Page 61 of Broken Pact

Which means, if I can’t find my keys . . . they’re not in here.

“Shit.” I let my head fall back and close my eyes against the night sky. “I must’ve left them at the bakery.”

Which means I can’t even get inside the bakery to retrieve them because I put the new bakery keys on my house keychain. I shake my head, annoyance flaring inside my gut. If I wasn’t so distracted by thoughts of Jasper all the time, then I wouldn’t have been so careless.

I don’t think I’ve ever locked my keys in the bakery, in all my years of working in one.

My frustration burns even further when I realize that I’m blaming Jasper for something that has literally nothing to do with him. I don’t think I like what that says about me. And this fake relationship.

This fake relationship that doesn’t feel all that fake.

Bone-deep exhaustion makes my limbs feel heavy, like they’re slowly sinking into the cement porch. The only thing I want to do is crawl into my bed and sleep for the next eight hours.

Between the new relationship and psyching myself up to approach my brother about my new landlord problem, I’m more tired lately. It’s that kind of post-anxiety exhaustion.

I’d pulled Beau aside last night and asked him for a small loan, just until the one at the bank goes through. He agreed immediately, promised it wasn’t a big deal, but I can’t shake the guilt that wraps around my belly like a lead donut.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and tap it against my thigh. “Who should I call?” I mull over the options.

If Jasper was really my boyfriend, then I would call him, right? But we’re mostly doing those couple-y things for show. And there’s literally no one around right now, except for Mrs. Ventura across the street. I know she’s sitting right next to the window of her place, her silhouette visible. I swear that woman never leaves her house. Every time I’ve ever looked across the street, she’s there. Her silhouette stark against the lacy curtains on her second floor.

Maybe I should consider giving her a key. She’d always be home in case we got locked out again. I tap my phone against my thigh, contemplating what to do now. I can’t call the locksmith again. Not after hours at least. I don’t want to pay those prices.

But that’s a problem for future-Cora. Present-Cora needs to remember who all I gave spare keys to, and more importantly, are they home.

After I figure out how to get inside, I’m going to make sure I give spare keys to people who are actually home often. Who don’t ask too many questions like my parents most definitely would.

I can just picture my mom’s furrowed brow as she looks at me over the top of her readers, dressed in a fluffy yellow bathrobe. She’d tell me to call the landlord to let me in and then it’d spiral into this whole big thing, and I’d end up spilling everything.

And the last thing I need is for my parents to get involved. I can handle the landlord problem just fine on my own. Mostly.

With Beau’s monetary assistance, at least.

“Forget something, girlie?”

The booming voice startles me, and I flinch hard. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but there’s a quiet lull then. Like the insects and birds and nocturnal creatures still, as if they’re waiting to see what’s going to happen now. Almost like they can collectively sense something isn’t right.

I spin on my heel, facing my front lawn. My heart beats an unsteady rhythm inside my chest, giving credence to the fear floating around inside my skin like a horde of untethered balloons.

“Who’s there?”

They materialize like figures from some kind of B-grade horror flick, walking in tandem from the side of my house.

Chad and Ernie.

The two assholes who were with my new landlord.

“Oh fuck,” I curse under my breath.

They stalk toward me between the oversized river birch tree and the hydrangea bushes, their features shrouded in shadows. But I don’t need to see their faces to feel the menace rolling off of them. It’s big and heavy, intense enough to drown me if they get too close.

I shuffle backward a step, a small consolation to their big strides eating away at the distance between us. The sides of my phone dig into my fingers and palm, my grip so tight it feels like I’m going to have permanent etches of the volume buttons on my fingers.

“What are you doing here?” My voice wobbles a little.

“Time to collect, girlie,” Ernie says. He rolls his fat tongue along his bottom lip in a disgusting swipe. His beady-eyed gaze stays glued to my face.

“How do you know where I live?” It seems like the least important answer right now, but it’s the one I’m stuck on.

---