Page 121 of Faking the Goal

It's been like this every year for as long as I can remember, so honestly? It doesn't really bother me anymore.

Okay, fine. Maybe there's a tiny, minuscule, microscopic part of me that wonders what it would be like to have someone to call on Christmas Eve. I wonder what Christmas morning is like when you're surrounded by people who actually love you. I wonder what it's like to wake up to the smell of breakfast instead of an alarm clock, to exchange presents, to argue over which Christmas movie to watch because everyone has a different favorite.

Someone who'd say, Come over, we've got too much food, instead of the stark silence of my apartment and the distant sound of other people's celebrations bleeding through the walls.

Just once... I think it'd be nice to know what that feels like.

My fingers freeze over the keyboard.

Well. That was disgustingly melodramatic.

I wrinkle my nose at myself and shake my head.

"Get a grip, Taylor."

Seriously.

Who has time for existential Christmas crises when rent exists?

Besides, working the holidays has always suited me just fine. The club is always packed this time of year, lonely people tipping way more generously than they normally would. I'll make more money in two weeks than most students make all month, and by the time New Year's rolls around, I'll be too exhausted to care that everyone else spent Christmas making memories while I spent mine carrying trays and dodging grabby hands.

It's worked every year.

It'll work this year too.

I flex my fingers over the keyboard and start typing again, determined to finish the article before midnight.

A noise outside my window makes my head snap up.

It's a scraping sound, like someone dragging something heavy across concrete. I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Listening but there's nothing. I wait five seconds. Ten. The TV continues its background murmuring. I'm about to go back to typing when I hear it again—a soft thud, like something hitting the side of the building.

"Probably a raccoon," I mutter to the empty room. Florida has weirdly confident raccoons. "Or might be the wind."

I push myself off the couch and pad to the window, pulling the curtain aside with one finger. The street outside is empty. The parking lot is empty. The world is empty. Just me and my four empty coffee mugs and my blue-screen face and the distant hum of someone else's life happening somewhere far away from here.

I turn back to the couch just as the TV unleashes a blood-curdling scream that seems to originate from inside my own chest. I actually yelp, slapping a hand over my heart like I'm trying to keep it from leaping out of my ribcage.

"Fuck," I hiss, glaring at the screen where some girl is running from what appears to be a man in a mask. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

My heart is doing jumping jacks. My hands are shaking. I press my palm harder against my sternum and take a deep breath. This is the result of drinking too much coffee. My stomach chooses that moment to let out a long, mournful groan that echoes in the apartment.

"Okay, fine," I tell my stomach. "I hear you."

I need a break. I need food that isn't coffee. I need to not be in this apartment for ten minutes before I start talking to the furniture.

The convenience store is just five minutes away. I pull on a hoodie, shove my feet into sneakers that have seen better days, and grab my wallet and keys. Outside, the night is a little chilly—just enough to make me zip my hoodie all the way up and bury my hands in the pockets as I head toward the convenience store.

The store is brightly lit and aggressively cheerful, with tinsel draped over the doorframe and a plastic Santa nodding at me from the counter. I grab a premade sandwich that looks like it was assembled by someone who has never seen a sandwich before, a bag of chips, and a bottle of water that costs approximately three times what it should. The guy at the register doesn't look up from his phone.

As I step out of the convenience store, my gaze drifts across the street almost on instinct and the Sakura Café's sign glows soft and warm in the darkness. The warm lights spilling through the windows make the place look even cozier tonight. From where I'm standing, I can see rows upon rows of manga lining the shelves, and just beyond them, a couple of customers curled up in the reading area with drinks in their hands, completely lost in whatever world they're currently escaping to.

My feet betray me and carry me a few steps closer. I stand there for a moment, staring through the glass.

God... I'd rather be in there.

I'd rather spend the next four hours reading manga, drinking coffee, and pretending deadlines don't exist instead of going back to my apartment to finish a goddamn feature.

I glance toward the entrance.