Page 5 of Saved By My Buyers

Giggling, I shake my head. “You got me,” I admit. “I wanted to help Mom because she was working so much, but now…”

“What about now?” he asks.

“I keep the money in case of emergencies and to buy myself ice cream here and there,” I say. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“Absolutely not,” he groans. “God, you’re a kid. Why isn’t your mom buying you things like that. You know what, I have a work trip that’s near you. I’m renting a car to come see you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I yelp, looking around the apartment as if he can see me. I’ve been keeping everything clean, but he’ll lose his shit if he finds out I’m living alone.

Should I just rip the bandaid off and tell him?

“Dolly,” Jack says. “What time does your mom come home? I want to talk to her, and I’m telling my secretary that I’m making a side trip. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen you. Someone mentioned that I was being an even bigger asshole than usual.”

“I’m not a chocolate bar,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It sounds like you need a Snickers bar instead if you’re being a jerk to people.”

“Rude,” he grunts. “Now, stop ignoring the question. My Dolly radar is going off.”

“That’s not a thing,” I groan, dropping back onto my bed. I’m laying on my clean laundry, but oh well.

“Am I wrong?” he asks. “When was the last time your mom was home?”

“Four months?” I squeak, groaning. “Jack, wait?—”

There’s a lot of silence on the other end of the line as I continue to stutter. Shoot, shoot, fuck. I know Dad said only to curse when you know it’s appropriate and you can get away with it, so what better place to do it than in my mind?

No one cares if I’m fourteen and curse to myself. Although I'm alone so often, I’ve found myself talking and answering my own questions recently. I wonder if I search the internet if it’ll show that I have some sort of vague mental disorder, or if loneliness is something that can be cured.

“You’ve been alone for the entirety of these four months?” Jack asks. “Do you have a babysitter or a neighbor that checks in on you? Doesn’t Lucia have a sister she moved to be closer to?”

“Please don’t,” I whisper. “I hate Aunt Amelia. She’s so damn mean.”

“Dolly, did you just curse?” he asks, and I can practically hear the surprise coming off him in waves as I sit up.

“Pretend I didn’t,” I suggest. “It was just a little slip. Seriously, Aunt Amelia may not even know or care that I’m pretty much alone and my life is better for it.”

“Dahlia Grace Moore,” Jack snarls. “How are you getting to school?”

“Public bus,” I answer since the jig is up. I may as well answer his questions. “The stop is a half a block before the school, so no one really notices if I walk up. Also, there are fewer check in calls to parents when you’re a good student and keep your nose clean, Jack.”

“Great, this is my fault,” he mutters. Jack sounds a little nasally, which means he’s holding the bridge of his nose. He did this a lot after Dad’s funeral.

“I never said that,” I say carefully. “That’s not fair to either of us.”

“You’re right. God, how do you sound so much older than you are?” he groans. “Dolly, look. Tell me how you’re making this work. Rent needs to be paid, grocery pick ups, fuck how are you keeping the lights on?”

“Jack, breathe,” I yell, because his questions are making my heart beat hard. My anxiety is worse than it’s ever been, and I think it’s because I’ve had to grow up so fast. I worry about everything. “I have everything covered, okay? As long as no one comes to check on me and realizes I live alone.”

“Your brother doesn’t even check on you,” he says, realizing the gravity of everything. “I’m going to kick his fucking ass. Goddamn asshole!”

Shaking my head, I turn the phone on speaker and stand, grabbing my clothes to put them away. At least the apartment building has washer and dryer machines on each floor. It’s a little scary, but I’m managing.

“Are you done yet?” I call over my shoulder as I slide my school shirts into a drawer.

“Why do you sound so far away?” Jack asks, his voice sounding strangled as he tries to get ahold of his anger. It’s a fucked up situation, I get it. There’s no way out that doesn’t involve foster care, so this is the better option.

“I’m putting away my laundry,” I say absently as I walk back to the bed to pick more up. I actually had most of it done when he called me.

“Do I want to know where you’re doing laundry?” he asks, sounding resigned.

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