Page 14 of Offside Devil

A key slides into my apartment door and I freeze.

My entire body goes still as I listen to the shuffling feet and movement coming from the hallway.

When the knob twists, I slam into motion. I lunge, breathless, for the knife block on the counter. Then I hold the blade to my pounding chest and stare at the door, waiting.

“Mira?” Taylor’s muffled voice filters through the thin door. “Are you home?”

I’m so relieved I could cry. Actually, a small sob does in fact burst out of me as I lower the knife and wrench the door open.

My best friend is standing on the other side, wearing an effortlessly chic jersey sundress—and, when she spots the knife in my hand, a worried frown. “It’s moments like this that I understand why I’m your only friend. You can’t open the door like that, babe. It’s spooky.”

“I was… cooking.” I spin around and drop the butcher’s knife back into the block.

Taylor Hall breezes past me into the kitchen. She looks at the bare counters, glances in the empty fridge, and lifts one perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Cooking air for dinner? Grim.”

I shrug wordlessly, stuff the knife back where it belongs, and turn away so she can’t see me blush in shame.

Taylor comes stomping after me, though. “I’m serious, Mimi. It’s bleak in here. First, you quit your job. Great! I’m thrilled. You aren’t nice enough to be a good barista and you were overqualified, anyway.”

“Hey! I’m nice!”

She ignores me and carries on. “Then you disappear on me for days. I get it; you’re in mourning or transition or whatever. That’s fine. But this?” She jabs a manicured fingernail at my fridge. “Are you starving yourself or something? Is this a cry for help?”

“I’m not crying for help. I didn’t even know you were coming over,” I mumble.

“Oh, and speaking of me coming over…” She waves the key in the air. “Why doesn’t my key work? Did you change the locks again?”

“It was a building-wide thing,” I lie. “They changed everyone’s locks. I forgot to tell you.”

Taylor drops the useless key on the counter and saunters into the living room. Well, what would be the living room, if I had a couch or a chair or a television. As it is, I have a taped-up bean bag chair someone online was giving away for free and a low coffee table with a stack of quarters taped to one leg. It’s only half as sad as it sounds.

She looks down at the bean bag chair like she expects it to grow legs and crawl away from her. “Be honest with me, babe. Do you need money?”

“No!”

She puts a hand on her hip and fixes me with a glare. “I told you to be honest.”

“And I told you ‘no.’”

“That kitchen is apocalyptic. I’ve learned to live with your college-boy-dorm-room aesthetic, but I can’t live with you starving.”

“I just haven’t been to the grocery store in a few days. It’s fine!”

“You’re so annoying,” she mutters, rolling her eyes to the ceiling like someone up there might lend her a hand. “You’re all weird about accepting money, but what about a recommendation?”

“All you do is give me recommendations,” I complain. “On what couch I should buy, what guys I should date?—”

“I gave up on you ever dating a man or owning a couch ages ago. I’m talking about a job recommendation. I can put in a good word for you. Apparently, someone my dad knows is looking for an in-house nanny.”

I stare at Taylor for a few seconds, blinking. Then: “Not a chance.”

But Taylor isn’t paying any attention to me. “There would be no customers to deal with and you can still hide out inside all day. You’ll get paid for being a recluse.”

“Except for the part where I spent all day with a kid.”

“My dad says this kid is a dream,” she insists. “He’s quiet and polite. It’ll pay well, too.”

I look at my purse on the counter and I swear I hear it taking its desperate final breaths. “How well?”

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