"Please," he growls, "for the love of God, turn that shit off. I could endure it if it was at least something that you would wanna blast at 2 AM, like Norwegian death metal. Jesus Christ, Violet!! Who blastsSabrina Carpenter?"
I feel a deep sense of shame because of course my neighbor is correct. Sabrina Carpenter's music is something that you listen to on a sunny afternoon, hanging out in the park with your crowd of girlfriends as you talk about boys, and parties. Not at two in the morning in a residential building, where my neighbors are trying to get a decent night's rest.
Opening the door, I see the coffee table is stacked with boxes of takeout and according to one of the DoorDash labels, they charged it to my card. My expensive candles are lit, the ones that I've been saving for a spa night, and two bulging overnight bags cluttering my little living room tell me they are here for the weekend.
My stern words die on my lips as Rose and Iris look up with tear-streaked faces.
"What's happened now?" I hurry over, disconnecting my sister's phone from my speakers.
"It's Jack," Rose sniffles. "He says he's taking us to some big corporate retreat next month and told us to go buy some sexier clothes."
"Oh, my god," I groan.
Rose and Iris still dress in matching outfits, the charm of being identical twins never grows old for them. Tonight, they're in pink leggings and purple t-shirts. We look a lot alike, the same chestnut brown hair and eyes. They're a little shorter and more curvy, certainly more blessed than my B-cup bra size.
"Nothing is more guaranteed to make you hurl than having yourstepfathertell you he wants you to dress sexy."Iris does look a little green.
We wouldn't get any help from our mother. The transformation Poppy made after marrying that skeevy bastard was depressing. She used to have a closet crammed with nice, floaty sundresses, now she's always dressed up in high heels and painfully tight Chanel skirts. Her hair went from a lovely mass of curls into a heavily sprayed bob cut, shaped like a shield and about as rigid.
"He's really gonna do it," Iris says, eyes wide and hands waving wildly. "He's really gonna make us marry those ancient dudes, isn't he?"
"No," I say firmly, taking her hands and squeezing them. "Absolutely not. I won't let that happen to you."
"Don't get too confident," Rose says dolefully. "Jack said that he was going to make you come to the retreat, too. He was raving about you wasting your expensive education on all thosepoorkids."
I can feel heat rising like a sunburn on my skin. "You're kidding."
"Oh, no," Iris says. "And then Mother dearest chimed in. She was saying that she's always worried you'll get head lice from working at the shelter and that she always wants to fumigate the house when you come by for Sunday dinner."
That hurts. I expect Jack to be a condescending prick at the best of times. But now our mother? She used to volunteer at the shelter sometimes, helping kids with their homework after school.
"Yeah, the transformation is complete." Rose is tearing up again. "Mother has morphed from a decent human being into a country club automaton."
"Okay…" I run my hands through my hair, trying to force my exhausted brain to work. "You two are going to get some sleep. Things always look better in the morning. We'll make a plan of action and I assure you, there will benocorporate retreat weekend for you in sexy, preppy clothes. Do you hear me?"
"I love you!" Rose throws her arms around my neck, not quite strangling me in her enthusiasm.
"Here," Iris says, holding up a takeout box. "We saved some dim sum for you." There are two sad little lumps huddled in the bottom of the box in congealed soy sauce.
"Thank you," I say, shaking the box and watching the dim sum wobble. "You guys can have my bedroom. I'll sleep out here on the couch, I've got some paperwork to do anyway."
Forcing the twins into bed is no easier at eighteen than it was when they were eight, and I'd have to tell them story after story before they would finally drift off into blissful unconsciousness. Tonight is no better, it's 3:30 by the time the inevitable airing of grievances and barrage of concerns has been addressed. Lying on the couch, I flip the pillow to the cool side and angle my hips away from the spring threatening to burst through the center cushion.
Roman has to take this job. He has to.
***
There are always surprises at Hope House.
An unexpected hike in the power bill. One of the volunteers will inevitably call in sick and I'll need to jump in and cover their shift. The worst is the old New York classic; rats where you really don't want rats to be. Sometimes, there are nice surprises, like an unexpected donation, or a grant that I'd given up on was awarded to the shelter after all.
I'm not sure if Roman Morozov sitting in my office chair is a good surprise or a bad one.
"I'd ask how you got through two locked doors," I say, glaring at his smug expression. "But maybe that's a good recommendation for your skills."
"Charming operation you have here," Roman says, his Tom Ford suit looking very much out of place in my shabby office. I got my office chair off a furniture pile placed on the curb and the desk was left here by the former tenant.
"Why spend money where it doesn't show?" I shrug, dumping my laptop on my desk. My officeisscrupulously clean and there are potted orchids sitting on my windowsill in a colorful line. I painted the walls a soft lavender shade and crammed them with pictures of my graduates. I'm proud of it.
