Page 51 of The Risk

“Well, luckily you have enough money to cover the rent,” I remind him. “As for groceries, I’m sure your mom isn’t going to let you starve.”

“Please, I just need like fifty bucks, a hundred tops. Come on, B.”

He isn’t asking for an obscene amount, but I don’t care. He’s not getting a dime from me ever again, especially when I know it’s all going to drugs. Besides, it’s not like I’m rolling in money. I don’t pay tuition, but I still have expenses. Rent, food, “basic shit” thatisn’tcrystal meth. I have some saved up from waitressing jobs, but I’m not using it to fund Eric’s self-destruction.

“I’m sorry, you know I’d help if I could, but I’m broke,” I lie.

“No, you’re not,” he argues. “Iknowyou have some cash lying around, B. Please. After everything we’ve been through, you can’t just forget about me. We’re in this together, remember?”

“No, we’re not,” I say sharply. “We broke up years ago, Eric. We’renottogether anymore.”

Voices echo from a nearby corridor, floating into the lobby. I pray that Summer’s class has finished.

“I’m sorry.” I soften my tone. “I can’t help you. You need to talk to your mom.”

“Fuck my mom,” he snaps.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I have to go now. I’m about to walk into class,” I lie. “But…we’ll talk soon, okay? I’ll call you once things settle down on my end.”

I disconnect before he can argue.

When Summer appears, I paste on a smile and hope she doesn’t notice I’m quieter than usual on the ride home. She doesn’t. Summer can carry a conversation all by herself, and today I’m grateful for that.I think I need to cut Eric out of my life for good. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, but I’m hoping this time it’ll be the last. I can’t keep doing this anymore.

The rain has eased up by the time Summer drops me off at home. “Thanks for the ride, crazy girl.” I smack a grateful kiss on her cheek.

“I love you,” she calls as I dart out of the car.

Friends who say “I love you” every time you part ways are important. Those are the ones you need in your life.

Summer peels out of the driveway, and I round the side of the house toward my private entrance. A short flight of stairs takes me down to my little entryway, and—

Plop.

My boots sink into an ocean.

Okay, not an ocean. But there’s at least a foot and a half of water lapping at the base of the steps.

Sickness swirls in my stomach. Holy shit. The basement flooded. My fucking apartmentflooded.

A surge of panic spurs me forward. I slosh through the ocean in my leather boots and assess the damage, horrified by what I find.

The basement has wall-to-wall carpeting—ruined. The legs of the coffee table are underwater—ruined. The bottom half of the couch I bought at a secondhand store is soaked—ruined. My futon—ruined.

I bite my lip in dismay. Luckily my laptop was with me today. And the majority of my clothes are untouched. Most of them are hanging in the closet, well above the ocean, and my shoe rack is one of those tall ones, so only the soles of the shoes on the last shelf are wet. My bottom dresser drawer is full of water, but I only keep PJs and loungewear down there, so it’s not the end of the world. All the important stuff is in the top drawers.

But the carpets…

The furniture…

This is not good.

I wade back to the entry where I hung my purse. I find my phone and call my landlord, Wendy, who I’m praying is at home. Neither her nor Mark’s cars were in the driveway, but Wendy usually parks in the garage, so there’s a chance she’s upstairs.

“Brenna, hey. I just heard you come in. It’s really raining out there, huh?”

She’s home. Thank God. “It’s really raining in here, too,” I answer bleakly. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but there’s been a flood.”

“What?” she exclaims.

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