My temper rises. This is a triggering topic for me. “And you know howIfeel about it. You know how devastated I was when my mother had an abortion.”
I already raised one kid,she’d said, tapping her cigarette over an empty plastic bottle as she rested on the couch after the procedure.We don’t need no more. Ain’t got the money or patience for any more brats. Now get. But bring me a drink on your way out.
He knows this, because as my best friend, it washisshoulder I cried on. I had run next door and banged on the apartment door until he opened it, sobbing out through my tears how I would have helped her any way I could. I would have fed them, changed them, gotten up to tend them in the middle of the night so she could sleep.
Even at fifteen, doe-eyed and naïve, I knew she wasn’t mother material, but I couldn’t stop myself from hoping it’d be a fresh start for our dysfunctional family. A new beginning.
It didn’t go like that at all, though. And when I poured my heart out to Silas, he’d promised we’d both move in together when we turned eighteen.We won’t be anything like our parents, he’d vowed.Leave the past in the past and get away from here.
We moved away, like he said. Three hours away, in fact. But the past was never left behind.
Now it’s the present, and he’s turning into his father with every passing day. Slowly, but surely. Drinking until his face and stomach bloat from the alcohol and blaming his lack of decent employment on the job market instead of owning up to his laziness. And, what’s more, beginning to lay his hands on me because he’s angry and doesn’t want to face the consequences of his actions.
Only once, yes, but one time is all it takes to open the door for more.
“Whatever,” I snap. “I’ll be back.”
He straightens at the sound of jangling car keys. “I need the car. I’ve got a job interview at eleven.”
As if. “No. I’ve got to take it. This is an important appointment, Silas, and I already took off from work. If your interview’s in town, you can walk.” Like I walked thirty minutes to work the other day in the cold.
“But I scheduled it for today!”
“You knew about this. Where’s your interview? Maybe I can drop you off or vice versa.” If he’s even telling the truth.
Scratching the back of his head, he mumbles, “In Princeton.”
Princeton. The complete opposite direction of Riverbend, where I need to go, which only confirms my suspicions about the legitimacy of this so-called interview. “Why don’t you see if Jackson”—this is asking for trouble—“can take you?”
“Fine,” he grunts, falling back against the couch again.
Quietly closing the door on my way out, I decide to stop at Frank’s apartment first because I don’t want to be carrying around cash. Stepping lightly, I descend the rickety staircase and sidestep a used needle before opening the door to our decrepit car. One plus to Silas being a mechanic is he’s able to repairthis heap of junk and keep it going, for the most part.
When it cranks without any trouble, I silently cheer, even though it has a terrible, trembling rattle. “All right, Butterbean. We’re on our way to the doctor to make sure everythi—you havegotto be kidding me!” I moan and thump my head on the steering wheel.
Silas didn’t gas the car up. God, does everything in my life have to be in a state of decay?
Holding back a curse because I don’t want to set a bad example for my baby, even this early, I drive the short distance through the parking lot to Frank’s door. Shifting it into park, I hop out and leave it running for two reasons: one—I don’t want to waste precious gas by shutting off the engine and restarting it; and two—this car’s such a piece of crap that I’d have to pay someone to steal it from me, and everybody here knows it.
“Frank?” I knock on the door, shifting from foot to foot at the chilliness of the air. “I’ve got the rent money.” We’ve only got a few more weeks on the lease, and unless the perfect place for a low monthly fee comes along, we’ll have to renew.
I hear him long before the door opens, thanks to the cheap construction and poor insulation. “Whaddaya—oh. Hey, Rosanna.” Short and balding, he doesn’t look too happy to have been interrupted from whatever he was doing.
And then I smell him. I stifle a giggle along with a gag. I can’t help but to think of Frank “Frankincense” Pontipee fromSeven Brides for Seven Brothers. Unfortunately, thisFrank doesn’t live up to his namesake, with his body odor wafting through the air and invading my nostrils.
But who am I to tell a grown man he needs to shower more than once a week? Butterbean might be making my nose more sensitive than usual, though, because I don’t remember Frank smelling this bad last month. Good thing it’s not summertime, because the odor would likely kill me. Digging in my purse, I pull out the cash. “Here’s the other half.”
He thumbs through it, doing a quick count as he backs away. “All good.”
The door inches closed, but I throw my foot out. “Wait—I need a receipt.”
Irritation colors his voice. “No, you don’t. I’ve got everybody’s balance all in my head. You’re paid up ’til next month. Trust me.”
Trust me.What is it with men and their need for trust when they’re absolutely nottrustworthy? If I have to be told to trust someone, then that’s almost reason enough to run the other way. “Frank,” I sweeten my tone, “I’m not leaving without a receipt. Come on...I know you have the book in there with you. It won’t take you two seconds to grab it and write one out for me. It’s good bookkeeping practice.”
Rolling his eyes, he acquiesces. “All right. Wait here.” With the door still open, I can smell more of his apartment, but I wish I couldn’t. If the man barely takes a bath, I can only imagine how his housekeeping skills are lacking, too. He needs to hurry up, because the cold is just about to get to me.
And, as silly as it sounds, I don’t want to inhale the stench and risk Butterbean breathing it in second-hand. Ridiculous, I know, but the thought still runs through my mind. An eternity later, he shoves a receipt at me. “Here.”
