Page 44

Becca adjusts the angle of her phone so she can finish typing an email.

“Look.” Becca hits send, then turns to the camera and continues. “You’re not trapped, alright? It’s a duplex, not a prison.”

Facing her computer again, she navigates through a series of clicks, tactically laying out her thoughts. “When you walk in/out of the house? Headphones. Head down, no eye contact. You aren’t Mr. Rogers; you don’t have to wave hello to your neighbor.”

She’s right. I rarely say hi to the ones I already know. “Okay, that makes sense, and I already know his schedule, so it should be somewhat easy to mostly avoid the high-traffic times.”

“Exactly,” Becca adds with a flourish and a click of the mouse. “And keep moving forward on your side of the duplex projects. And don’t worry about the noise or the mess. You have a job to do.”

Jackson would understand that better than anyone else.

“You’re all right. Thanks for the SOS. Get back to hormonal teenagers, neighborhood walks, and endless emails. I am going to get to work on my first project, officially moving into a bedroom!”

“Atta girl!” Nessa shouts. “Next weekend, Zentrology night at your house. Gotta go before they start re-enacting any R&J scenes.” She quickly hangs up.

“Same, I got a meeting in one minute. You got this.”

We hang up, and I see my reflection in the screen. “Yeah, I got this,” I say to myself twice. The second time, I almost believe it.

13

PHOENIX

By mid-afternoon, I have a semblance of a bedroom upstairs. I’ve moved my dresser in, hung up clothes in the closet, and built my bed frame. I sit up straight, stretch my back, and admire my work. The light lilac walls give a nice contrast to the oak floors. The picture window has sheer sage-green curtains overlooking the backyard, providing me with light and a bit of privacy.

I’ve always worked to keep my spaces like this—calming and lived in. The office doesn’t count. The office is where I spend most of my time. Spent.

My phone pings, alerting me of an email. Skaden, Lowe & Jones, the second-best law firm in town, has accepted my résumé and wants to set up an interview right away. I inspect the company’s employee reviews. Long hours, high stress, fancy partner dinners, the usual.

Is this what I spent years working toward? Hours spent away from friends, family, building a life, for a little bit of money and recognition?

Another email pings, a confirmation of my interview with the Durham Foundation. Salary hasn’t come up yet, but I can already guess it’s pennies to Cascadia Legal. I pocket my phone. The bedroom isn’t going to finish itself.

Walking down the stairs, my hands brush the stairway wall, missing the railing that is on my list to sand down and reinstall. In my temporary sunroom bedroom, I stare at my mattress on the ground, deciding how best to get this upstairs. My only option seems to be to lean it against the wall and push it up.

I drag the memory foam mattress—that I paid way too much for but was guaranteed to provide an excellent, cooling night’s sleep— and get into position. Shifting the mattress at an angle, I make good progress sliding it up a few steps. As the mattress reaches the last step, my foot slips. I try to brace my hands on the walls to slow my fall, but I tumble sideways, hitting my leg against the drywall. A shooting pain instantly throbs through my ankle, pulling a yelp from me as I roll down the last few steps.

I land hard. At best, I think I have a severely bruised tailbone and a tender shoulder. But none of that compares to my ankle, which I clutch forward, hissing as I try to breathe through the pulsing. I’m still working through what to do next—ankle throbbing too loud to think straight—when I hear a muffled cry from the door.

“Phoenix!” I don’t have the energy to respond to Jackson as I focus on my breath. I hear four beeps, a lock disengaging, and the door opening quickly. “Phoenix, oh God, what happened?”

I can’t respond to him, focusing on keeping my tears at bay as I count my breaths. Jackson takes control of the situation.

“Okay, looks like you fell down the stairs and you hurt your leg.”

“Ankle,” I respond, deciding medical accuracy is the best call in this situation.

He looks at me, hands hovering uselessly. “Call Mack,” I tell him, trying to get ahold of the situation.

I’m surprised I asked for Mack. Until he barged in, calling someone wasn’t even on the list. My first instinct was to solve it myself. Figure out how to stand. Figure out how to get to the car. Figure out how to manage. Like always.

“I think the best course of action is to get you to the hospital. I can call an ambulance⁠—”

“NO!” I shout louder than I mean. “Too expensive,” I whisper softly. “I only have a couple of weeks left on my insurance, let alone what these out-of-pocket costs will be. I cannot afford an ambulance.”

“Alright, I understand. That means I need to take you to the hospital,” Jackson confirms.

I breathe out, nodding my head in acquiescence.