Page 22

Robin

It’s been four days since that awful meeting with Hayden and his aunt, and I still haven’t checked in with him. In my defense, he has also not reached out to me.

I’ve been brainstorming all day at work, coming up with different ideas for Darlene’s celebration, but nothing feels right. I’m freaking out because the deadline is tight, and I’m way out of my element here.

Kora texted me ideas all morning. So far, she’s suggested a Gothic-themed ball, a pagan witch carnival, and a reverse baptism where guests would be dunked into a black pool. When I humored her and asked how the logistics of that last one would work, she told me I’d figure it out.

It’s been a long day, and I cannot wait to go home and cuddle on the couch with my cat.

I finally lock the doors at five, when our normal business hours end, and swing by my favorite Chinese restaurant on my way home. I’m positive that hot noodles, a long shower, and my pajamas will fix my shitty mood.

As I wait for my food, I hear the sound of a motorcycle speeding by, and I can’t help but wonder if it was Hayden. I shake my head. There are plenty of motorcycles around here. What are the odds it was him? And I don’t care. Or so I tell myself.

I’m so preoccupied that I accidentally knock over the salt and pepper shakers on the counter I’m leaning against. The employee throws me an annoyed look, and I apologize.

God, she hates me, I’m sure.

When I finally get home with my takeout, I spot a big envelope taped to my front door. Confused, I take it inside with me. Mortimer, my chunky orange cat, is waiting for me. As soon as I make eye contact with him, he starts meowing and rubbing himself against my leg.

“Hi, my cute boy. Did you miss me? Did you have a good day?”

I place my things on the floor and lean down to pet him. He starts to purr instantly, and I immediately feel at ease. Mortimer always has that effect on me, no matter how shitty my day was.

“Let’s get you some dinner, Mort.” He follows me into the kitchen, where I give him a can of his favorite wet food. I’m about to grab my food, but although my stomach is growling, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the envelope that was taped to my front door. As I read, panic engulfs me. My heart is beating so fast, and I forget how to breathe.

No, please no.

It can’t be.

My eyes sting, and a heavy weight settles over my chest. I try to steady my breathing, but I’ve never been able to stay calm in stressful situations. A million thoughts race through my mind, and I’m worried I might have a full-fledged panic attack.

I throw the letter to the side and call Kora. She picks up on the second ring, and I know she can instantly tell that I’m not okay from the way I croak her name.

“What’s wrong?”

Two hours later, we’re on our second bottle of the cheap wine Kora brought, a dramatic love ballad blaring from my speakers. I’m flat on my back on my rug, analyzing the light patterns made by the lamp on the ceiling.

It’s been an emotional night. I’ve cried more than I have in a long time, and I feel dizzy. I don’t know if it’s from the wine, the Chinese food, or my panic attack from earlier. It’s probably a combination of all three.

When Kora arrived, she asked if I wanted to talk solutions or if I just wanted to indulge in the alcohol. I chose the latter. Now, a few hours later, I feel like I don’t have a single emotion left in my body. I just feel hollow, which I take as a sign to finally face reality.

“Kora, I hate this.”

“I can’t believe they’re kicking you out. You’re a good tenant.” Kora collapses next to me on the rug and grabs my hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m so sorry. I know how much this place means to you. You’ve turned this into your home.”

I look around my cozy and colorful living room. It’s the first place I’ve lived in by myself. The only place I’ve ever been able to make my own. I never had a stable home growing up. Our finances were stable, but my eccentric mother moved us all the time since she got bored easily. She loved starting over, but as soon as I felt settled, we were already on to the next place. When I finally moved out, and after my short stint in college, I landed in LA, but the city was too big and too expensive for me to find a good permanent home.

My reaction to getting evicted might seem dramatic to most people, but they might not associate their home with the same sense of safety that I do. The idea of packing my things, of potentially not finding another place, is making me nauseous all over again.

“I’ll help you look for a new place. If you don’t find anything, you can always stay with me for a while.”

I give her a weak smile. “Thanks, but Mort and I have collected far too much stuff to move in with you, even temporarily.”

“Worst-case scenario we’ll put your stuff in storage.” She sees my horrified look and quickly continues, “But it won’t come to that. We’ll find you a new place.”

“I know it’s silly, and I knew this was a rental, but I don’t know. It felt like mine. This feels like the first home I’ve ever had. The first time in my life I felt like I settled in somewhere and—” My eyes start to sting, but I don’t want to cry again. “I’m sick of my life always getting uprooted, and there’s never anything I can do about it.”

“You’re not silly. Your feelings are valid. What’s their reasoning for kicking you out, anyway?”