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EMMA
By the time I get to the apartment, I actually feel halfway good about my decision.
Sure, it won’t be easy not knowing when my next paycheck will be, but I have one last life raft left that I’m hoping will hold us over until I find another job.
It’s gonna be okay, Emma. It’s gonna be—
Then I open the door to an apartment that can’t possibly be mine. Because this place is an absolute mess. This can’t be mine—I just cleaned it top to bottom literally a day ago. Did I walk into the neighbor’s place by accident?
But then—
“Auntie Em!”
My heart drops, but I plaster a fake smile on my face and spread my arms as Reagan and Caroline beeline straight for me.
“Hey, you little monsters.” I catch them both, a kid under each arm, and squeeze hard, lifting them off the floor a few feet. Reagan squeals, Caroline giggles, and I try desperately not to burst into tears.
You’re fine. It’s just the stress talking.
The living room is a disaster. The toys I boxed are out of the crate once more, clothes and books are everywhere, and there’s a trail of chip dust covering the floor. From the bright orange stain on the carpet, I’m guessing Cheetos are the culprit here.
“So who wants to tell me what happened here, guys?” I ask when I’ve released them.
Reagan looks around the living room proudly. “Josh had to finish homework, so we played Twister.”
“Twister?”
Reagan’s head bobs up and down. “Yeah, Aunt Phoebe said they have those in Oak-loma.”
“Remind me to thank Aunt Phoebe for that. Where’s your dad?”
“He has a headache.” Caroline pouts. “So he’s resting.”
Right.“Headache.” Another one of Ben’s code words. “Headache” means “hangover,” just like “job fair” means “happy hour” and “doctor’s appointment” means “I ran out of beer, so I went to the bodega to get more.”
“For God’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, “it’s not even six o’clock.”
“Aunt Emma! Can we play Twister with you?”
“How about we play Post-Apocalyptic Clean-up Crew instead?”
Reagan starts booing me, though I’m pretty sure she has no idea what “post-apocalyptic” means, and Caroline starts jumping on the couch, singing a steady stream of “no’s.
My head spins as I retreat to the kitchen. “Oh God, what’s that smell?”
I follow my nose to the stove, where I find my favorite Betty Crocker pan covered in a thick layer of burnt sludge. I couldn’t decipher what it was if my life depended on it. I probably should be grateful the smoke alarm didn’t go off because the landlady always raises a fuss when that happens, but all I can think is,There’s fifty bucks down the drain.
“Did you guys try cooking by yourselves?” I ask the girls when they follow me into the kitchen.
“We said we were hungry, so Dad made us some food,” Caroline explains.
I should’ve known. This has Ben’s fingerprints written all over it.
“Yeah, but it tasted yucky,” Reagan adds, scrunching her button nose up so tight it practically disappears. “So we threw it away.”
“You guys haven’t eaten anything at all?”
Caroline balances herself against the table and kicks her legs up behind her. “Josh made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
