Page 9 of Lock Every Door

“Those are your words. Not mine.”

“But I am one.”

“No, you’re my best friend going through a rough patch, and I’m happy to let you stay as long as you need. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Chloe has more faith than I do. I’ve spent the past two weeks wondering just how, exactly, my life has gone so spectacularly off the rails. I’m smart. A hard worker. A good person. At least I try to be. Yet all it took to flatten me was the one-two punch of losing my job and Andrew being a garbage human being.

I’m sure some would say it’s my own damn fault. That it was my responsibility to build an emergency fund. At least three months’ salary, the experts say. I would love to backhand whoever came up with that number. They clearly never had a job with take-home pay that barely covers rent, food, and utilities.

Because here’s the thing about being poor—most people don’t understand it unless they’ve been there themselves.

They don’t know what a fragile balancing act it is to stay afloat and that if, God forbid, you momentarily slip underwater, how hard it is to resurface.

They’ve never written a check with trembling hands, praying there’ll be enough in their account to cover it.

They’ve never waited for their paycheck to be directly deposited at the stroke of midnight because their wallet is empty and their credit cards are maxed and they desperately need to pay for gas.

And food.

And a prescription that’s gone unfilled for an entire week.

They’ve never had their credit card declined at a grocery store or restaurant or Walmart, all the while enduring the side-eye from an annoyed cashier who silently judges them.

That’s another thing most people don’t understand—how quick others are to judge. And make assumptions. And presume your financial predicament is the result of stupidity, laziness, years of bad choices.

They don’t know how expensive it is to bury both of your parents before the age of twenty.

They don’t know what it’s like to sit weeping before a pile of financial statements showing how much debt they had accrued over the years.

To be told all their insurance policies have been voided.

To go back to college, shouldering the cost yourself with the help of financial aid, two jobs, and student loans that won’t be paid off until you’re forty.

To graduate and enter the job market with a lit degree only to be told you’re either overqualified or underqualified for every position you apply for.

People don’t want to think about that life, so they don’t. They’re getting by just fine and therefore can’t comprehend why you’re not capable of doing the same. Meanwhile, you’re left all alone to deal with the humiliation. And the fear. And the worry.

God, the worry.

It’s always there. A loud hum buzzing through every waking thought. Things have gotten so bleak that I’ve recently started wondering how far I have left to fall before hitting bottom and what I’ll do if I ever reach that point. Will I try to claw my way out, like Chloe thinks I can? Or will I purposefully walk into the howling black void just like my father did?

Until today, I saw no easy way out of my predicament. But now my heavy, hopeless worry has been temporarily lifted.

“I need to do this,” I tell Chloe. “Is it unusual? Yes, I will completely admit that it is.”

“And probably too good to be true,” Chloe adds.

“Sometimes good things happen to good people, right when they need it the most.”

Chloe scoots next to me and pulls me into a ferocious embrace,something she’s been doing ever since we ended up being freshmen roommates at Penn State.

“I think I’d feel better if it was any building but the Bartholomew.”

“What’s wrong with the Bartholomew?”

“All those gargoyles, for starters. Didn’t they creep you out?”

They didn’t. To be honest, I thought the one outside the bedroom window was charming in its own Gothic way. Like a protector standing guard.

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