Page 31 of Twisted Play
Shit.
I dragged myself out of bed, grateful for the first breath of cool fall air that meant I wasn’t pouring sweat because we couldn’t afford to run the A/C overnight.
Fuck it.
Me
Want to grab breakfast this morning?
Rory
8?
Me
*thumbs up emoji*
I showered, shivering under the cool water, swearing softly. My fucking father. I owed himeverything, but it didn’t hurt any less to watch him disappear into drink, as if that could change anything.
Twenty minutes later, I waited at the bus stop, grateful there was no morning practice today. The driver greeted me with a smile and a wave, and I settled into a seat with my tote on my lap and my e-reader in my hand—a gift from Dad when he’d come into some money a few months ago. Now, I knew he’d done it gambling, and reading left a sour taste in my mouth.
Rory waited for me outside the student café, sitting on rickety metal chairs and ignoring the odd looks she got for her paint-covered clothes.
“Early morning at the studio?” I asked her.
Her bright blue eyes cut to mine. “Slept there.”
I looked closer at the purple smudges under her eyes, her gaunt cheekbones, and drew her in for a hug. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said. We were best friends, but we—well, we both had the same trauma about depending on other people, about becoming aburden.
“If you need anything?—”
“I know,” she said with a smile. “But you didn’t ask me to breakfast to talk about me.”
“My treat.” I grinned, determined to share my fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude. Dad had already spent enough that I wouldn’t be able to fix the water heater. What was a little bit more for coffee and avocado toast if it brightened my life for a few moments?
“High roller,” she said. “Good night at the club?”
I laughed as I pushed the doors open, getting in line to wait, envious of the well-heeled elite who filled the university and never had to consider whether buying a coffee and breakfast burrito might mean they couldn’t eat for the rest of the day.
“Dad spent the money I’d been saving for household repairs,” I confessed. “I’m so goddamned tired of scrimping and saving and never doing a goddamned thing for myself. I need a fucking treat. Ideservea fucking treat.”
Rory stepped up beside me to order, but when I pulled out my wallet to pay, she pulled out her own.
“Rory—”
“Shut up,” she said as she paid for our order. “I sold a painting last week.”
We moved over to the counter to wait for our orders, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
“So what’s really going on?” Rory asked me as we found a table outside.
I dove into my breakfast burrito, demolishing it. I was so fucking hungry.
Rory wouldn’t judge.
“Eva,” she said, her voice soft with sympathy. “You know you can pull extra food from the food bank if you need to.”
