Page 9 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I half run down the steps, clutching my box and bags because they’re the only things keeping me upright. My breath comes too fast. My hands shake so badly I almost drop my keys. When I hit the ground floor, my knees nearly give out.

I push through the front door and stumble into the cold air.

My car sits in the lot, dull and dusty. I suddenly realize it’s the only thing in the world that truly belongs to me.

I shove my stuff into the backseat and climb in behind the wheel.

Then I just sit.

My chest heaves. My fingers curl around the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.

My lanyard swings against my chest with each breath.

Miss Hartley.

The name feels like a ghost.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel.

The tears come so fast I can’t catch my breath. I cry until my throat aches. Until my face is hot and swollen and I can’t tell what I’m mourning most: the kids I won’t see tomorrow, the job I lost without proof, or the way Max only noticed something was wrong when it interrupted his life. Worst of all is the quiet truth underneath it all: I don’t have anywhere to go.

My phone buzzes.

I flinch.

I don’t look.

It buzzes again.

And again.

I force myself to lift my head, wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and flip the phone over.

Two missed calls.

Three texts.

All from Max.

You’re being stupid.

Come back, and we’ll talk.

You have nowhere else.

My stomach churns.

I open my banking app with shaking fingers.

The number makes me feel sick. But it’s enough for gas. Enough for food if I’m careful. Maybe a motel for a night or two if I find something cheap. Enough to keep moving, barely.

But it isn’t enough to start over properly, and I can feel that truth settle in my gut.

My throat tightens.

My phone buzzes again.

Another call.