Page 8 of Keep Me In Your Heart

When she doesn’t read my messages after about five minutes, I get a little annoyed. To be honest, I’m bored. Aaron is mad at me, and this whole fucking trip was for him. Now I just want to go home.

The bathroom door opens, and he walks in, shoving his phone into his back pocket.

“Let’s get some sleep,” he mutters quietly. “We have an early flight tomorrow.”

As he tears off his shirt, my computer pings with a message.

He’s probably just worried about you.

Her message annoys me. She’s not supposed to take his side. Without responding, I close my laptop and shove it on the side table. Then, I roll over with my back to Aaron.

“Who were you talking to in there?” I ask.

“You were hearing things. I wasn’t talking to anyone,” he replies flatly.

He switches the light off, bathing us in darkness, and I close my eyes.

The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner we wake up for the airport. And the sooner this whole trip will end.

Chapter Three

“Dear Ms. Devereaux, my name is Monica Rodriguez, and I’m calling from First Financial. Your credit card payment is ninety days past due and currently in default. We have no choice but to send your account to collections and deactivate your credit cards.”

Delete.

The voicemail disappears, leaving my inbox empty. That foreboding feeling of dread settles in my stomach. The message from my bank sucks, but not as much as what I have to do now.

When I reach the barista at the counter, I order my small black coffee and scrounge in the bottom of my purse for enough loose change to cover it.

“A name for your order?” she asks.

“It’s a small black coffee. Just pour it into a cup.”

The girl with a septum piercing and bright purple eye shadow gives me a condescending look. “A name for your order,” she repeats.

“Sylvie,” I say with a huff.

Then I turn away from the counter and find a quiet corner of the coffee shop to wait. Staring down at my brand-new phone, Ipull up my contacts and hover my thumb over the button I really don’t want to push.

My initial prediction was that I’d make it eighteen months with what I had in my savings account and on my credit cards when Mom and Dad told me I was cut off. Eighteen months—ifI was conservative with my spending and didn’t do anything drastic.

Like go to Scotland with my boyfriend.

And buy a new phone.

I made it four months.

“Sylvia,” the miserable wench at the counter calls out, holding a small paper cup.

I roll my eyes as I approach her. “It’s Sylvie,” I murmur before taking the coffee.

“Sorry,” she replies, her tone full of sarcasm.

When I leave the shop, turning right toward my apartment, I pull out my phone again.

I have to do this. I have to, right?

I can’t just…survive without money. And getting a job right now isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. The only places that are hiring are paying less than what it costs to live in the city, so what is the point?

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