Chapter 8 Rhea
“Bri’s apartment is about as boring as you’d expect…” Sunday leads me upstairs to her brother’s apartment, and I’m tempted to blurt out that I’ve already been inside, but I keep my mouth shut as she pops the bottom lock.
The smell of apple hits my nose again, mixed with something deeper and spicy, and I realize that it’s Brighton’s cologne. I close the door behind me softly and kick off my boots, sticky from spilled drinks, just in case there’s glass on them.
“Daisy Bell, where are you?” Sunday calls out and disappears down the back hall.
I hear a soft knock and a door far away clicks open as I slide onto a stool at the island.
I stare across the gap to the kitchen sink and try to combat the memory of Brighton’s impressive back as it threatens to sneak in.
I pull out my phone in a feeble attempt to distract myself from my surroundings and find a photo from Addy in the group chat. She looks so happy, and I try really hard not to be sad about it. Distance is hard, and as happy as I am for her, I miss her.
I type up a reply as Sunday returns with her niece in tow.
Daisy is a small carbon copy of her dad, but she looks like Sunday more than anything. With long blonde hair, big green eyes that clearly belong to her mother, and a grumpy scowl that definitely does not. She pulls her headphones out and sets them on the island to wave to me.
“Hi, Ms. Drake,” she says.
“What did I tell you about that?” I shake my head. “Outside of school, it’s just Rhea.”
“Right.” She offers a tight smile that mirrors her dad’s annoyed face and grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge.
“Hey Daisy, what’s that room?” I ask her and point to the one that’s off the living room.
“Dad’s office,” she shrugs. “But he never uses it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him even go in there.”
“Doesn’t he have an office downstairs?” Sunday scowls.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I think he’s just being a weirdo,” Daisy says, like that’s a normal response.
“I didn’t know the apartment had three bedrooms,” Sunday says. “I always thought that was a closet.”
“It’s not very big in there. He keeps it locked, though.”
“It’s locked?” Sunday whips her head back to Daisy.
“Dad’s weird,” she says with a small laugh. I’m about to bring up the question of renting the mystery room again when Daisy’s phone vibrates on the island.
“Are you still talking to that boy?” Sunday asks, derailing the conversation, snatching up Daisy’s phone, who instantly flips out and reaches for it back.
“Auntie Day, don’t,” she snips, and Sunday laughs. “Please.”
“Awfully defensive for a little girl who claims to be innocent. What are you, hiding on here?” She asks. “Is that little shithead sending you inappropriate texts because I promise not to tell Bri?”
“Oh my god,” Daisy gags.
“What’s your password again? What could be so important that you have to lock it down?” Sunday grumbles playfully.
“World domination. And pictures of paper road trip maps.” Daisy was quick, and it made me giggle as Sunday admitted defeat and handed the phone over.
“My brother’s obsession with maps is getting out of hand, and you enable it!” Sunday rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers at Daisy. “That glove compartment is a safety hazard.”
“He unfolds them in his lap on drives and stares at them with this face on,” Daisy makes a funny expression that’s not angry but perplexed, as the front door clicks open and Brighton wanders inside with three plates balanced in his long arms. “It’s funny watching him use them.”
“What’s funny?” He says in a gruff voice, sliding the plates to the counter.
“Your face,” Sunday quips and reaches out for her burger.
“Thank you,” she says quickly and slides Daisy her plate.
Brighton looks down at mine and pushes it toward me with a tiny nudge, and I give him a nod.
Boone piles the plate high with spicy sweet potato fries, and the black bean burger looks delicious to my empty stomach.
Before I can even be grossed out about the tomato, Sunday reaches over and takes it off my burger to put on hers.
Tomatoes are the one food group I cannot wrap my head around, wet little things that taste like nothing and make everything soggy.
But for all my quiet complaints about them, I can’t even bring myself to ask for the burger without them.
Some deep-rooted fear of being a bother to someone has seeped into something as stupid as asking for no tomato.
I sigh and try to ignore it and Brighton’s intense stare as I start to eat.
After we finish, he washes the dishes while Sunday says goodnight to Daisy.
Then we head back to Sunday’s. My little pile of belongings beside her bright orange couch is depressing.
I curl up on the tiny sofa, to the sound of my phone vibrating with messages from my family, and the tears flow, making my pillow wet as I fall asleep.
“You can’t move that far,” Cosy says and points to the board on the table.
“You’ve got thirty feet,” she says to me, and I slide the miniature back away from the monster we’re fighting in Dungeons and Dragons.
I chew on my lip and try to figure out another way to get Kaia’s character out of the trouble we’re in, but come up short.
“I cast suggestion,” Sunday says, rolling her dice.
