Page 61

Kamden

By 4:30 in the afternoon, I’ve decided I’m not going to work.

By 4:37, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on my shoes.

This is how most decisions in my life seem to go.

There’s the thing I want to do, and then there’s the thing I have to do, and somewhere between the two sits reality, its arms folded, waiting for me to stop pretending I have options.

I lace up one shoe, then the other, fingers inching along the worn canvas, tugging each thread with the effort of lifting weights. My muscles ache with an exhaustion so deep that even this small movement feels like scaling a cliff.

I slept badly again. Not as dreadfully as Thursday night, when every time I closed my eyes I saw Wade die, but badly enough that the handful of hours I did get feel thin and useless, like cotton candy spun around an empty core, never reaching the part of me that really needs rest.

Mom kept me outside for ten minutes last night because, apparently, taking the trash out too slowly constitutes “being dramatic.” I still don’t understand how walking to the bins and back was too slow. Maybe she would’ve preferred I run? I don’t know. I do know that she’ll find an issue with whatever I do, though. I can never please her, no matter how hard I try to.

I didn’t fall asleep until after two.

Now my eyes feel packed with sand, my legs are heavy, and my whole body has developed that strange floating ache I get when I’m overtired, where everything is technically functioning, but none of it feels fully attached.

I glance toward the window. The heavy curtains—once creamy white—are drawn shut, trapping the room in dusky silence. They’ve been closed since yesterday.

My work shirt hangs from the back of my desk chair. I pull it over my head and smooth the fabric down automatically, then reach for my apron and tie it around my waist.

My shift starts at 5:30. I’m closing tonight, which means I won’t step out of those fluorescent lights until after eleven if the evening goes smoothly. If it doesn’t—if a rush hits, the register jams, or a customer storms off in a huff—I’ll be lucky to see midnight. The thought makes me want to crawl back under the comforter and disappear until tomorrow.

But I leave my room anyway, because I need the hours.

Everything I want requires money, and money only appears when I work.

Mom stands smoking beneath the stove hood, the fan on even though it barely works. Her keys are beside her elbow.

I shift my gaze to her face, then quickly away, fixing it on a water stain on the linoleum floor. The question builds anyway, taking shape like a knot in my throat.

Can I borrow the car tonight?

No.

Would you mind dropping me off?

Also no.

Not because I know she’d say no—she might even agree, might even shrug and say sure—but because asking means opening a door to a room full of questions. Why not the bus? Why are you so jumpy? Since when are you scared of walking? Do you think gas is free? You gonna pay me back? Why is everything such a goddamn production with you? Even a yes would come with interest, paid in sidelong glances and clipped comments for days.

I decide the bus is cheaper.

“Going to work?” she asks without looking up.

“Yeah.”

“What time you done?”

“Closing.”

She grimaces. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Bring something home.”