The place is a dump. A five-hundred-square-foot absolute shithole, but it’s a step up for me. I’ve gone from sharing a one-hundred-square-foot cell with a roommate, to living in transitional housing with six roommates, to a five-hundred-square-foot apartment I can call my own.
I’m twenty-six years old, and this is the first time I’ve ever officially lived somewhere alone. It’s both terrifying and liberating.
I don’t know if I can afford this place after the month is up, but I’m going to try. Even if that means applying to every business I walk past.
Having my own apartment can only serve to help as I plead my case to the Landrys. It’ll show I’m independent now. Even if that independence will be a struggle.
The kitten wants down, so I put her on the floor in the living room. She walks around, crying out for whoever she left downstairs. I feel a pang in my chest as I watch her searching corners for a way out. A way back home. A way back to her mother and siblings.
She looks like a bumblebee, or something out of Halloween, with her black and orange splotches.
“What are we going to name you?”
I know she’ll more than likely be nameless for a few days while I think about it. I take the responsibility of naming things very seriously. The last time I was responsible for naming someone, I took it more seriously than I’ve ever taken anything. That could have been because the whole time I sat in my cell during my pregnancy, all there was to do was think about baby names.
I chose the name Diem because I knew as soon as I was released, I was going to make my way back here and do everything in my power to find her.
Here I am.
Carpe Diem.
CHAPTER TWO
LEDGER
I’m pulling my truck into the alley behind the bar when I notice the nail polish still on the fingernails of my right hand. Shit. I forgot I played dress-up with a four-year-old last night.
At least the purple matches my work shirt.
Roman is tossing bags of trash into the dumpster when I exit the truck. He sees the gift sack in my hand and knows it’s for him, so he reaches for it. “Let me guess. Coffee mug?” He peeks inside.
It’s a coffee mug. It always is.
He doesn’t say thank you. He never does.
We don’t acknowledge the sobriety these mugs symbolize, but I buy him one every Friday. This is the ninety-sixth mug I’ve bought him.
I should probably stop because his apartment is full of coffee mugs, but I’m too far in to give up now. He’s almost at one hundred weeks sober, and I’ve been holding on to that one-hundredth-milestone mug for a while now. It’s a Denver Broncos mug. His least favorite team.
Roman gestures toward the back door of the bar. “There’s a couple inside harassing other customers. You might want to keep an eye on them.”
That’s odd. We don’t normally have to deal with unruly people this early in the evening. It isn’t even six o’clock yet. “Where are they sitting?”
“Next to the jukebox.” His eyes fall to my hand. “Nice nails, man.”
“Right?” I hold up my hand and wiggle my fingers. “She did pretty good for a four-year-old.”
I open the back door of the bar and am met with the grating sound of my favorite song being slaughtered by Ugly Kid Joe through the loudspeakers.
Surely not.
I walk through the kitchen and into the bar and immediately spot them. They’re hunched over the jukebox. I quietly make my way over to them and see she’s punching in the same four numbers again and again. I look over their shoulders at the screen while they giggle like mischievous children. “Cat’s in the Cradle” is set to play thirty-six times in a row.
I clear my throat. “You think this is funny? Forcing me to listen to the same song for the next six hours?”
My father spins around when he hears my voice. “Ledger!” He pulls me in for a hug. He smells like beer and motor oil. And limes, maybe? Are they drunk?
My mother backs away from the jukebox. “We were trying to fix it. We didn’t do this.”
“Sure, you didn’t.” I pull her in for a hug.
They never announce when they’re going to show up. They just appear and stay a day or two or three and then head out in their RV again.
Their showing up drunk is new, though. I glance over my shoulder, and Roman is behind the bar now. I point to my parents. “Did you do this to them, or did they show up this way?”
Roman shrugs. “A little of both.”
“It’s our anniversary,” my mother says. “We’re celebrating.”
“I hope you guys didn’t drive here.”
“We didn’t,” my father says. “Our car is with the RV in the shop getting routine maintenance, so we took a Lyft.” He pats my cheek. “Wanted to see you, but we’ve been here two hours waiting for you to show up, and now we’re leaving because we’re hungry.”
“This is why you should warn me before you drop into town. I have a life.”
“Did you remember our anniversary?” my father asks.
“Slipped my mind. Sorry.”
“Told you,” he says to my mother. “Pay up, Robin.”
My mother reaches into her pocket and hands him a ten-dollar bill.
They bet on almost everything. My love life. Which holidays I’ll remember. Every football game I’ve ever played. But I’m almost positive they’ve just been passing the same ten-dollar bill back and forth for several years.
My father holds up his empty glass and shakes it. “Get us a refill, bartender.”
I take his glass. “How about an ice water?” I leave them at the jukebox and make my way behind the bar.
I’m pouring two glasses of water when a girl walks into the bar looking somewhat lost. She glances around the room like she’s never been here before, and then when she notices an empty corner at the opposite end of the bar, she makes a beeline for it.
I stare at her the entire time she’s walking through the bar. I stare at her so hard I accidentally overfill the glasses and water goes everywhere. I grab a towel and wipe up my mess. When I look at my mother, she’s looking at the girl. Then at me. Then at the girl.
Shit. The last thing I need is for her to try to set me up with a customer. She tries to play matchmaker plenty when she’s sober, so I can’t imagine how bad the tendency might be after a few drinks. I need to get them out of here.
I take the waters to them and then hand my mother my credit card. “You guys should go down to Jake’s Steakhouse and have dinner on me. Walk there so you can sober up on the way.”
“You are so nice.” She clutches at her chest dramatically and looks at my father. “Benji, we did so well with him. Let’s go celebrate our parenting with his credit card.”
“We did do well with him,” my father says in agreement. “We should have more kids.”
“Menopause, honey. Remember when I hated you for an entire year?” My mother grabs her purse, and they take the glasses of water with them as they go.
“We should get rib eye since he’s paying,” my father mutters as they walk away.
I release a sigh of relief and then make my way back to the bar. The girl is tucked quietly into the corner, writing in a notebook. Roman isn’t behind the bar right now, so I’m assuming no one has taken her order yet.