Page 11 of When The Rain Falls

The comforter flattens with a crisp crinkling sound. A wave of air travels through the covers before escaping. No body. Just relief.

I sit up and check my phone for messages. Particularly, messages from Tate. But nope. Nada. She hasn't checked in on me.

I open my running app. I picked up running as a hobby two years ago. When Tate and Dom started spending most of their weekends together, I needed an activity I could do alone.

I instantly fell in love with running. It might have something to do with the runner’s high. Or the high of buying new running shoes every three months. Or the fact that running three milesburns enough calories to eat one of my favorite chocolate muffins. Look at me,doing math.

I’ve dabbled in 5ks, and 10ks, and then half marathons. Now, I’m training for a thirty-mile trail race. And while the rest of my life might be steadily unraveling, my training is not.

I stretch my arms over my head and try to work out the tension in my neck. I'm really thirsty. I must not have had enough water last night between drinks.Shit. Last night.How much did I drink again? I try piecing yesterday's events together. Everything is pretty clear until the bar dancing. There was that guy. The troll.

He was an ass to me all night. So, like any rational person would do, I kissed him. And I bit him. Ouch. Yeah, that happened. Oh well. I'll never see him again.

I get out of bed and begin the search for my pants. I immediately step onto the pointy end of my heel and wince as I nearly tumble to the floor where my clothes are strewn in a pile. I think that’s my bra hanging off the TV stand. I peek into the bathroom and find my jeans in a pile on the floor. I slide my legs into my pants and shimmy the waist over my hips.

At some point, I gather the courage to look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair is in a messy ponytail. Messy isn't quite the right word. It looks like a family of rodents occupied it last night. I hadn't removed my makeup before bed and now my mascara is smeared under my eyes. There's a streak across my cheek from where I was pressed up against the wrinkled bed sheets.

I wince at my reflection. Then I snap a picture and send it to Tate. While I have my phone out, maybe I should call Alicia.

A sense of dread fills my chest as I hover my thumb over her name again. My sister is a good person, I remind myself. We just had a falling out. A falling out that involved an unwitting possession of a stolen Jeep, a request for bail money, and anearful of her lectures about how I need to get serious and grow up. I’m trying to grow up. I really am. But adulthood doesn’t seem to like me so much.

I take a deep breath and hit call.

Maple Court is nothing like the crowded towers of apartments and condos in the city. It’s a sea of sprawling two-story houses with meticulous hedges lining the driveways. A row of trees dot the sidewalks, perfect little lollipops, not a leaf out of place. All the fences are white. And picket. And stand guard around a plot of vibrant, green grass.

It looks like a place where you might find kids biking the neighborhood unsupervised. A place where everyone knows their neighbor. A place where you can lounge in your yard without the stench of urine and garbage.

When I explained that I needed a place to crash for a bit, Alicia was quick to invite me to stay with her family. Almost too quick. Part of me expected her to not answer. Or to tell me to ask someone else. Our differences aside, I haven’t been a great sister. But I hope staying with her will give me an opportunity to get closer.

I locate Alicia’s house easily by the giant, black Escalade in the driveway. That would belong to Greg. Alicia's husband.

My sister had a rough start to life. She got pregnant with Julie when she was seventeen. Julie's dad was never in the picture. My parents were second parents to Julie, until they retired and moved to Florida. Alicia raised Julie as a single parent after that. She put herself through community college, then nursing school, and then landed a nursing job. Then she met Greg and got married and had another kid. On paper,Alicia’s got it all. House. Husband. Two kids. Respectable career. An elected position on the PTA of Julie’s high school.

In comparison, I look like I have…a suitcase, a duffel bag, a bad reputation, and a giant bag of quarter-life crisis worries.

I’m not afailure. I graduated with a degree in design five years ago. Since then, I’ve worked a series of part-time gigs—receptionist, coffee shop barista—until I finally landed what I thought would be my dream job in graphic design. I assumed as a graphic design associate, I would finally have a change to do, oh, I don’t know,graphic design. But, Murphy Creative, the agency I work for, is huge. And I’m starting at the bottom. Which means using templates to design catalogs and advertisements. Something that I’m certain any grade schooler could do. For years, I banked on a career to anchor my life. Help me find my way. But now I have one and it’s eating my very soul.

I grab my suitcase, duffle bag, and a package of cookies from my trunk before walking up to Alicia's front porch. Without knocking, I throw open the front door.

"I’m here!" I yell when I open the door. “And I brought cookies!”

I’m greeted by an empty foyer and a stack of unopened packages.

“Hey? Guys?” I walk all the way in and close the door behind me, juggling the box of cookies in my full hands. This is awkward. I probably should have knocked. A knot is starting to form in my stomach.

“Aunt Aimee?” I hear feet shuffling down the hallway before a tall, thin teenager appears. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and ripped jeans. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head.

“Jules!” I gush. I drop my bags and run to her, wrapping her in a hug. The hug is all elbows and limbs.

“Oh my God. You’re like full sized now.” I pull back and take her in. She’s quiet, and shy, and way more responsible than I was at her age. I saw her five months ago, when her brother was born, but she already looks older and more mature.

I hold my fist out to her.

“Ugh, do we have to?” Julie’s shoulders slump.

“Yep. Consider it Aunt Tax.”

“What’s Aunt Tax?” Julie asks, her nose wrinkling and her neck slinking into her shoulder in disgust.

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