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I bite back a smile and drop to the sofa. Bad idea. Soft cushions and warm nostalgia engulf my aching muscles like a hug, and for a brief moment, my lids flutter shut. After three years of living in a shitty studio apartment that shares a wall with a crack den, I can now appreciate how good I had it having Matt as a neighbor for the few months I lived here. The night I got the keys for my place, he knocked on my door armed with beer and a boatload of stories about the toxic couple who lived upstairs. As far as men go, he’s great. Easy to talk to, doesn’t have a wandering eye, and is stoned into tranquility most weekends. He teaches Physical Education and ice hockey at the posh academy in Devil’s Hollow, and if I bet a stranger a million dollars if they could guess his profession in three tries, I’d be in a hell of a lot of debt. He has surfer-dude hair, likes his clothes baggy and NHL-branded, and he says annoying things like, “Just chill, man.”
In an attempt to stay awake, I force my eyes open and focus on the television screen in the corner of the room. There’s a news reporter talking at me, both expression and tone sinister. My gaze catches on the scene she’s standing in front of. On the burning building and the thick tendrils of smoke melting into the dark sky above it.
Immediately, my throat tightens.
Matt appears in the doorway, a set of keys dangling from his forefinger. He glances at the screen. “Fire at a casino in Atlantic City. Think someone spent too much on the slot machines and wanted revenge?”
My fingers claw at the doughy seat on either side of me. It’s made national news? Shit. “Mm. Maybe.”
“The police seem to agree with me.”
“What?”
“Earlier, they were saying they suspect it’s arson, not like, sketchy wiring or anything.”
My palms may be sweaty, but my blood runs ice-cold. “Arson.”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” His gruff laugh floats across the living room and touches my clammy skin. His mouth is still moving but I’m not listening, because now, I’m suddenly too aware of my stench—a cocktail of smoke and sin. Because now, all I can hear are those stupid words again.
Your sins will catch up with you eventually, Little P. They always do.
No. I’m safe here. Dip is quiet, and nobody saw me leave, let alone where I went.
“Hey, you okay?”
I manage a nod, mutter something about being tired, and rise to my feet.
“Here, let me grab your stuff,” he says, snatching up my suitcase.
I follow him across the hall, half-listening as he says something about the lock being stiff, and then we’re standing in the entryway to my old apartment.
Matt fist bumps a light switch, flooding the space with a stale yellow glow. I take it all in through one cautious eye, bracing myself for the worst. It’s been untouched for three years, so I’m half-expecting the ceiling to have sunken in, or for rats to have taken over the bedroom.
Instead, it’s frozen in time underneath a thin layer of dust. Nothing’s changed. The hallway is still the size of a prison cell and as haphazardly painted. It leads to the living room which isn’t much bigger. The two-seater sofa I bought off Craigslist has held up well. It faces a television set so old it has a dial on the front of it. I drop my gaze to the stained gray carpet, and make a vow to give it a good vacuum before I walk on it barefoot.
“It’s just as I left it,” I announce, warm relief flaring up inside my rib cage.
“It is? Jesus Christ,” Matt mutters. I turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, bewilderment smeared on his face. “You could have told me squatters took over the place and I’d have believed you. I’d forgotten how…shitty it was in here.”
I laugh and shake my head. When alcoholism took hold of my parents, our town house began to rot. The floral wallpaper wilted, and the granite kitchen counters lost their sheen, no matter how often I went at them with soapy water. I did what I could with stolen cleaning products and a bit of elbow grease, but there’s only so many times you can scrub your mother’s sick from the living room carpet before it leaves a lingering smell. There were only so many times I could force myself to care, too.
After they were shot, I bounced between foster homes for the next five years, staying in sterile rooms made for the occasional house guest, not orphaned teens. The day I turned eighteen, I got a call from a lawyer. Between the vodka shots and the incoherent arguments, my parents hadn’t had time to write a will, but apparently, they’d had enough smarts to put money in an off-shore bank account for when I became of legal age. It was a bullshit story but I didn’t care to dig deeper, because there was just enough money in there for me to buy this place. I only stayed for a few months before I packed up my shit and took a Greyhound to pastures new. I followed the bright lights from one coast to another and ended up in Atlantic City. My studio apartment there had the kind of mold that makes your lungs burn in the morning, so I’m kind of happy to be home.
Matt’s gaze follows me as I cross the room and run my hand over the glass dining table pushed up against the far wall. I inch back the curtain and peer down at the cobbled street below. There’s the bakery opposite, and if I push my nose up against the glass and look right, I can make out the red, plastic booths of the diner.
That’s the thing about Devil’s Dip. Nothing ever changes.
“What brought you back to town, anyway?”
The muscles in my back tense. Truth is, when I scooped my life into a suitcase and left Atlantic City, returning to the Coast was the last thing on my mind. I didn’t consider it until I hopped off the bus that took me as far as Portland. Shivering under a bus shelter and at a loss as to where to go next, I typed in quietest towns on the West Coast into Google. Devil’s Dip was number three on Wendy Wanderlust’s travel blog. Coincidentally, there was a bus leaving for Devil’s Cove in less than thirty minutes, and the price of the ticket amounted to the exact change I had in my pockets.
That’s the type of luck that has summed up my life.
“Missed the amazing weather,” I reply dryly.
He chuckles. “Yeah? You got a job yet?”
That’s my next hurdle: finding a job in Devil’s Dip. It’s going to be near-impossible, because in a small town, there’s only one of everything. One grocery store, one diner, one pizza place. It seems like the people who work in these establishments cling onto their jobs for dear life, and the only time there’s ever a vacancy is when someone dies or retires.
