29. Coraline
29
CORALINE
My hand dives into my purse, fingers tangling in everything but the sharp edges of my keys. I crane my neck to look into the crossbody close to my hip, opening the top and angling it toward the one working porch light. I make a mental note to send the landlord another email to fix it.
My roommate, Harper, usually handles that kind of thing since she’s listed as the primary person on the lease, but surprise to no one, she’s at her boyfriend’s house. He’s an entitled trust fund type who thinks a woman’s place is serving a man. It’s difficult to witness the way Davis treats Harper, and even harder to keep my mouth shut about it. So it’s probably a good thing she spends so much time at his place.
The truth is, I don’t mind being alone. I’m actually really good at it. Growing up with three siblings, you’d think that I was always surrounded by people, but it’s just not how it happened in my house. My older brothers have always been thick as thieves, which is a good thing considering they’re only eleven months apart. And then there’s me, two years later. By the time Abby was old enough to sort of play with me, my brothers had started largely ignoring me. I remember thinking finally— now I get to have my very own best friend.
But my sister prefers her own company to pretty much anyone else’s. She’s not an introvert. She’s sociable and friendly and has more friends than most people would be comfortable with. But it feels like it’s for show, a box to check off on her list of goals.
“Where are you?” Frustration huffs out of my chest with each swipe of my fingers inside my bag. It’s not even that big of a purse, so I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s not a Mary Poppins carpet bag of tricks.
Which means, if I can’t find my keys . . . they’re not in here.
“Shit.” I let my head fall back and close my eyes against the night sky. “I must’ve left them at the bakery.”
Which means I can’t even get inside the bakery to retrieve them because I put the new bakery keys on my house keychain. I shake my head, annoyance flaring inside my gut. If I wasn’t so distracted by thoughts of Jasper all the time, then I wouldn’t have been so careless.
I don’t think I’ve ever locked my keys in the bakery, in all my years of working in one.
My frustration burns even further when I realize that I’m blaming Jasper for something that has literally nothing to do with him. I don’t think I like what that says about me. And this fake relationship.
This fake relationship that doesn’t feel all that fake.
Bone-deep exhaustion makes my limbs feel heavy, like they’re slowly sinking into the cement porch. The only thing I want to do is crawl into my bed and sleep for the next eight hours.
Between the new relationship and psyching myself up to approach my brother about my new landlord problem, I’m more tired lately. It’s that kind of post-anxiety exhaustion.
I’d pulled Beau aside last night and asked him for a small loan, just until the one at the bank goes through. He agreed immediately, promised it wasn’t a big deal, but I can’t shake the guilt that wraps around my belly like a lead donut.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and tap it against my thigh. “Who should I call?” I mull over the options.
If Jasper was really my boyfriend, then I would call him, right? But we’re mostly doing those couple-y things for show. And there’s literally no one around right now, except for Mrs. Ventura across the street. I know she’s sitting right next to the window of her place, her silhouette visible. I swear that woman never leaves her house. Every time I’ve ever looked across the street, she’s there. Her silhouette stark against the lacy curtains on her second floor.
Maybe I should consider giving her a key. She’d always be home in case we got locked out again. I tap my phone against my thigh, contemplating what to do now. I can’t call the locksmith again. Not after hours at least. I don’t want to pay those prices.
But that’s a problem for future-Cora. Present-Cora needs to remember who all I gave spare keys to, and more importantly, are they home.
After I figure out how to get inside, I’m going to make sure I give spare keys to people who are actually home often. Who don’t ask too many questions like my parents most definitely would.
I can just picture my mom’s furrowed brow as she looks at me over the top of her readers, dressed in a fluffy yellow bathrobe. She’d tell me to call the landlord to let me in and then it’d spiral into this whole big thing, and I’d end up spilling everything.
And the last thing I need is for my parents to get involved. I can handle the landlord problem just fine on my own. Mostly.
With Beau’s monetary assistance, at least.
“Forget something, girlie?”
The booming voice startles me, and I flinch hard . I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but there’s a quiet lull then. Like the insects and birds and nocturnal creatures still, as if they’re waiting to see what’s going to happen now. Almost like they can collectively sense something isn’t right.
I spin on my heel, facing my front lawn. My heart beats an unsteady rhythm inside my chest, giving credence to the fear floating around inside my skin like a horde of untethered balloons.
“Who’s there?”
They materialize like figures from some kind of B-grade horror flick, walking in tandem from the side of my house.
Chad and Ernie.
The two assholes who were with my new landlord.
“Oh fuck,” I curse under my breath.
They stalk toward me between the oversized river birch tree and the hydrangea bushes, their features shrouded in shadows. But I don’t need to see their faces to feel the menace rolling off of them. It’s big and heavy, intense enough to drown me if they get too close.
I shuffle backward a step, a small consolation to their big strides eating away at the distance between us. The sides of my phone dig into my fingers and palm, my grip so tight it feels like I’m going to have permanent etches of the volume buttons on my fingers.
“What are you doing here?” My voice wobbles a little.
“Time to collect, girlie,” Ernie says. He rolls his fat tongue along his bottom lip in a disgusting swipe. His beady-eyed gaze stays glued to my face.
