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I can’t lie. I’m excited. This project might be the one that ends up making my career. Maybe it’ll be the project that finallygets Cynthia to understand just how much I do for her, how much Zensi Designs needs me, how muchsheneeds me.
It’s doubtful — I’ve had this thought before — but this is definitely the biggest project that’s ever landed in my lap. If Cynthia’s ever going to change her ways, it’s going to be because of The August Roomand Finn Hawthorne.
The fact that the future of my career potentially lies in the hands of someone like him doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. His reluctance to spend what my time and effort is worth doesn’t put him high up on my list of people I want to work closely with. From experience, clients who get cagey about the budget are always the worst. They’re the ones who are never satisfied and always want more even though they’re paying for less.
Finn Hawthorne hasnightmare clientwritten all over him. But I’ve been in this industry for seven years now and I’ve met plenty of men like him. He’s nothing special, and I know how to handle clients like him.
By the time I get home, it’s just gone nine.
I say home, but it’s notmyhome. Not really.
As soon as I push open the door, my mother’s voice comes floating from the living room.
“Be quiet! Your brother is sleeping.”
I roll my eyes, thankful that she can’t see me, and bite down the urge to let her know she’s being louder than I am right now. I kick off my heels and pad toward the living room. My mother and her husband are curled up on the sofa together watching last week’s episode ofThe Apprentice.
Patrick, her husband, glances up at me as I enter. They’ve been together since I was ten, so he’s really my stepfather, but I’ve never heard him refer to me as his stepdaughter before, so I’m only returning the favour. I’m always just Amber orMichelle’s daughterwhen he talks about me, so he’s just Patrick ormy mother’s husbandto me.
“It’s late,” he says, and I have to assume that’s the only greeting I’m going to get from him. “Where have you been?”
How many 28-year-olds have to deal with this level of interrogation every time they come home?
“Work,” I say curtly. I let my unsaid “obviously” hang heavy in the air.
Patrick frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he nudges my mother with his elbow and she finally glances over at me.
“You left the house at seven this morning and it’s just gone nine!” Her lips thin into a frown. “I just don’t understand what you’re doing all day. Carlton, Angeline’s boy, works twelve-hour shifts, buthe’sa doctor.”
“And he’s bringing home good money,” Patrick chimes in.
My mother nods enthusiastically. “Exactly. Do you know he bought Angeline a carfor her fiftieth? A nice one too.”
They stare pointedly at me, and I grit my teeth. “Well, I’ve still got six years left until your fiftieth, don’t I? Plenty of time to save.”
My mother snorts. “Not on that salary there isn’t. And besides, you’re meant to be saving for your own place.”
I want to scream, “Then why mention the fucking car?” But I don’t. Not this time anyway. I’ve done it before, given into my urges to throw their ridiculous logic back into their faces, and it’s not ended well for me.
“We’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Patrick says. “Are you still on track to be out by the end of the year?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” my mother asks. “Because you said that last year, and you’re still here.”
This is what I mean when I say this isn’t my home. It can’t be. Home is supposed to be where the heart is, and there’s no heart in here for me.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a recession going on,” I say. I immediately regret the tiny ounce of sass I throw them, because Patrick’s eyes narrow. “But Iamon track, and I’ll be gone by the end of the year. I promise.”
I’m hoping I’ll be gone in a few months actually, but they don’t need to know that. I’m so close to leaving, I’m not jinxing anything.
Patrick gives me a satisfied nod and they turn back to the TV. I’ve been dismissed.
I dip into the kitchen and make myself a quick bowl of instant noodles and baked beans — a disgusting delicacy that I stand by — and then hurry up to my room. It’s the smallest room in the house and, even though I pay rent each month, Patrick refuses to give up his “office” and swap with me. It’s irritating, but I don’t really mind. The space is small, but it’smine. And when you don’t have much, you cling to what you can get.
I pass by my younger brother’s room and peek my head inside.
As expected, he’s not sleeping. He’s sitting up in the bed, Nintendo Switchin hand, playing what sounds likeMario Kart.He dives under his blanket as soon as the door squeaks open, but he’s not fast enough.
