Page 1 of Fragile Hearts

It’s been a long day when I finally pull into the gravel driveway in front of the house. Between an early morning at work and classes all afternoon, all I want to do is eat dinner and crawl into bed.

I look over at the passenger seat, the leftovers from my lunch waiting to be eaten for dinner, and I hate that I still carry over this habit. Growing up poor and then a foster kid, I never knew when my next meal would be. It could literally be just a few hours later or it could be days. I never eat my whole lunch, saving half of it for dinner.

One of the perks of my job working at the front desk of Orchid Bay Resort is that I get free meals, meals I still stupidly save and make last. I often wonder if this will ever go away. It’s been a year, and I still do it, but I remind myself, this has been a damn good year. A year where it’s just me. No check-ins from a family services worker, no jumping from foster home to foster home, no creepy men, no sleepless nights.

But as soon as I step out of the car, I see it. There on the front door of the house I share with my best friend Daisy, is that neon orange sticker, one I know all too well, and without warning, my heart rate spikes and I feel the threat of tears sting my nose.

“No, no, no,” I cry out to the empty area surrounding the house. “Please, no.”

Begging will do me no good. It’s already there, plastered on the door for anyone to see, and holy shit, is it triggering.

I’ve been here way too many times in my life, and I really thought after moving in with Alana and Daisy, things would be better. There would be some consistency, some stability and this would be a place I could call home, even if it was just a rental.

My sadness quickly turns to anger, and I rip the sticker off the door, the word “eviction” stuck to my hand, and I shake, trying to get it to release itself.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling it too, but it sticks to my other hand, and this is something I know too well also. These damn stickers are made with industrial glue, so they don’t blow off the door, letting the tenant use that as an excuse.

Next to that neon orange sticker is a note from our landlord, and as apologetic as it is, it doesn’t matter. Unless it’s an envelope filled with two grand, I don’t give a fuck what it says.

“What a fucking coward,” I hiss, snatching the note off the door, crumbling it in my hand along with the orange sticker.

Sorry girls.

Sold the land to a developer.

I tried to get more than 30 days, but they want you out.

George Lang

Thirty days. We have one month to find a place to live, and while that sounds like a lot of time, it’s not for someone like me who doesn’t even have two pennies to scrape together, who is eating half a lunch for dinner on a regular basis.

How the hell am I supposed to get a first and last month’s rent for a deposit? How the hell am I supposed to find a place that isn’t six times my paycheck?

I flop down on the paint-chipped front steps, the note from Mr. Lang and that orange sticker now a little round ball in my palm.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I wonder where Daisy is. I figured she’d be home by now, and maybe she has been. She probably isn’t going to have this type of reaction to this. She has her family here; she can go live with her mom or her sister, and if she’s really desperate, she has Miles and Kai. They’ll let her move in with them. They might even let me move in too.

But then I think about Mochi, my little fluffy baby, the dog that Alana brought home one day, who took a liking to me over all of us. Desperate now for a place to live, I can’t be choosy and demand they let me bring my dog. Even if he is basically my emotional support animal, sleeping with me and greeting me with gusto every time I come home.

I open the front door, and with that, Mochi comes charging out, running in circles around my legs, waiting for me to pick him up.

Scooping him up in my arms, I sit back down on the porch steps, Mochi settling into my lap. I text Daisy, willing myself not to start crying.

* * *

Me: Where are you?

Daisy: Omw. Be home in five.

* * *

There’s that word.

Home.

I swallow hard, pushing back the tears. I’m not going to cry. It’s why I never called this place my home. It’s a house, and again I remind myself of this. Don’t get attached.

Don’t get attached to a house.

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