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I had my keys in hand and was in the process of pulling the door shut behind me when I looked back one last time. The apartment was all mine now. It seemed empty and alone with all Drake’s things gone, but at least I’d done the hard part. Every last trace of our life together had been—
Oh…hellno.
My stomach flip-flopped as I scanned our beautiful Christmas tree from top to bottom. We’d picked out a tall one, Drake and I. The cathedral ceilings in our loft apartment could handle it.
Correction: Drake and his slutbag blondegirlfriendand I.
My mouth curled into a bitter frown. The tree — as beautiful as it was — was the last thing left that would remind me of him. And even worse, it would remind me of the bubbly little blonde girl who sold it to me, who also happened to be screwing my boyfriend behind my back.
FUCK. THAT.
I dropped my bag and went immediately to work, knocking the tree on its ass. Water spilled from the tree-stand. Glass ornaments hit the hardwood flooring beneath the falling pine tree’s branches, exploding out of sight with dull ‘pops.’
It took every ounce of strength to drag the tree out of there, stand and all. Pine needles flew everywhere as I pulled it through the threshold of our apartment doorway. I kept the momentum going, dragging it down the steps, past the other units on the second and ground floors, and straight out through the double doors at the end of the building’s foyer. Eventually I reached the curb, where I kicked it into the street. It stared back at me shocked and wounded, still covered with lights, garland, ornaments and all.
“There we go.”
I wiped my sap-covered hands on my thighs, then stomped off. Halfway to the door I realized something, turned around, and went back to pluck the glittery, shimmering star — my grandmother’s star — from the top of the tree.
“Not this though,” I growled at the tree. “Nice try.”
The star was old. Vintage. My mother had gifted it to me when my grandmother died; it had sat on the top of her Christmas tree for most of her life. We didn’t have many traditions in our family, and my grandmother hadn’t left very many things behind. This was important, though. I would’ve been gutted had I forgotten about it.
Back upstairs I went, passing one of the tenants on the second floor. She was one of two sisters who’d never married, and who’d lived together for most of their lives. Right now she was staring at me like I was crazy, throwing away a fully-decorated tree a few weeks before Christmas.
“Yeah, I know,” I snapped, trying my hardest not to. “I’m having a weird day.”
Three
SLOANE
Working at a foundry wasn’t your typical job, in that it required many different skill sets. Investment casting required an artisan’s touch, and a lot of finesse. Even the tiniest mistake could be expounded in the molding process, creating giant gaps or cracks in the finished piece and tons of extra work on the back end. Make the wrong decisions and you could destroy a piece before the pouring even began. You could even ruin the mold, causing the client to have to start all over.
As meticulous and attention-to-detail driven the work was, you also needed to be fast. When swinging a 1200-degree crucible of molten bronze in your direction, there wasn’t much time to stop and consider things. You had to think on your feet. You had to prep everything beforehand, and then double-check your prep work. It was the only way to survive — and succeed.
Luckily, I was good at my job. I immersed myself in the work, whether it be something I personally enjoyed, like casting statues and museum pieces, or something more tedious like the prototyping of high-end steel or aluminum parts. That side of the job was more monotonous, but it paid the bills. It also left me with wiggle room when asking to use the machinery after hours, something my kind-hearted boss had always allowed… until now.
“Sloane I’m very sorry,” Mr. Drumm told me in his office, just after my shift ended. “But things are just too crazy right now. I’d let you if I could, obviously. But you know how it is around the holidays.”
The old man swept an arm around his spacious office, which was covered in blinking lights and Christmas decorations. It was also covered in photo after photo of his beloved grandchildren. He had six kids of his own, and they’d produced almost twenty grandchildren so far. I knew most of their names, from our many conversations together. It was just one of the ways he was blessed.
“I’ll come after hours,” I told him quickly. “You know that.”
“Yes, but the hours have been extende—”
“I’ll come aftermidnight.”
He’d been letting me use the foundry for nearly two years now, to cast the bigger pieces that my home operation wouldn’t allow. Back in the loft, I had a lost-wax casting setup that rivaled any non-commercial operation. But when it came to bigger sculptures… my home kiln just wasn’t wide or deep enough.
Mr. Drumm was slack-shouldered and red-faced, obviously upset from having to turn me down. I pressed further.
“I promise…” I pleaded. “I’ll be done with everything way before sunup. Cleanup, too. It’ll be like I was never there.”
“You’d have to puteverythingback,” he said hesitantly. “Reset every single piece of—”
“Yes,” I jumped in. “I will!”
“And you’d use your own materials?” he asked, although he didn’t have to.
