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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.
I look at the screen. It’s a number I don’t know.
Normally, I wouldn’t answer an unknown number.
Especially after the creepy hang-ups months back, and the strange music always playing.
I know I shouldn’t answer it.
But I’m waiting for some information for grad school, so I really don’t have the luxury of sending any calls to voicemail.
The thought of not getting into a grad program after everything I have endured to get here is not something I want to think about, so I pick up the phone, still not convinced it isn’t one of Trent’s mouth-breathing lackeys again, trying to scare me.
“Hello,” I answer, but I’m not expecting anyone to respond, so when I hear the rough voice on the other side of the line, I stop walking.
“Payton,” a gravelly voice says.
“Yes—who is this?”
“It’s Brad.”
It takes me a few seconds to realize who Brad is, but when I do, my stomach clenches tightly.
He’s never called me before.
Why is my sister’s boyfriend calling me?
“Is everything okay with Erin?” I reply, my voice tight with dread.
The air in my lungs spills out with relief that it’s not a prank call, followed shortly by momentary panic. It’s rooted deep inside me, just from speaking to him. His mere voice sets me on edge.
