Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Maybe it makes me a terrible person to think that, but I don’t care anymore. He’s not my responsibility. I didn’t sign up to be his mom. That’s a job for his mom.
But Mrs. Royce is, and has always been, an absentee parent. She’s a corporate lawyer, and Eric’s father was a stay-at-home dad before he died. And after he died, Mrs. Royce didn’t cut back on her work hours to spend time with her son. She just kept chugging along without paying a lick of attention to him.
The only effort she made after it became apparent he had a substance-abuse problem was to try to ship him off to Vermont. But Eric refused to go. According to him, he’s not an addict. He simply likes to party “here and there.”
“You don’t sound good,” I tell him. “You’re wheezing.”
“Ah. I have a bit of a cold.”
Is that what we’re calling it these days? “You should try to get some rest, then.” I hear what sounds like a gust of wind. “Are you outside right now?”
“I’m leaving a Dunkin’ Donuts. This rain…it’s crazy, right?”
I stifle a curse. “You didn’t ask me to call you to talk about the rain. What do you need, Eric? What’s going on?”
“I just…” An agonized note enters his voice. “I’m, ah, strapped for cash right now, B. My rent’s due next week and everything in my account is gonna go to cover that, and, you know, that doesn’t leave me much for groceries and, ah, basic shit…”
By “basic shit” I assume he means meth, and anger brews in the pit of my stomach. “You live with your mother,” I remind him. “I’m sure she’ll let you off the hook for this month’s rent.”
“She doesn’t give a fuck,” he mutters. “She said she’ll kick me out if I don’t pay rent.”
“Well, luckily you have enough money to cover the rent,” I remind him. “As for groceries, I’m sure your mom isn’t going to let you starve.”
“Please, I just need like fifty bucks, a hundred tops. Come on, B.”
He isn’t asking for an obscene amount, but I don’t care. He’s not getting a dime from me ever again, especially when I know it’s all going to drugs. Besides, it’s not like I’m rolling in money. I don’t pay tuition, but I still have expenses. Rent, food, “basic shit” that isn’t crystal meth. I have some saved up from waitressing jobs, but I’m not using it to fund Eric’s self-destruction.
“I’m sorry, you know I’d help if I could, but I’m broke,” I lie.
“No, you’re not,” he argues. “I know you have some cash lying around, B. Please. After everything we’ve been through, you can’t just forget about me. We’re in this together, remember?”
“No, we’re not,” I say sharply. “We broke up years ago, Eric. We’re not together anymore.”
Voices echo from a nearby corridor, floating into the lobby. I pray that Summer’s class has finished.
“I’m sorry.” I soften my tone. “I can’t help you. You need to talk to your mom.”
“Fuck my mom,” he snaps.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I have to go now. I’m about to walk into class,” I lie. “But…we’ll talk soon, okay? I’ll call you once things settle down on my end.”
I disconnect before he can argue.
When Summer appears, I paste on a smile and hope she doesn’t notice I’m quieter than usual on the ride home. She doesn’t. Summer can carry a conversation all by herself, and today I’m grateful for that. I think I need to cut Eric out of my life for good. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, but I’m hoping this time it’ll be the last. I can’t keep doing this anymore.
The rain has eased up by the time Summer drops me off at home. “Thanks for the ride, crazy girl.” I smack a grateful kiss on her cheek.
“I love you,” she calls as I dart out of the car.
Friends who say “I love you” every time you part ways are important. Those are the ones you need in your life.
Summer peels out of the driveway, and I round the side of the house toward my private entrance. A short flight of stairs takes me down to my little entryway, and—
Plop.
My boots sink into an ocean.
Okay, not an ocean. But there’s at least a foot and a half of water lapping at the base of the steps.
Sickness swirls in my stomach. Holy shit. The basement flooded. My fucking apartment flooded.
A surge of panic spurs me forward. I slosh through the ocean in my leather boots and assess the damage, horrified by what I find.
The basement has wall-to-wall carpeting—ruined. The legs of the coffee table are underwater—ruined. The bottom half of the couch I bought at a secondhand store is soaked—ruined. My futon—ruined.
I bite my lip in dismay. Luckily my laptop was with me today. And the majority of my clothes are untouched. Most of them are hanging in the closet, well above the ocean, and my shoe rack is one of those tall ones, so only the soles of the shoes on the last shelf are wet. My bottom dresser drawer is full of water, but I only keep PJs and loungewear down there, so it’s not the end of the world. All the important stuff is in the top drawers.