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“You don’t even call anymore,” he says, eyebrow raised. He’s still seated behind his monster of a desk, not bothering to stand to greet me.
“Who are you kidding? You wouldn’t have answered,” I chide.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t. Now get in here before anyone sees you.”
With that, I step inside, and the door slams behind me. As I walk into the cavernous space, no matter how often I come here, I’m still shocked. I saw the before and after of the building. Saw each step in the transformation process.
It’s no longer the crumbling warehouse with questionable infrastructure.
Concrete, stainless steel, and metal are now entwined to mix the urban feel with cutting-edge design. Flat-panel computer monitors are the only thing on the walls, but not just one or two. There are dozens.
These monitors display the outside of the warehouse. Hence the door opening for me.
And standing there, in front of millions of dollars’ worth of equipment, I tell my best friend exactly what I need.
25
Payton
* * *
I’m running late. Again.
This is officially the story of my life since I moved in with Trent.
Every morning, I wake up and clean this asshole’s loft. Wouldn’t bother me if I got to pick the time, but for some reason, he now wants me to do it after he leaves for work, but before I go to school.
I wake up at five in the morning now, which again wouldn’t be a problem alone, but I’m up until two every night, studying.
Worst part? I’m not even studying stuff for my major. I’m studying things ‘Trent deems appropriate.’ Gail’s words. Not mine. Though she gave me a heads-up on the next curriculum Trent set up, and I’m pretty sure that’s a major breach of procedure for her.
On the train, I find myself muttering the same sentence to myself
“What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.”
It’s my mantra these days. It’s either that or “Fuck. My. Life.”
And I’m still secretly comprising a list of all my grievances against Trent Aldridge.
What started as a way to prepare myself for a court case has now become therapy journaling. I pull out the journal and spend the entire train ride reviewing the list, debating what to add to it.
It reads like this:
Without written notice that the Trustee would no longer pay my bills, all services and tuition payments were canceled.
Without warning or legal timing to find alternative housing, I was evicted from the home that should have been paid for by Trustee.
My mode of transportation payments was canceled by Trustee and vehicle repossessed.
Without telling me the rate and penalty ahead of time, I get charged two thousand per minute from the trust when I arrive late to meetings the Trustee requested.
Trent is a giant dickhole to me for no reason, except his father decided to be nice to me and an asshole to him. (Fine, I don’t know what to say about this one . . . but I feel like a court would need to hear it.)
He’s making me write homework assignments and volunteer at a retirement community. (Again, probably not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, and I really do love going to the retirement center every day. Maybe I won’t bring that to the court either.)
Normally, when my journaling is done in the morning and Trent leaves, I begin cleaning the apartment one room at a time as quickly as I can. Once I put down the mop, I have to shower, dress, sneak food out of the kitchen without Chef cutting off my hand, and catch the train to get to school on time.
With the new schedule, I save the journaling for the train ride and catch as much sleep as I can manage. The thing is, no matter how much it sucks (and it does), I know I’m lucky.
I have a roof over my head.
A bed to sleep in.
A tyrannical chef feeding me, even if it’s behind his back.
Plus, even if I don’t take all that into consideration, I know this is not the worst Trent Aldridge can do. He is going easy on me. Soon, he will turn up the heat on the amount of work he requires of me. And these days will be ones I look back on fondly.
In comparison, at least.
I hop off the train and sprint to catch a cab, all while telling myself that I’m not scared. That I’ll be able to handle it.
And I believe it.
I’ve lived through worse.
My bag slaps against my back as I run. The air chills me where my shirt is wet from my hair. I didn’t have time to dry it before I left. The strands still cling to the back of my shirt, little droplets of water saturating the material.
I pull my bag higher on my shoulder when I hear, well feel, it vibrate. I’m already late, but I pause in my dash to take out my phone.
