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“I’m sorry,” I say, throwing a pleading look at Lennon and pulling the bag over my shoulder. “I promise I’ll make it up to you when you get back from Minneapolis.”
She sighs, standing up and drawing me into a warm embrace. “You better,” she says, her tone turning teasing. “I didn’t buy those pencils for nothing.”
I chuckle, grabbing my half-empty coffee cup and bringing it with me as I rush out the door. The bells bang against the glass as I exit, cold biting as soon as I’m out in the fresh air.
The wind swirls around the sidewalk, a reminder that winter is coming, and all the other warnings thrown onto memes from the internet. Since it hasn’t snowed yet this year, the trees remain barren and the gray sky casts gloom all over the city street, covering the world in sorrow. It’s the perfect time for seasonal depression.
Combine that with my residence in the dungeon and lack of vitamin D–all kinds, really–and I’m one minor inconvenience from a Zoloft prescription and an empty bank account due to all the therapy I need.
I fumble with my car keys, stabbing them into the lock because the key fob stopped working months ago, and I’m too lazy to getit fixed. If the weather doesn’t transform from stick season to winter wonderland soon, my therapy bill will be the next excuse.
I curse when the keys slip from my hand and land on the ground. Placing my coffee on the top of the car, I bend over to grab them, only to be met with the cup sliding from the surface of my Chevy and smacking me in the head.
It’s like middle school gym class all over again.
I curse, feeling the now lukewarm coffee seep through my coat and into the back of my shirt.
“You’re actually kidding,” I mutter, feeling the wet strands of hair at the base of my neck. I look at the empty coffee cup on the ground and consider leaving it for dead. Then I remember Lennon refused to visit me in prison and pick it up to avoid littering.
That’s when I hear a soft chuckle behind me. I spin, my eyes locking with the stranger getting into his car one spot over.
Tall, dark hair, slim build, handsome. Did I mention tall? I look up and up to see the ghost of a smile on the stranger's face–proof that he was the one to make the sound.
My face twists into something entirely unpleasant. “Did you just laugh at me?” I question.
The man’s smile drops as he pulls the door of his car open. “Absolutely not,” he says, brows furrowed.
I watch as his hazel eyes meet mine once more before he climbs into the car, starts the engine, and pulls away without another glance.
“Rude,” I mutter before crawling into the front seat and shoving my useless coffee cup into my designated trash bag.
I start the car, careful to keep my back off the seat in the hopes that I won’t be reminded of the fact that I just got hit in the head with coffee. And if that isn’t embarrassing enough, a handsome stranger just happened to be lurking in the parking lot in time to both watch my coffee disaster and laugh at me for it.
Definitely just like middle school gym class.
I glance at the clock on the dash and realize I have ten minutes to get to Aunt B’s.
“Shit,” I whisper, putting the car into drive and pulling away.
Two
Ellis
“B, I’m so sorry I’m late.”
I shouted my apology into the dimly lit entryway after plowing through the front door. I quickly peelmy coat off and grab a hanger from the closet, holding it up and noticing the dark stain on the back collar.
I thought buying a beige coat would save me from the coffee spills, but apparently, there was no escape from the coffee stains. It’s like the entire world needs to know you’re an addict.
After shoving the coat into the neatly organized closet, I pause to feel the back of my gray T-shirt, noting that it’s almost dry. I wipe the minimal amount of dampness on my high-waisted jeans, realizing I look like a mess.
“It’s alright.” B’s heels click on the wooden stairs as she descends toward the front door. Her fingers fumble with her earring. She’s wearing a short black dress, her shoulder-length hair pinned back with dark strands escaping around her face–the only sign of her true state of distress.
Those wispy hairs remind me of the twenty-four-year-old B raising a thirteen-year-old Ellis. Those first few years were a mess of dirty kitchen sinks, not nearly enough space, and the kind of hopeless fumbling that brought us closer together. Over time, B seemed to organize her life, her scattered thoughts, and somehow buried her hopes and dreams along with it. She’d lost her sister, and along with it, her carefree spirit.
And then she met Brian.
Her voice doesn’t betray its usual calm. Everything about B seems cool and collected, except for those wispy strands of hair–the ones framing her sharp features and letting me know how rushed she really is.
