Page 11 of Stay Toxic

Honestly, as I made my way home that night and entered my house, I truly didn’t think that anything could make this day worse.

Truly, I didn’t.

But then I started getting text messages from my work colleagues.

There was a new group chat—sans Jolessa—talking about something that I didn’t want to even contemplate.

There was no doubt in my mind that they were trying to comfort me for the day.

Truly, I would rather die right now, drown in the bowl of cereal I was making for myself, than look at that group chat.

But it was so persistent that I realized that I would have to mute it.

There was no other recourse for me right now.

To remain sane…

I opened the group text up and started to thumb to the settings at the top when a text caught my eye.

Rita Thompson:

I couldn’t believe it either! She was hit on the side of the road leading to that house at the lake! The huge mansion with that massive wrought-iron gate that looks like it could keep prisoners from the state pen out! Right down the road from it. The guy that lives there gave a statement and said that he was saddened to hear the news, and he’s fully cooperating with police on the matter. A hit and run. She was killed instantly.

What the hell?

I scrolled up and realized who it was they were talking about.

Oh, my god.

I switched to the news app on my phone, and sure enough, the first story that popped up was the one I was searching for.

The mystery of the woman who was hit by a car late last night from a hit-and-run has been identified as missing thirty-two-year-old librarian from West Dallas High.

Oh. My. God.

You all spend thousands on shoes, but your pillow looks like a tea bag.

—Shasha to Dima

SHASHA

Present day

“What can I do for you, sir?”

I looked at the barista and wondered if she had any other inclinations in life but to be paid to sell coffee.

She’d been working there for the better part of my time living in Dallas and looked as if she had no desire to do anything else.

But, since she still didn’t know my order, and I’d been a regular customer here, at the same time every single day, for the past five years, I kind of saw why she hadn’t moved on. Or, at least, up to a more managerial position.

“Tall black coffee,” I ordered.

“Any sugar?” she asked.

“No, plain and black,” I answered the same way I did every time she asked my order.

“That’ll be two-fifty,” she said.

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