I found myself hyperventilating as the internet page loaded on another poor-paying, inflexible, gruelling job that I was still somehow unqualified for despite years of experience just because I didn't have a college degree. My head fell back and my arms slipped limply to my sides, and I stared up at the blank, white ceiling.
This was Michael's fault. If he hadn't shown up out of the blue, I would be at my desk at Levi, Levi, & Burke earning a steady paycheque instead of at home in my pyjamas covered in orange Cheetos dust, burning through my laughable savings. If he hadn't appeared like a ghost from my dreams there on the sidewalk at the airport, I would be thinking about Zara's homework or Zara's winter uniforms or whether Zara needed new shoes or could make the ones she had last another season. Instead I was thinking about him. Him. Him.
I growled in frustration and carded my fingers through my greasy hair I hadn't bothered to wash in four days, seeing as finding a new job took precedence over hygiene for the moment. I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut.
I hated him. I hated what he did to me, to my family. I hated whatever cold, nearly unrecognisable monster he'd become. But mostly I hated that I couldn't stop thinking about him. I hated that I couldn't stop replaying the moment his chest brushed against mine in the tight, hot space of the elevator, our hearts racing each other to destruction. I hated that a part of me, knowing that he was still in the city—my city—wanted to see him again, in a busy crowd maybe, just a glimpse. One more glimpse.
My fingers shook as I clenched my temples. I laughed darkly.
I was like a goddamn junkie. For some reason Michael was a drug to me. He'd been a drug all those years ago, but I'd been cut off, forced to suffer through withdrawal, alone. But I'd just gotten another taste, and fuck, did it taste good. I breathed in deeply as I remembered his eyes locked on mine, filled with anger and frustration and desire. Just like mine.
I wanted one more hit. I longed for it, needed it. Just one more little hit. And I'd be good after that. I lied the lie of any good addict. And just like any good addict, I believed it.
I opened my eyes and reality hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water: the job search, the red-stamped bills, the pink slip from Levi, Levi, & Burke. Frustration welled up inside my chest and with a desperate, hopeless cry I lunged for the computer and shook it with clenched, gritted teeth. I was moments from losing control entirely and ripping it straight from the wall when the front door to the apartment opened and Sandra came in, followed quickly by Zara.
I dropped the computer, whipped around to cover the mess I'd made, and plastered on a smile. I closed off my complicated emotions like closing a closet door. I slammed it shut, bolted the lock, and boarded it up with two-by-fours and heavy-duty nails.
"Hey there!" I said, leaning in a way that I hoped looked casual against the edge of the desk and smiling. "You're home."
"I'm going to make a snack before homework," Zara said, crossing the living room with her usual determined gait.
"Great, honey," I replied, smiling, still smiling.
I waited till Zara's back was turned to me, as she busied herself with her snack in the kitchen, to make sure that she wouldn't see me before letting my smile slip like a tiny crack in the painful plaster mask. Sandra crossed the living room toward me and craned her neck over my shoulder to spy the desk I'd been hiding.
"How you doing, Abbi?" Sandra asked, scanning me with watchful eyes as I allowed myself to sag slightly against the desk.
"Great," I lied, eyeing Zara who was within earshot in the kitchen. "Just great."
Sandra noticed where my attention was and moved closer, lowering her voice. "Really, girl?" she whispered. "You can tell me what's what."
I tugged up the smile as I faced my friend. It was a struggle to do, like getting that last stubborn corner of a fitted sheet on. My lips felt tight, drawn a little too tensely.
"I'm totally fine," I insisted. "I've got a lot of really great job leads. Yeah, some really good ones."
Sandra remained mute, but her eyes narrowed, which communicated more than was necessary.
I huffed in frustration and rolled my eyes. "What?"
Sandra let me stew, just staring at me silently the way she knew would always break me down.
"Sandra, what?"
"You know I'm your best friend, right?"
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yes," I admitted grumpily, like a child.
Sandra rested a hand on my shoulder. "Don't think I didn't see your face when we first came through that door," she said.
Panic welled in my chest and my eyes widened at Sandra. "Did Zara see?" I asked in a desperate hush.
Sandra's eyes were sympathetic. The longer it took her to speak, the faster my heart beat. What if Zara saw? What if she knew I didn’t have it all together? What if she suspected that I was one laggy computer and one distant fling away from breaking down?
"I don't think Zara saw anything," Sandra finally said.
I exhaled shakily. Then frowned when she bit her lip hesitantly.
"What?" I asked, not entirely sure that I wanted to hear whatever it was my friend was thinking.
"It's just that…" Sandra sighed. "It's just that, Abbi, would that really be so terrible?"
I eyed her like she'd just gone insane. "Yes," I answered,
