3

I walk over to Brenda, my sneakers squeaking against the floor like a bad horror movie. Brenda’s just doing her job, sure, but she has this way of getting under my skin—the constant throat clearing, those judgmental eyebrows, that look like she’s tasting something sour.

She dives right in, no warm-up. “Let’s not beat around the bush. You know why I called you over.”

I swallow hard. Yeah, I’m painfully aware. We pre-pay every six months, but with their insane price hike and my stagnant income, this time I’m short. Way short.

“I just need a few days,” I say evenly, tamping down desperation. “You’ll get the full amount by Friday. I swear.”

“Tomorrow. Noon sharp.” She spits out each word aggressively. “No exceptions, Miss Sullivan.”

I’m pretty sure my soul just shriveled but I fight to keep my expression neutral. “Got it. Tomorrow.”

Goodbye, groceries; I enjoyed our time together.

“And don’t forget the late penalty interest,” she tacks on, almost gleefully.

My eye twitches. I imagine Brenda moonlights as a loan shark. It wouldn’t shock me if she’s got a baseball bat tucked away under her desk. “Any chance you could waive the interest just this once? I’m always on time with payments.”

Her response is colder than the Arctic. “Full payment plus penalty, by tomorrow, or your mother will need to find another facility by month’s end.”

I take a step back and force myself to breathe. No way in hell I can come up with it all in twenty-four hours. But I force confidence into my tone. “You’ll get it. No need to threaten eviction.”

Her eyes narrow. “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” I snap.

Heading back to Mom and Grace, I slap on the happiest face I can muster, stifling the panic. I need to figure this out somehow—good COPD care options in my budget aren’t exactly overflowing.

For now, I’ll channel my inner actress and pretend everything’s sunshine.

Mom gives me that look, the one that sees right through me. “All good, honey?”

Part of me wants to laugh hysterically. When’s the last time anything was just plain “good”?

I pat her arm reassuringly. “Ah, just dull admin crap.”

“We were talking about Easter plans,” Grace says, and I quietly bless her for the topic shift. “Maybe we could take Mom out for the day? Rent a car, head to the park if weather permits?”

“Sounds perfect!” I chime in, stomach knotting. That’s assuming our Easter eggs don’t come with a hidden surprise of an eviction notice.

I glance at my watch—we’ve got time left but I’m painfully short on fixing this looming catastrophe. “Got some things to handle, but we’ll swing by on Wednesday, all right?”

We wrap up with hugs, and Grace and I escape. Hitting the streets, I take a deep breath, hoping for a miracle solution to smack me in the face.

It’s going to be fine, I tell myself.

It has to be.

TWO

Lexi

I squint at my bank balance on my laptop, praying some fairy godmother dumped a shitload of cash in there. No such luck. It mocks me with the kind of numbers you’d expect in a two-year-old’s piggybank. Between this shoebox apartment, Mom’s care home, and utilities, I can barely afford Taco Bell.

I do quick mental math, feeling that familiar dread in my stomach. Payday’s still four days away, and let’s be real, my paycheck from Vallure PR isn’t exactly a windfall.

Grace rummages through the fridge, humming tunelessly. Our “deluxe” open plan apartment means the kitchen’s about three steps from the couch. I could flip a coin from the couch and probably knock over a pan.

If she breaks into Frozen one more time, I might snap.

Everything grates my nerves lately.

We’ve tried to make this cramped apartment a home, but it remains a certified shithole. The wallpaper’s peeling, the floors are rising for some freaky reason, crap keeps breaking, and no amount of Target artwork or scented candles can disguise the fact that this apartment is two steps from condemned.

Home sweet home, La Maison du Leak.

Just last week, it was like Niagara Falls in my bedroom, thanks to the genius living upstairs. I’m pretty sure the building is haunted by a vengeful dead plumber. When I called the landlord, he was all Stick a bucket under it until I get off my lazy ass. At least that’s what I heard. Any year now.

I must make some sound of frustration because Grace pauses her noisy fridge ransacking to glance over.

“You okay? Need a snack?” She offers me string cheese. “You’re looking kind of tense.”

“Just reviewing numbers,” I reply tightly, gloom radiating from the screen. “Mom’s payment is due.”

Overdue.

“Ah.” Grace spins around our sad little kitchen, avoiding the peeling floor like she’s in some dance routine. She perches on our wobbly stool. “It’s okay! I can pick up more hours at Stan’s. You want some of that nettle tea I got? It’s really soothing.”

Nettle tea, yeah right. I need a fucking IV drip of Xanax. Or tequila.

Grace only knows the tip of the iceberg when it comes to our money troubles. A few shifts at Stan’s Burger Pit aren’t going to put a dent in this mess. Besides, she already juggles college and twenty hours a week at that dive.

She missed backpacking Europe with her friends, and I hate that she made that sacrifice. Just because I never finished college doesn’t mean Gracie should miss out on life.

“Absolutely not,” I say, probably too sharply. “Your only job right now is focusing on classes and leaving the money stuff to me. I’ve got this.”

Except, I’ve “got this” in a way that twists my gut into knots.

My phone buzzes. The text is short: Outside.

Speak of the devil. Right on time.

Adrenaline spikes through me. Here we go again.

I grab my jacket and head for the door, bracing myself for another night of morally questionable choices.

“Where are you off to?” Grace asks through a mouthful of Lo Mein.

“Just a quick errand. Won’t be long.” I force a smile, feeling like the world’s worst liar.

“You and your ‘errands’ at weird hours . . .”

I shrug, patting her shoulder. “Boring work stuff. I’ll grab something fresh for dinner on the way back. You know that Chinese takeout is ancient, right?”

She smirks. “Bet it’s a secret boyfriend.”

If only she knew. My own personal demon, more like.

It’s better she dreams up romantic tales. The less Grace knows, the better.

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