Page 39 of What's Left of Us

Maybe he knew when I was thirteen that there would be a day when he had no choice but to pass me along to somebody else. Had he known what would happen when I was twenty-one? I didn’t want to believe it.

But I was starting to wonder.

My hands run along the walls, which are all painted the same color beige. There are no pictures or paintings, but at least it’s color I didn’t have at the Del Rossi house. The furniture there was all the same dark wood, the walls all the same barren white and covered in hideous family portraits my father would make us sit through. Here, the furniture is mixed-matched. Thecarpets in the open living room are blue, the tile in the kitchen it leads to is red, and all the cabinets, countertops, and appliances are white.

I’ve been around The Del Rossi Group long enough to know that everything in the apartment is made of cheap leftover materials the owner used to piece this place together. My father specialized in concrete foundations but had other businesses that spun into contracting and interior design. I used to enjoy listening to his meetings and sneaking into his office to see the blueprints of whatever property they were planning to build.

It was through my father’s head contractor that I learned landlords didn’t want to invest too much in renovations for their rental properties, so they used whatever materials they had left from old projects, whether they matched or not.

Oddly enough, I like the quirkiness the small space offers. The building is in a quiet residential area of Middle Point, surrounded by families and retired couples who seem…normal. Not controlling or overwhelmed by wealth like my father has become over the past few years. It’s a chance to breathe without anybody telling me what to do, what to wear, or how to act.

I miss my father, Mrs. Ricci, and even Leani.

But I’d be lying if I said I hated this.

My thoughts are broken when I hear footsteps coming up to the front door. Heart going into overdrive when I hear two feminine voices from the other side; I bolt toward the bedroom door when the lock is undone and the door pushes open.

A brunette woman with silver streaks in her hair walks in with a little girl behind her carrying a bag in her hands. “—set up in, Oh!” She stops dead in her tracks when she sees me in the corner, her eyes wider than mine as she takes me in.

“I didn’t know Lincoln was seeing anybody,” the little girl says loudly, looking between me and the woman she looks so much like.

Quickly, I shake my head at them. “Oh. No! No, we’re not…I’m not…”

The little girl crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a stare-down that would put Millie’s to shame. “Are you a booty call then?”

The older woman’s face turns red as her attention snaps to the child. “Oh my God, Hannah! I don’t even want to know how you know what that is.”

The child, Hannah, rolls her eyes. “I watch TV, Mom. I’m not a baby.”

I suck in a deep breath until my lungs stop stinging so much. “I’m not Lincoln’s anything,” I force myself to say.

“Then why are you in his apartment?” Hannah interrogates, making me swallow my words. “Did you break in?”

Her mother sighs, pinching her daughter’s arm. “Excuse her,” she tells me with an embarrassed smile. “We were going to surprise Lincoln with some of his favorite cookies before he got home. We didn’t know anybody would be here.”

“He’s never mentioned you,” Hannah adds, rubbing the spot her mother pinched.

Her mother closes her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

I’m not sure why, but my stomach dips, knowing I’m a ghost in his life—existed only in his reality. Maybe that’s the smartest way. After all, we’re nothing to each other.

A blip in the timeline.

Soon, my father will tell me he’s sorry and to come home.

“I can leave,” I quickly say, cringing when I realize I’m still in the clothes I took from his room. It’s clear the oversized T-shirt isn’t mine, but all of my other clothes are dirty, and I didn’t know where I could go to wash them.

“No, no,” the woman says. “Stay. We’ll only be a minute. Lincoln is due home soon, so we wanted to drop this stuff off. Then we can get out of your hair.”

Running my hands nervously down the front of the shirt that still faintly smells like Lincoln, I find myself nodding. I don’t know where I’d go anyway. A restaurant. Maybe the diner I saw down the road when I went for a walk the other day. Their sign says it’s open twenty-four seven.

“I’m Dee,” she introduces, sticking her hand out after setting a grocery bag on the counter. “Lincoln’s mother. This is his little sister, Hannah.”

I hesitantly walk over and take her hand, shaking lightly the way I was trained to. Not too firm, but featherlight. Ladylike, according to my stepmother. She’d scolded me for shaking too firmly before. “I’m Georgia.”

Her eyes brighten. “What a lovely name.”

Hannah murmurs, “It’s a state.”

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