Page 16 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Every apartment listing is either wildly out of my budget, clearly haunted, or in a location described as “up and coming,” which is realtor language for “bring pepper spray.”

“Cool,” I mutter, highlighting another listing that includes the phrase cozy studio and appears to mean a closet with plumbing.

I try agencies next.

That’s more promising.

I have experience. Good experience. References. Years of childcare, including difficult schedules, special routines, bedtime wrangling, emotional support, school pickups, meal prep, and the incredibly specific skill of convincing a four-year-old that yes, broccoli can be magical if we all commit to the bit.

I’m good at what I do, I know I am, and the minute that thought lands, my chest steadies.

Because Bryce may have lied about everything else, but he didn't invent me. He didn't invent my competence. He didn’t create the part of me that knows how to build safety for other people, how to make madness feel manageable, how to walk into a household and make things softer, calmer, and kinder.

That part's mine.

He doesn’t get to take it.

My phone lights up with Luci’s name before I can decide whether I’m emotionally stable enough for a call with my super smart sister.

I answer anyway.

“Well,” she says immediately, “you sound tragic.”

I close my eyes. “Good morning to you too.”

“It's not morning anymore, you goblin. It’s almost one.”

I glance at the clock. It is, horrifyingly, almost one.

“That feels fake,” I say.

“That’s because you’re depressed.”

“I’m not depressed.”

“You’re in a motel doom nest, Addy.”

“That’s such a hostile phrase.”

“And yet accurate.”

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling again. “I hate that you can hear my environment through the phone.”

“I can hear despair,” she says. “And possibly a vending machine.”

I sigh.

Luci softens a little. “How bad is it?”

And because it’s her, because she’s always been the one person who can ask that without making me want to perform okayness for her, I tell the truth.

“It’s really bad,” I say quietly. “There’s nothing here, Luce. No apartment. No job. Nothing. He made all of it up.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a level of fury so intense I can practically feel it through the phone. “I’m going to kill him.”

“That does sound nice.”

“No, seriously. I will drive there myself. I’ll wear gloves. I’ll be smart about it.”