Page 21 of Undisputed Player
The silence meant Leo was still lost in whatever dreams five-year-olds had. Probably dinosaurs and playgrounds and worlds where guardians didn't check locks three times before bed.
I rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and made the thin sheets. Everything in this apartment was thin—the walls that leaked our neighbors' fights, the curtains that barely blocked the streetlights, the margins we lived within that grew smaller every day.
The kitchen was three steps away. I made coffee, the slow bloom of steam curling in the air like incense for the desperate.
I poured myself a mug and cupped it in both hands, letting the heat seep into bones that always felt cold now. The coffee was bitter as the truth that this was probably the closest thing to luxury I'd taste today.
At least it was warm.
The apartment bore the evidence of our life like crime scene markers: crayons scattered across the table where Leo had been drawing his latest dinosaur masterpiece, laundry spilling from a plastic basket, and tiny footprints tracked across the bathroom floor in fading purple paint—courtesy of bath crayons I'd "borrowed" from Seaside Academy's supply closet.
Just like the way I "borrowed" those granola bars from the teacher's lounge last week.
I moved quietly through our space, gathering dishes that looked older than I felt, stacking them in the sink that had been stained brown long before we'd moved in. The apartment's previous tenants had left their mark everywhere. Water damage bloomed across the ceiling like toxic flowers, a persistent smell of poverty that no amount of bleach could conquer.
Some people woke up in houses with multiple bathrooms and marble countertops. Some people didn't know the sound their walls make when the building settles like old bones.
But I didn't resent those people. Much. I just wondered what it felt like to wake up without immediately calculating how to survive.
Leo deserved those marble countertops, those multiple bathrooms,that life where weekend plans didn’t include which bill to pay and which to ignore.
It was nearly eight when I finished weekend chores and started a load of laundry in the ancient machine wedged into our bathroom. The thing sounded like it was digesting metal, but it cleaned our clothes well enough not to look homeless.
I sipped my coffee near the window, watching the city wake up in shades of gray. A dog walker in a neon jacket shuffled past, head bowed low to avoid eye contact with anything that might demand interaction. Across the street, a woman hurried to her car with keys clutched between her fingers like brass knuckles.
We all knew the rules here: move fast, keep your head down, trust no one, and pray tomorrow looks better than today.
I was folding Leo's t-shirts, softened with age and love, when the knock came. Three sharp raps that shattered the morning's fragile peace like a rock through glass.
My stomach clenched, coffee turning to acid as it hit my empty belly.
Owen. It had to be. The only person who knocked like that.
I set the shirts aside with hands that wanted to shake and wiped my palms on my sleep shirt, steeling myself for another round of verbal warfare.
I caught my reflection in the mirror—brown hair escaping its messy bun, light brown eyes shadowed with exhaustion, skin that looked translucent in the harsh morning light.
I looked exactly like what I was: a woman stretched too thin, running on caffeine.
I opened the door just enough to block his view of our humble disaster zone, my foot wedged against the bottom edge in case he tried to push his way in.
Owen filled the doorway like a sweating mountain, his thinning hair slicked back and his shirt straining over a gut that spoke of too many beers and too few consequences.
My landlord.
He smelled like cigarettes and cheap aftershave, a combination that made my stomach lurch. His eyes raked over me with the hungry intensity of a man who'd been divorced three times and probably thought he wasn’t the problem.
"Morning, Ms. Moore," he said, his tone carrying that particular blend of authority and sleaze that made my skin crawl. "Just doing my rounds. Rent's due Monday, you know. Don't want any... misunderstandings."
The pause before 'misunderstandings' carried enough weight to crush what was left of my weekend peace.
I forced a polite smile, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't wake Leo. "I know, Mr. Owen. I'll have it."
I'll have most of it. Maybe.
He leaned in closer, his gaze sliding past me like oil seeking cracks to fill, searching for some sign of weakness he could exploit. The sour tang of last night's beer hit me, and I fought the urge to gag.
"You're always cutting it close, girl," he continued, voice dropping to what he probably thought was smooth. "Management doesn't like that. It makes them nervous. Makesmenervous."
