A Second Chance For Love

For as long as I can remember, there’s been an emptiness inside of me. The more I try to ignore it, the deeper it sets into my bones, seeping down, deep down, until it becomes part of me. It’s easy to blame the emptiness on my shitty upbringing. Having to give up my dreams of a future to take care of my brother and sister. Growing up with an addict for a mother and being the one who found her cold, stiff body after an overdose.

But I felt it before then, and sometimes I wonder if the emptiness isn’t empty at all. Maybe it’s darkness, and it’s always been a part of me. And when you have darkness inside of you, you have two choices: hate yourself for it or embrace it.

I chose the latter.

The bathroom door closes with a heavy thud, and I step up to the mirror, pulling out cherry red lipstick from my purse. I carefully apply it, fluff my hair, and stare at my reflection avoiding the tiny bit of judgment my moral compass is giving me. That thing’s been broken for years anyway.

I close my eyes and think of homeless puppies, conjuring up images from those heartbreaking commercials I usually fast-forward through. It doesn’t take much to make myself cry fake tears. If my cards had been dealt a different way, I’d be one hell of an actress.

Fake crying? No problem.

Real crying? I haven’t done it in years. Crying means feeling, and feeling isn’t a luxury I can afford.

My life is such a mess that if I stopped and looked at it—really looked at it—I’d be a blubbering fool.

Tears well in my eyes and I let a few falls, smearing my mascara, before heading back out to the bar. It’s a little afternoon on a Tuesday, and the bar just opened up. It’s inside a swanky hotel, and I can afford exactly half a watered-down whiskey here.

Spotting my target, I take a seat at the bar and order a vodka tonic with top-shelf liquor. I’m getting cocky, perhaps, but I didn’t wear this uncomfortable-as-fuck pushup bra for nothing today.

I slowly sip my drink, crossing my legs and leaning back on the bar stool. I squeeze my eyes shut and more tears roll down my cheeks. Setting the glass down, I angrily wipe them away, looking down at my mobile and shaking my head.

I’m now wearing a pair of worn-out Nikes and have twisted my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. I had to hurry to get to the medical supply store in time to put in the order and have it delivered with tomorrow’s shipment.

I’ve had this wheelchair on hold for weeks now, and after arguing with insurance for days on end, I knew it was either make my father suffer in his current ill-fitting chair that pinches his thighs and causes sores on his lower back, or do whatever I can to get the money to get him this new one before the sores open up and turned into pressure ulcers. Again. We’ve been down this road before and it almost ended his life. The sores get infected and he’s too old and too weak to fight off another infection. It would take me weeks if not months to earn enough from my waitressing job to cover this expensive as fuck wheelchair.

I confirm everything, making double sure the wheelchair will get delivered to the nursing home and then the right patient tomorrow afternoon. The cashier throws out a catty “well you could be there if you’re so worried” that I respond with a glare and a roll of my eyes. I don’t have time for her shit.

The wind picks up, carrying a cool fall breeze with it. It’s the end of September and it’s been unseasonably warm all week. Not that I’m complaining though. The lake-effect snow will be here before we know it, and I’ll be trudging through it to work and back.

But today, though it’s nice enough out to walk, I have enough leftover cash from Blue Suit to take public transportation and buy myself something for lunch. I put on my head mobile and sit at the back of the bus, ignoring the world around me.

A sleeping toddler is tucked under her arm, wearing dirty clothes. They’re both in desperate need of a bath, and suddenly tacos seem irrelevant. I come to a stop, digging the twenty out of my purse.

I get seated in the visitor area and lean back while I wait. My mind begins to wander, and I quickly reel that fucker in. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

“Scar!”

I look up and see my sister quickly walking over.

“Jesus Christ, Heather.” My eyes widen, and I shake my head. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

She flops into the chair with a huff. “I knew you’d hate it.”

Reaching over, I run my fingers through the rough cut. A natural blonde like me, Heather has butchered her long locks into a terrible above-the-shoulders bob with streaks of black and red throughout.

“It looks like a prison haircut.”

“Well, it is a prison haircut. I’m in fucking prison, Scar,” she spits out, nostrils flaring. We glare at each other for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. She reaches over the table and gives me a quick hug, ignoring the C.O. saying us not to touch.

“How are things?” she asks.

“As good as they can be,” I say with a shrug. “I got Father the new chair, and Jason was able to call home a few days ago.”

Heather’s face lights up. “God, I miss that little shit.”

“Me too.” Two years ago, our younger brother shipped off to the Middle East with the Army. I hate that he’s away, but I’m proud of him for making something of himself. He’s the only Smith to do so…so far. We’re a dysfunctional family, but we care about each other something fierce.

“Hey,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning over. “I was talking to one of the girls in here.”

I raise my eyebrows, knowing what comes next. It’s usually a harebrained idea like all of her ideas are, and never ends well for her. Hence why I’m visiting my baby sister in prison.

“And?”

Her lips curve into a smile. “I have a job opportunity for you.”