“Hey, Miss Reeves, it’s Jenny Thomas with Harden Heights University. I handle the low-income housing for the school?”
We’ve only spoken a dozen times.
“Yes, I remember,” I reply dryly. “Hi.”
“Hello. I want to confirm you’ll still be dropping off your payment for the semester? There’s quite a waitlist, and I’ve already held the room for longer than I should’ve.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for that.”
“No problem, Miss Reeves. You know I’m happy to help, especially with your…situation. Were you able to collect the rest of the funds?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bawling my eyes out. “Uh, no. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to…to collect therest of the funds for the upcoming semester. So. Uh.” I run my tongue between my teeth and upper lip, trying to keep my composure. “Thank you, but you can offer it to the next person on the list.”
“Are you sure?” Her disappointment is almost as potent as my own. “I can maybe give you twenty-four more hours, but?—”
“Don’t worry about it, Jenny. Er, Ms. Thomas.” I sigh. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
It isn’t, but I don’t know what else there is to say. Twenty-four more hours won’t do me any more good than a thousand. Not on a barista’s salary.
“Are you sure?” she repeats.
No.
“Yeah, of course,” I answer. “Thanks again for all your help. I seriously owe you one.”
Her silence is as thick as mustard gas, and I set my coffee at my feet, pressing my fingers to the corners of my eye in hopes of staving off the tears.
“Not a problem, Violet,” she finally says. “If you need anything else, please let me know.”
“Sure thing.”
4
VIOLET
“You good over there?” my best friend asks.
I’m rarely in the mood to shop, but after the shit show from last night, the idea is about as appealing as being served a sundae of dog poop and calling it a decadent dessert. My nose wrinkles at the thought. Okay, enough metaphors for one day. Hanger squeaking, I drag a red and white polo from left to right.
Lexie’s pointed stare only annoys me more.
“There’s nothing here,” I tell her.
She snorts. “I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who was begging me to cross into enemy territory so we could thrift shop?”
“I thought there would be a reason to celebrate,” I defend, flicking through the selections like they belong at the bottom of a dumpster. And not a Harden Heights dumpster, but a Drift dumpster, which is saying something. “And even if there was a reason to celebrate, there’s nothing here worth buying,” I continue.
“Come on, you’ve barely looked.”
Giving up, I fold my arms. “Okay, then I’m not in the mood.”
The woman has the audacity to smirk back at me, unperturbed despite my prickliness. “Look at you being honest.”She’s right. I’m usually a closed book. “Still mad about the Harden brothers?” she prods.
My nose scrunches even more. “I can’t believe they’d do that, you know? Self-entitled pricks. They probably have an entire vault full of money, and yet they refuse to even consider being good people and giving me backmymoney. It feels like a crime. A really dirty crime,” I ramble. “Greedy bastards. I bet they laughed their asses off as soon as I hightailed it out of there.”
“I mean, the oldest one gave you three hundred bucks as a consolation prize for hitting him in the balls, so?—”
“You’re missing the point.”
