Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Well, I’m headed home.” I sling my purse over my shoulder. “See you later.”
A raised hand is all I get. No goodbyes. Typical Johnny.
I’ve learned not to expect more from him than two minutes of feigned interest before I leave. In fact, I appreciate it. There are few things I can count on in this city, and Johnny being Johnny is one of them.
I swing open the door, blending into the crowd within seconds. Hours of running from table to table weigh down my steps. I trudge through the busy streets. Everywhere I look, a flurry of movement flashes, people rushing past in a blur of hurried energy. The volume of their voices overwhelms me. Sometimes, the thing I dream of most is escaping this oppressive city. More than I want my next meal. More than I want to play the cello at Juilliard. More than I want my brother to be clean after all these years.
The sun shines brightly, but I feel engulfed by shadows. Weaving my way in and out of the typical midday foot traffic, I narrowly miss a head-on collision with a man whose face hovers a mere inch from his phone.
“Watch it,” he snarls, not even bothering to glance up.
Apparently, he missed the fact that he was the one to swerve onto my side of the path. It takes everything in me not to fling a coupon to the optometrist at his feet. (Yes, in addition to being broke, I have devolved into a coupon hoarder. Not the glamorous life I expected to live at twenty-one, but what can you do?)
“Asshole.” It’s spoken under my breath. Thankfully, he doesn’t hear it, because I can’t afford a fight today. Or any day. I’m barely functioning as is.
Today is a typical day in New York City. People tend to be prickly, especially in the afternoon when they’re stuck in the drudgery of their less-than-fulfilling careers.
City of dreams, my ass.
After a few blocks, I make it home. Walking through my front door doesn’t have the soothing effect one would hope for. Today, the walls feel like they’re closing in on me, and I haven’t even been here for more than a second.
At only two hundred square feet, my studio is too small, but it’s all I can afford. Just the sight of the dreary place is enough to remind me of the meager tips dancing inside my purse. If I’m being thrifty, it’ll pay for whatever mystery meat is on sale at the local market, but nothing more. Which is the only reason I can’t move out of the city. Well…the second reason. The first is that I don’t have enough money for a car. Call me spoiled, but trekking tens of miles to work by foot just isn’t in the books for me at this particular stage in my life.
Palming my phone, I hover over the three missed calls from Roman. It’s been two days, and I still haven’t dismissed the notifications. Something about them lingers in my mind like an inoperable tumor. I can’t shed my worry like I normally do. Can’t excise the chunks of fear edging their way into my brain.
My brother never calls. Ever. Certainly not three times in one day. And for good reason. I’ve asked him not to. Demanded it, actually. His propensity for trouble, specifically with drugs, drove us apart years ago.
The fact that he left a voicemail has my stomach doing somersaults. Sweat beads on my brow. I swipe it off, wondering whether I should call him back. What trouble has he gotten himself into now? Better question—is it worth letting him re-enter my life over?
Finally, I cave, pressing the play button on the voicemail.
So weak. And you swore you’d never entertain him again.
Roman’s voice rasps through the speaker. “Sash, it’s me. You said not to call, but this is serious. I need you to call me back. I have something I need to tell you. Please.”
The line goes dead. I can’t help but fixate on his tone. He sounded nervous.
Desperate.
He needs money for his next fix.
Money I don’t have and wouldn’t give him even if I did.
I set my phone back in my purse, throw it onto the outdated yellow chair in the corner, a thrift store find that’s not wearing well, and head into my room.
To my one happiness in life. My cello.
A gift from Roman.
The brother you’re turning your back on.
“Ugh,” I yell, breaking the silence.
Only Roman can manage to invoke such emotion from me, despite our estrangement.
Though we haven’t talked in years, I can’t help but worry about him.
We were close once. Very close.
I shake off thoughts of Roman and return to my cello. I should practice now that I’m home from work, but my fingers feel like they need surgical removal from my hands, which feel like they need surgical removal from my arms, and so forth. At this point, a total body transplant is the only solution to recover from the fatigue.