“How do you know where I live?” It seems like the least important answer right now, but it’s the one I’m stuck on.
“C’mon, now. You don’t think Boss doesn’t have connections, do ya? Plus, he told ya we’d be comin’ by if you didn’t pay on time,” Ernie says.
My back hits my front door, my hands balling into fists at my sides. It’s hard to figure out what the best course of action is here. Should I scream for help? Call the cops? Run?
I wet my lips, buying myself another second. I send up every kind of plea and prayer, seeking guidance from Nana Jo on what to do. There’s a simmering level of rage inside me, just begging to be let out. This whole situation reeks of the same bullshit toxic masculinity that I was just lamenting about.
“He said I had two weeks. It’s only been a little over one.” I grapple for something, anything to get me away from this situation.
They stop in front of me now, an arm’s length away, effectively blocking me from the street. My gaze flies over Ernie’s shoulder to Mrs. Ventura’s window, praying she’s fucking watching and calling the cops. My apartment is in Rosewood, so these assholes don’t have the same kind of pull here. Not like they do if they go one block over—across city lines—and into Avalon Falls.
I hold onto that thought like a life raft, letting it drag me through the next few moments of uncertainty and fear. I refuse to let my brain list all the reasons that’s a terrible assumption.
“See, the thing is, boss thought you were throwin’ him a little bit o’ disrespect. And he doesn’t take kindly to that, ya know? So he sent us to collect now,” Ernie drawls.
I press my shoulder blades flat against the wood paneling of the door and tilt my chin up. “I don’t have it on me. It’s at the bank. I can’t get it until tomorrow.”
I mean, technically, it’s not a lie. I do have money in the bank, but I wasn’t planning on paying him early. I hadn’t if I was going to try to get the authorities involved. And I’m still waiting on the lawyer I contacted to call me about the lease agreement.
But they don’t know any of that.
“See that’s gonna cost ya,” Chad speaks for the first time. He scratches his forehead with the blunt end of a knife.
Knife feels like such an insignificant word for the piece of metal he’s so casually using to drag against his hairline. It’s as long as my forearm with a half–inch thick blade. It looks like it came from the props of some kind of movie.
“Interest?” I ask, my gaze glued to the blade dragging down the side of his face. It makes the strangest prickling noise as it connects with his scraggly beard. It’s terrifying.
This whole fucking situation is terrifying. And somewhere underneath all that fear is a well of rage that’s bubbling and boiling. A volcano just waiting for the right time to erupt.
“Sure.” Chad chuckles. “You could call it that.”
I clear my throat. “Again. All my money is tied up inside the bank. Tell your boss he’s gonna have to wait until tomorrow.”
Ernie laughs. “Nah, no one tells Boss anything. We do what he tells us.” He leaves the words hanging like little bombs hovering in the air between us.
I brace, shut my emotions off, and center myself for whatever he’s going to say next. Because whatever it is, it’s going to be fucking terrible. I know it as well as I know my own name.
“And what did he tell you?” I ask. I want to high five myself for how calm I’m being.
“He told us to send a message, yeah?” Ernie says.
“But left the delivery and the message up to us,” Chad says.
“Which means,” Ernie says, taking a step toward me. The toes of his black sneakers brush against mine. “We get to decide what kind of message. And you know what, girlie? I think you need some tough love. What do you think, Chad?”
I roll my shoulders back and stand to my full five-five height. My gaze narrows on these two, brimming with determination and rage. “Get the fuck out of here, both of you. Or you’re going to regret it.”
“You’re going to regret it,” Chat mocks, dragging the flat of the knife along his tongue. “I don’t think so, girlie.”
“You’re fucking crazy. Both of you, and?—”
Chad charges forward. “ Don’t call me crazy.” He exhales and flicks his hair back with an exhale. “Now just play nice, girlie, and maybe we’ll be gentle. Gentle just how mama taught us, right Ernie?”
Ernie nearly buckles over with laughter. The caustic sound snaps something inside of me.
“Fuck you and fuck your mama,” I seethe.
Ernie whistles and rocks back on his heels with a grin. “Ooh-ee. She’s got a mouth on her though.”
Chad’s face darkens into a mask of a monster. Or maybe this is who he really is and the other version of him is the mask he wears. “What did you say about my momma?”
I lean forward at the hips, the only time I’ll willingly get closer to either one of them. “I said: Fuck. Your. Mama. And fuck you too.”
I should’ve seen it coming. But I didn’t. And even if I had, I don’t know if I could’ve done anything differently to stop it.
Chad backhands me hard enough that my head snaps back and hits the doorframe behind me. The sharp venomous peals of laughter compete with the ringing in my ears.
The world tilts, and I slump to the ground, stars flashing across my vision. The world blurs, but I hear them talking over me plain as day.
“Boss’ll get you for that one, dumbass,” Ernie snaps.
A thump, and then Chad grunts, “Nah, he said send a message. He didn’t say I couldn’t hurt her.”
“C’mon, let’s get out of here. Rosewood gives me the fuckin’ hives an’ shit,” Ernie says.
I blink a few times, my vision clearing around the edges in time to see Ernie throw his arm around Chad’s neck, and the two of them jog back into the shadows.
What the fuck just happened?