Page 8 of Little Blue

A black blur darts past the bathroom, rustling the curtain I’ve hung in the place of the missing door. A playful kitty meowl sounds a second later, before a rolled ball of old socks tumbles into the bathroom, black kitty paws stretching under the curtain to catch the makeshift toy. I smile.

No matter how hard life becomes for me, I could never pull the plug and leave Lucy. Not ever.

He doesn’t know it, can’t possibly know it, but he’s saved my life more than once.

Sometimes, I think that’s what hurts the most. The glaring truth that I force myself to keep pressing on, no matter how hard life gets. And life is hard.

But I do it for Lucy.

For my cat, I do what my own father couldn’t do for me, his child.

Toeing the makeshift toy, I line it up and shoot it past Lucy into the living space. The sound of nails on peeling linoleum has my smile stretching wider.

I love him so much.

“You left the party early.” Mr. Bard leans into the reception desk, a wash of too-strong cologne blasting over me in a toxic wave I fight not to cringe against. “Not a party girl?”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

A little white lie can’t harm anyone, right? Better to tell the man I wasn’t feeling good than have him think the money he spent on a party had been spent in vain. At least for me.

“Well.” His eyes sweep my face. “You look like you’re feeling fine now.”

“I am, Mr. Bard, thank you.”

“Hank, Irelynn,” he reminds me firmly. “Please, call me Hank.”

I force a smile. Even though I know it’s brittle and lacking any flicker of brightness, his eyes drop to it and linger until I let it fall flat. Male attention, for the most part, unsettles me.

Or, considering the fact I really have no friends aside from Rae, maybe it’s just attention in general that puts me off. After my father’s suicide, I did my best to stay quiet and out of the way. I’d been so afraid I’d anger my foster parents and be forced to uproot my life yet again that I’d just shut down. I clung to the shadows, to silence, everywhere I went in an attempt not to draw negative attention.

Then I’d been on the street, and any attention drawn to oneself out there is never good.

Ditto the shelter.

Now—well, now I think it’s just how I live.

“I’d hoped to talk to you at the party,” Hank tells me. Unease coils like a snake ready to spring inside my core. Anxiety pricks hot needles down the length of my spine.

I shift in my chair.

“Oh.” Please, just go away.

When I can’t keep eye-contact with him any longer, I look down to my desk at the phone that rings non-stop all day long. I will it to ring now.

It’s my luck that it doesn’t. Luck sucks.

“I’m curious, Irelynn.” He leans in even closer, trying to smother me in cologne. “Are you seeing someone?”

“Me?” Gosh, I sound like one of the squeakers in Mrs. Philips’ lapdog’s toy. The walls of my apartment may as well be paper thin for the things I hear.

Hank leers, eyes dropping to my chest as it rises and falls too fast to feign indifference. He has to see that I’m uncomfortable.

If he leans over the desk any further, he’s going to go ass over teakettle into my lap.

I want to hide under my desk.

Hank’s smile stretches wider, voice dropping to a pitch I do not like. “Yes, you. Are you seeing anyone?”

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