By the time I made it home that night, I’d hit my breaking point four times.
First, when housing turned away a woman with two kids because “they didn’t have enough space for minors.”
Second, when I called a backup shelter and got voicemail.
Third, when I finally got through to someone and they asked if the woman “seemed stable.”
And fourth… when I had to tell her there was no bed, no room, no safety net at all. Just me. Just Remi. Just the clinic and the empty promise that we’d “figure it out.”
I dropped my bag by the door and shoved off my boots with more force than necessary. My jacket followed, crumpled on the floor. The house was cold from being empty all day, so I turned the thermostat up a notch, waiting for the heat to kick on, waiting to feel something thaw.
I tugged at the buttons of my blouse, shrugged out of it, and left it draped over the arm of the couch. By the time I made a beeline for the wine rack, I was down to a thin camisole, hair falling in wild waves down my back. The kitchen light caught the strands, and for a second, I caught myself thinking how his gray eyes had followed me once. Or maybe I’d imagined it.
I twisted my hair into a messy bun, strands falling loose as if even they were too tired to stay put.
Found the darkest red we had and poured like I was trying to fill ahole in my chest.
The first sip hit hard, deep, and I let my eyes flutter closed. The burn reminded me, stupidly, traitorously, of certain forearms flexing under rolled sleeves, veins standing out against tanned skin. The way Harlan braced himself against my desk earlier, jaw tight, like if he didn’t hold the wood, he’d reach for me instead.
I cursed under my breath. Wine wasn’t supposed to summon the image of a man I had no business wanting.
The couch creaked when I fell into it. I didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just sat in the dim blue glow from the kitchen, my bare shoulders prickling with leftover cold, and tried not to cry.
But grief is tricky like that. It doesn’t wait for your permission. It creeps up behind you and presses its hand over your mouth until you break in the silence.
Eventually, I reached for the journal on the coffee table. The one I only opened when I couldn’t take it anymore. Tonight, the pen moved faster than I could think.
Two turned away. No beds. No funding.
One had bruises. The other had a baby.
I couldn’t help either of them.
How do you build a safe house when the world keeps knocking it down?
How do you stay soft when the system is made of stone?
The door opened just as I closed the journal. I didn’t look up.
Remi dropped her bag by the door and toed off her boots. I heard her pause, probably clocking the wine, my clothing all over, the dark room, the tension rolling off me like steam.
“Long day?” she asked softly.
“Try apocalyptic.”
She set something on the counter. Keys maybe. Then padded over,dropping into the opposite end of the couch like a ghost easing into frame.
I waited.
She stared.
I sipped.
She didn’t speak for a beat. Then: “You’re gonna want to punch me.”
I looked at her then, squinting my eyes. “Maybe I already do.”
She smiled faintly. “You’d never… You love me.” Then the smile turned to a grimace. “I talked to him.”