“The hag hears the most beautiful trap music playing in the distance and starts to dance. She loves the music so much she may never stop dancing,” she reads to them with a smile on her face.
A natural twenty stares up at us all, and Cosy looks over her books.
“It hits.” She shakes her head. “I hate that spell.” She always says that, but she also never gets mad at Sunday for equipping it because it makes her happy.
“Can she do that?” Addy’s boyfriend, Jensen, says over the iPad.
“Go away fuckboy,” Kaia snips. “You were not invited to this session.”
“Don’t be like that.” He smirks at her, and she flips him off. “I miss you too, Kaia,” Jensen hums and kisses Addy’s temple before disappearing off-screen.
“It was a good move, Sunny,” Addy says, leaning over on her books to get closer to the camera.
“Thank you.” Sunday sits a little taller as Cosy tries to figure out her next move as dungeon master. “Does anyone want another margarita?” she asks, tapping the table with her fingers. “Since our hag is dancing,” she giggles as Cosy begrudgingly nods yes.
I follow Sunday through her dining room toward the kitchen and slide onto the counter as she starts dumping things into the blender without measuring. That’s why we’re always so drunk.
I try to stretch out my back, and when I reach my fingertips to the sky, it cracks loudly with a pop that makes Sunday turn her head to look at me.
“Was that your spine?” She sounds disgusted, and her face matches with a horrified look.
“Yes,” I say, trying not to laugh or cry.
“Are you okay? Why did it make that noise?” She pauses midway through making drinks and stares at me.
“I’m sleeping on a sofa made for Smurfs…” I raise a brow and smirk.
“It’s not that small.” She rolls her eyes.
“You also don’t own a single curtain,” I groan, pointing to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
“It’s aesthetic, and I like the sun!” She argues. “You cave troll!”
“They’re east-facing windows!” The sun floods through them at five a.m., and while I am a morning person, I have never been that kind of morning person.
“Have you made any progress on finding a place to rent for a short term?” She asks.
I know if I asked her, she wouldn’t care how long I slept on her couch, but I can’t do that to her.
We both need our own space, and Sunday especially.
She tended to get overwhelmed and anxious after too much social interaction, and while me being in her house right now didn’t do that.
It will build, and eventually she’ll either break down or go insane quietly, so she didn’t hurt my feelings.
“No,” I choke out. “Everything is a year lease or hotels, which would get expensive fast when I’m already paying a mortgage and now renovations.”
“You were the only person with a two-bedroom,” Sunday sighs. All the other girls on the team either lived together or in studio apartments. There’s no space for me anywhere.
Except…
“At least I have a job now.” I shrug, “Well, a second one. That was really nice of Brighton.”
The use of his full name made her face do that weird thing again. “Yeah…” I watch as she lines up the cups on the counter.
“How often does Daisy stay with him? Her mom lives in Harbor, right?” I ask.
“They trade weeks,” Sunday says slowly, “she works over at the stadium.”
“Cool, cool,” I say with a nod. “And like, why doesn’t Boone live with him?”
“They’d kill each other under the same roof.” She says, not really paying attention to me. “Bri is all military, even now. Boone is…” She looks over at me and sighs. “Well, all not.”
“Yeah,” I agree, not having any clue what that means aside from Boone being a lunatic.
“I don’t really blame Bobo, though,” she continues, “Bri is hard to live with.”
“Is he, like… a mean guy?” I ask her with my head tipped to the ceiling to avoid the burning gaze coming from her.
“Hey,” Sunday says to get me to look at her. “What’s with the twenty questions about Bri? You don’t have a crush on him, do you?”
“No, no!” I raise my hands to further my point. Well kinda.
“Rhea,” she narrows her eyes at me.
“Seriously, no crush!” I open my mouth to argue more, and she silences me with the violent sound of the blender churning over.
Her eyebrow cocks, and she dares me to start again.
“Do you think that room is really an office?” I ask her when the sound is cut, and she stares at me, confused. “In your brother’s apartment. The locked room?”
“That’s what this is about? I have no clue, it would be a miracle if you managed to get him to rent it to you,” Sunday says.
“Why?” I ask. I didn’t really know a whole lot about Brighton outside of what I’ve been told.
Unlike his social butterfly twin, he kept his distance from us, was polite but short, and never hung around long enough to hold a conversation.
It was like Sunday, and Boone had stolen all the extroverted energy and left him with the leftovers.
“Bri doesn’t really like people in his space,” Sunday explains, “like more than a usual person, and there’s a lot to it, but I don’t think he’s roommate potential.”
I think about that for a moment, the conversation I had with him the other night felt normal, but I was also very drunk, so maybe I’m imagining things. “But there’s a chance I could convince him.”