Page 4 of Moonlit Kisses

“The car’s incredible. Absolutely incredible. Drives like a dream.”

“Good, that’s great.”

“Actually, she’s due for a service. When can I bring her in?”

I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment and I’m unsure when I have an available day. “Call me tomorrow when I’ve got my calendar in front of me. You still got my number?”

“Yeah, sure. Talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” I tip my head in goodbye and turn to walk in the opposite direction, toward my car.

Stepping inside my home, I toe off my shoes and throw my keys in the bowl on the hall table. The house is pitch black and silent. Coming from the noisy pub, the quiet seems overwhelming. I don’t bother turning on any lights and make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water before heading to my room. Monday nights are probably the only nights I don’t spend working on my books. The reprieve is welcome as I strip off and fall into bed.

CHAPTER3

–molly–

My alarm blaresas it does every workday at five a.m. I haven’t been for my morning run since … well, since my life turned upside down. Today’s the day I’m gonna get back to it. Running helps my mood and I need all the help I can get at the moment. It was emotionally tough cleaning everything out of the trailer on the weekend; I couldn’t drag myself out of bed early enough yesterday morning, so I genuinely need this run to clear my mind.

The family photo from the last Christmas we spent together catches my eye. Picking it up, I trace the faces of my family. Every year, we would take a new photo together at Christmas. We’ll never do that again and my family will be forever frozen in time.

No more family photos—ever!

The backs of my eyes sting and I work to swallow down my grief or I won’t be running today either and I really need to do this. Placing the photo back on my nightstand, I climb out of bed and dress in my running gear, complete with the hot pink running shoes I got for my last birthday. I can’t believe the stuff people get rid of. I don’t think these shoes had ever been worn.

Grabbing what I need, I head out into the freezing morning. Careful to take smaller steps as I start out slower than usual on the footpath, searching for patches of ice under the light dusting of snow. It doesn’t take long before I find my rhythm and lose myself in my next step, my breaths forming small misty clouds in front of my face. My body heats as my muscles warm, and I unwrap the scarf from around my neck and tie it around my waist. It’s quiet on the pathway, not another runner in sight today. I don’t blame them. It’s freaking cold. If I didn’t need to work through my emotions, I probably would have opted to stay in bed, too.

I shut down everything in my mind. Concentrating on the force of each foot hitting the pavement and keeping my breathing even. Gradually, my thoughts become completely focused on running, which is exactly what I need.

“Morning,” a man calls out as he passes me with his teenage daughter. I’ve seen them before, though not usually until the temperatures warm up a little more.

“Morning,” I respond as my heart constricts. Jack was pivotal in getting me into fitness. He trained me and helped me to build the length of time I could run comfortably on a daily basis. The emotional pain steals my breath and I falter. Slowing my strides, I rest my hands on my hips. My eyes burn and it’s tough to swallow around the painful reminder. Coming to a stop in front of my apartment building, I bend at the waist to catch my breath. Silent tears track down my cheeks and I angrily swipe at them. Seeing that father with his daughtershouldbe a happy memory, not one that makes me sad. I can picture Jack running with the widest of smiles. It was always something he loved to do, and he passed that love on to me. Because of that, I don’t want to feel sad when I run.

Shaking off my melancholy, I use the climb up four flights of stairs to cool down, pausing at the top of the steps to stretch my calves on the last step. Releasing a heavy breath, I swipe away the sweat from my forehead with my forearm and notice a sheet of blue paper stuck underneath my door.

Unlocking my door, I bend down and swipe up the note. It’s a reminder that my rent’s past due.Damn it!I’ll need to stop in to speak with the building manager before work to explain I need an extension.

* * *

Dressed for work, I knock on the door of the building manager. I’ve never paid my rent late. In fact, I always pay one week early to be sure I don’t forget to pay.

Don finally answers the door, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Interesting that we’re not allowed to smoke within the building, but he can do whatever he wants because he’s the manager. He squints at me through the thick plume of smoke, scratching his armpit. “Yeah?”

I hold up the note I found under my door this morning. “Uhm, hi, Don.” He has always insisted I call him Don. Not Mr. Ricci. Don. “I was hoping I could ask a favor.”

He leans his shoulder against his door, crossing his arms in front of his gray-haired chest. “I don’t do no favors.” His old eyes scan me up and down, dragging like filthy fingers up my legs. “Not even for stunners like you.”

I swallow down the bile his dirty perusal has caused. “It’s only a small favor. You see, I’m always on time, if not a little early, with my rent. But, uh, I recently lost my entire family and I’ve had to use all of my savings for their funeral and burial.” His face goes soft, and I think it’s possible he’ll agree to give me an extension. “I was wondering if it was at all possible to have an extension. I can pay next month on time plus some of this month. Each month, I could pay a little extra until I’m caught up.” I hold my breath, hoping for a little compassion.

He’s silent and I’m hoping against hope he’s seriously considering my proposal. He stands up straight. “Nope. You need to pay by Friday, or you need to find somewhere else to live. I’m not a fucking charity.” Stepping back, he slams the door in my face.

Shit!

Now what am I going to do? I resist banging on his door until he opens it and agrees to my request. My shoulders slump and suddenly I feel …tired. Exhausted, in fact. Instead of climbing back upstairs and hiding beneath my blankets like I want to, I turn on my heel and head out of the building to scrape the ice from my car so I can get to work. Glancing up at the building, the sun shining behind it; I sigh. The apartment building isn’t great. In fact, it’s falling down around our ears, but it’s home. The only home I have. It’s where I’ve lived since moving out of the trailer park. I remember my excitement when I picked up the keys to move in; I felt like an actual adult. Thankfully, it came furnished because I had nothing to my name. I still don’t have a lot, but I would really miss this place if I had to leave.

Traffic isn’t too heavy on the way to work, which is a godsend because I can barely focus. I’m more focused on running through what I need to say to Mr. Dunsley in the hopes he’ll give me an advance. He was reluctant to give me time off work to deal with the funeral arrangements for my family. I think he only agreed because I couldn’t stop crying and he wanted me out of the office because it was bad for business.

Unlocking the office door, I turn off the alarm and turn on the lights, then make my way to the small kitchen at the rear of the building. I set up the coffeepot and head back to my desk to switch on my computer. The bell above the door alerts me to someone entering the office. As I lift my head, I put on my best smile. “Good …” My words dry up as my eyes land on Mrs. Dunsley. For some unknown reason, she’s never liked me and it’s made it difficult on my end to be friendly, but I’m careful to maintain my professionalism. “Good morning, Mrs. Dunsley.”

---