump in my throat formed, the fact disbelief was his immediate reaction.
Me: Right, sure.
Dad: Tell Theo he’s not the only Sanders making headlines.
For the first time in a long while, the tension in my chest loosened despite my dad’s words.
This job mattered. The sleepless nights, the sketchbooks full of rejected ideas, the fights with my dad about stability—all those struggles led here. I didn’t know how long the win would last, but it was mine.Real, my ass.Of course the contract was real.
Screw him.
Still, as I scrolled past the text thread and caught sight of Noah’s name in my contacts, I froze. His name sat there like a reminder of the version of me that night—the girl who overshared, who was too loud, too eager, too honest. I’d told him things no one else knew about how lost I felt, how much I wanted to make something of myself. Then he disappeared, and the ghosting was most likely because of me.
He’d seen through the act, realized I was still the same girl from college who never had her shit together. The one who rambled and laughed too loud and wanted too much. I wasn’t shiny or calm or model-thin like the women I imagined hanging around athletes. He was taking off—billboards, interviews, the life he’d worked for—and I was still in my tiny apartment trying to make rent. My ex once called me deadweight during an argument, said I made him feel stuck. When Noah never called, part of me believed he agreed.
I thought about texting him, just to say it was good seeing him, but hesitated. He had too much going on in his life. Plus, he had my number.
Sassy nudged my knee, pulling me out of my thoughts. I grabbed her leash and my sketchbook. “Come on, Toonpie,” I said. “We’ve got work to do.”
She wagged once and hopped off the couch, nails clicking against the hardwood. The city outside buzzed with the hum of summer—car horns, laughter, the faint bass of music spilling from open windows. I locked up, breathing in air that smelled like possibility and rain. I loved storms in the city. Theyreminded me of my childhood, simpler times, when our family was a normal Midwest family without baggage, and I vowed that when I had a family, I’d do everything I could to bring them joy.
The storm hit fasterthan the forecast said it would.
Thunder cracked so loud that Sassy barked once and ran for the window. I shut the blinds and went back to sketching, balancing my laptop on my knees. I was halfway through outlining the neckline of a cropped jersey when the power flickered. Twice. Then it steadied again.
“Please don’t,” I whispered to no one. I hated the dark. Despised it, actually. My mind raced with horror scenarios, and the silence… it messed with me.
Five minutes later, the water started. A slow drip from the ceiling that turned into a steady stream down the wall by my sewing table. I grabbed a towel, pressed it against the drywall, and muttered another prayer. It didn’t stop. If anything, it sounded more aggressive. I grabbed a bucket from under my sink, chewing my lip as thoughts spiraled. This place was old, but it should be safe. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about with flooding… right? Sassy whined and nudged her head into my thigh, and I petted her, her soft fur comforting me as the storm continued.
A crack sounded like something tearing open. Then the pipe behind my kitchen wall burst. The sound was deafening—metal on metal, followed by a gush that sent water pouring down the cabinets, across the counter, flooding the tile. Half an inch, then a full one, then more. My stomach dropped. My chest tightened so fast I forgot to breathe.
“Shit. Shit.”
I scrambled for my equipment, unplugging the sewingmachine, lifting it to the table. Water spread faster than I could move. Within seconds, it soaked through the rug and crept toward my sketches scattered across the floor. I grabbed my laptop first, then the hard drive, then whatever I could shove into my tote—chargers, sketchbooks, scissors. Sassy barked again, high-pitched and panicked, nails slipping against the tile.
“I know, girl. I know. We’ll get out of here.”
The water was ankle-deep now. I sloshed into my bedroom and threw whatever clothes I could grab into three trash bags. Jeans, T-shirts, underwear—none of it folded, all of it wet at the edges. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. I was in full panic mode.
When the ceiling above the hallway cracked, I didn’t wait to see what came next. I clipped Sassy’s leash, threw the bags over my shoulder, and ran.
The hallway was chaos. Tenants in pajamas, fire alarms blaring, water pooling everywhere. Someone yelled for the super. Another woman was crying over a cage with two soaked cats. I tightened my grip on Sassy’s leash and pushed forward, barefoot and shaking.
Outside, the rain hit sideways. My hair stuck to my face, and my socks soaked through. The sky was a dull gray sheet, and the street glistened under the streetlights. I didn’t have a car, and the L station was five blocks away. Sassy trembled next to me, tail tucked. I couldn’t think straight. I pulled out my phone, hands slippery from the rain, and scrolled through my contacts until I hit Ivy’s name.
