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But this is the last room, and I’ll be damned if I’m putting all the hard work I’ve already done to waste. I start by putting on a fresh pair of gloves and picking all the glass shards off the counter, but the floor is too clumped with grime for the broom to collect what’s on the floor, so I end up getting down and taking care of that by hand, too.
What’s left of the mirror also goes into the trash bag, and I’ll make a note that they’ll have to get a new one anyway. All of the clothes on the floor go into a separate trash bag because no matter how disgusting it is, I’m not risking withheld payment because they wanted to wash and wear old, mildewed clothing.
Bleach fumes are making me light-headed by the time my phone rings an hour later, and I almost don’t answer in time with how long it takes me to climb out of the tub, rip off the gloves and bandana, and dig the phone out of my bag right outside the room.
I spot Atlas’ name right away and grin as I accept the call. “I’m going to sign you up for a modeling gig.”
Boisterous laughter carries down the line, lightening the load in my chest in an instant. “You can thank Ryder for that one. It’s a hobby of his apparently.”
“Hmm.” I lean my hip on the counter and wrap one arm around myself. “You look good, A.”
He’s quiet, but I hear the nervous chuckle under his breath. “Can I get one in return?”
“Oh, absolutely not.” When I don’t get a response, I frown. “Not because I don’t want to, but this house is a train wreck. I’ve laced this place with so much roach spray I’m going to need thirty showers tonight.”
He makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “How long do you have left?”
I look around at the mess I’ve hardly made a dent in and scrub my palm down my face. “Hours? At best? I’m not exaggerating, Atlas. This is years of neglect. Kids use this damn bathroom.”
“Call it.”
“Call it?”
“Yup. Pack up. Tell them you did your best. Get your money, and be done with it.”
I sigh and press into my temple. “I can’t just stop. I’m being paid to make it acceptable for a home check.”
“That’s not sketchy at all.”
“I need the money.”
“No.” Atlas’ voice is hard, and it takes me back. “Your sperm donor needs the money, and you need to stop enabling him.”
Feeling a headache forming behind my eyes, I peer into the shit-filled toilet and seriously consider packing up and going home, but the sharp tug in my chest at the thought stops it in its tracks.
“I’m not enabling him. We’re family. This is what family does. I’d do the same thing for you and Shiloh.”
“You know for a fact that man wouldn’t go through any of this shit for you. He threw a fucking beer bottle at you! He was always a miserable ass, but I’ve never seen—”
“Because I bore it,” I snap, the throbbing starting. “I took his shit so no one else had to. Now that he doesn’t have me as his physical and emotional punching bag all of the time, he’s got to take it out on whoever he can whenever he can. Yes, he’s a fucking asshole, but he’s my dad and I’m not abandoning him.”
“Blair.” His voice is slow, careful. “Sometimes we have to do shitty things for the people we love. You doing all of this... it’s not helping him get his shit together. As long as he knows that you’re going to pay his bills, clean his house, whatever the hell else you do—he’s never going to do it for himself.”
“That’s rich coming from someone who lets Shiloh walk all over him. When’s the last time you told him to cool it with the dares? Or told him, hey, maybe he shouldn’t go out to these parties and drink himself into a goddamn coma? How many manic episodes have you missed because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings and tell him to take his fucking meds?”
“What the fuck, Blair?” Hurt is wound deep in his voice, but floaters are filling my vision and I can’t bring myself to care. “I’m not his keeper.”
“Yes, you are!” I shout, immediately regretting it when my head pounds. I cover my eyes and slide to the floor, tucking my knees up to press my face to them and block out the light. “You are,” I say softer. “You might not mean to be, but you are, and he knows what he can get away with. I wish I could keep a closer eye on him, but I...”
I’m tired. My head hurts. I know I’m being an ass, but I don’t know how to stop. Shutting my goddamn mouth is probably a good step.
“Are you okay?” Atlas’ voice is low—quiet—and I appreciate the reprieve. “B?”
“No,” I say, barely above a mumble. “I’m exhausted. There’s mold and shit everywhere. The bleach is giving me a headache. I want to go home and sleep this shit off.”
“Stop doing this to yourself,” he pleads in earnest. “Want me to come get you?”
“You’ve got class soon, don’t you?”
