Page 27 of How to Prevent a Fumble

“I just don’t get why you’re walking away from this.”

“That’s the thing, Leo. The thing you’re not getting. You can’t just throw money at things to make them stay.”

10

BRIAR

Ipanicked.

The plan when I got to Leo’s apartment was going to be to pack Elara up, drop her at Owen’s, and then go to my place and try to figure out if Tony broke in.

But something about Leo’s grand gesture made me panic.

I’ve never been a purse person. Never been a designer brand person. Never been someone money could buy. Well, unless it was for a job, and it was in the best interest of my daughter.

Walking away was stupid. So, so stupid.

And I’m not sure if I can go back and beg for the job back.

I cried three times on my way to my place, the old CD playing as background noise to the loud, ugly sobs that thunder through my body.

When did life get so complicated?

Pulling up to my apartment, I can immediately tell that something is wrong. The door looks ajar, and a few pieces of mail are dropped outside haphazardly, as if someone had left with a big pile and had missed that they had fallen loose.

I don’t know what’s going to greet me when I get into that place. Looking around, I can’t see Tony’s escalade anywhere,but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t come in something else. Or maybe he had someone else do it.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly get out of my car, locking it up before making my way up my front steps.

The door pushes open, broken.

Elara and I moved in not that long ago, and although the place wasn’t exactly in great shape to begin with, the two of us made it our home.

A mix of furniture I found online for free and things Zaragiftedme against my will, the place turned out beautiful. Warm, bright colors filled the space, the far wall packed with records and CDs I’ve been collecting since I was a kid and my dad passed down his collection to me.

It was the highlight of my day to come home to. Something that rooted me to my childhood. To better days. To feeling like one day things may not be so bad.

The sense of peace I got from looking at that wall every day is something I’ve had a hard time talking about, even in therapy.

And now it’s gone. Nothing but broken vinyl on the ground, reduced to nothing.

Grief holds me like a vice, gripping me in its cruel hands, my body unable to move.

I expected a lot out of him. Out of Tony. But I never expected he could be this.

I stand there until my legs start to ache, my heart thumping out of my chest, the door still open. When a breeze hits my back, a shiver running up my spine, I blink.

And blink again.

Grieving is a fickle thing. It never really leaves you. Not ever. All those moments you cherished for so long, or even all the moments you hated, can come back within a blink of an eye, haunting you every night until you succumb to the desperate need to channel that grief into anger.

It’s what you do with that anger that matters.

I close my eyes, counting to ten before forcing my feet to move in the direction of my bedroom, despite how heavy each step feels. It’s as if I’m wading through quicksand with cement blocks strapped to my feet, screaming for help but there’s no one around.

You can do this,I think. But I’m not sure I can.

When I reach my bedroom I find everything turned over. My dresser has been rummaged through, my bed stripped and torn up. There’s papers on my desk—tax information.

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