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“No. What about me? Can I do anything else around the apartment?”
Josh releases me and smiles. “No. Not tonight. You’ve cleaned up the place well.” He looks around the sparkly clean kitchen then back at me. “I don’t think there will be much left for the cleaners to do.”
“It’s the least. You’ve done so much for me.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Get some sleep, Sis. I’m exhausted and you must be, too. We’ll catch up in the morning.”
“Alright.”
We turn off the lights and head to our rooms. But I can’t sleep yet. There’s too much on my mind. The stress of everything is freaking me the fuck out.
I change into a pair of tattered PJs and prop myself against the stack of pillows on my old bed. As I rest my head the swirling patterns on the ceiling greet me and when I shuffle onto my side my gaze lands on my collection of classical literature and music books on the shelf.
This apartment holds the rest of my belongings and special memories. Memories I cherish for the simple fact that I remember them.
I lived here throughout my senior year at high school and six more months after. I was still in rehab at the start of freshman year at UCLA, so I started in the spring semester and caught up over the summer. I don’t have any other breaks in my studies but it feels like I’m a year behind everyone else, as I’ll finish college when I’m twenty-three.
Josh got this place when he was eighteen. I don’t remember, but he told me he couldn’t wait to move out of our family home. Clarissa, our stepmother, had been a world-class bitch who made our lives hell.
I’m glad I don’t remember those parts of my life or her getting married to my father. The few months I had to deal with her after Dad’s death were more than enough.
The other painful thing I don’t remember is my mother’s passing. After the accident I woke up from a coma still believing she was alive, but I’d lost her when I was fourteen. Mom had a rare lung disease that was incurable.
When Dad told me she was gone the pain I felt was like pouring acid into an already festering wound. Then, in the samebreath, I discovered that he had chronic heart failure and only had months to live.
My chest tightens at the memory and I grab the nearest pillow to press it against me in an attempt to hold in the pain that still feels fresh.
I guess I’m thinking about my parents and the past because the version of myself that existed back then hadn’t fucked up her life yet.
The worst thing I’d ever done at that point was throw myself at Asher.
On that humiliating night I poured my heart out to him, hoping for something more than friendship, only to be met with a pitying look.
He said I was like a sister to him. Asister. The word echoes in my mind, sharp and cold. That was when I left.
It’s funny I remember running toward my car and driving away but I don’t remember the actual accident.
Maybe there’s a reason for that. I was told it was a head-on collision. I don’t think I’d ever be able to drive again if I remembered.
I know I’m lucky to be alive. The strong part of me is trying to give me the pep talk I’ve fueled my mind with for years.
In a Wonder Woman voice it says that if I can make it through so many nightmares, I can make it through anything, including my current disaster.
I just don’t know how.
I’ve never had to dodge loan sharks before and I’ve never owed anyone money.
This is my first debt. I don't even have a credit card.
Foolishly I listened to stupid Nick when he wanted us to get a house together.
We got together at the start of my sophomore year. Nick was a music manager who managed big-label bands. He intriguedme from the get go because he was almost ten years older than me, was successful, and truly swept me off my feet.
After almost a year of dating we moved in together in his apartment. Six months later he suggested buying a house together. I was so excited to own a home with him I missed all the warning signs that something was wrong.
The first red flag reared its head when he asked if I could get a loan for a deposit in my name. He said he had bad credit and would be turned down.
I thought nothing of it. I’d always had good credit and at the time had secured a six-month internship with a theater. I was part of their orchestra and my work with them would go toward my college credits.
