Double Fault (On the Court #1)

1. Sabrina

CHAPTER 1

SAbrINA

The bright yellow eviction notice glares at me from across the hall as I near the door to my apartment. It was inevitable, really, regardless of how hard I’ve tried to avoid it. But after a day spent bouncing from place to place, handing out my résumé, it’s a slap in the face.

More often than not, I was told to apply online. And I have, but so far, it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. So I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

With a huff, I swipe the notice off the door and let myself inside.

The place isn’t even nice. Hell, I wouldn’t even categorize it as decent . It’s the size of a closet and shabby—and not in the chic way. But the rent is cheap—though obviously not cheap enough—and it’s a place to lay my head at night. Or it was before this notice appeared.

Head tilted back, I blow out a breath that’s pure frustration.

I straighten, set my shoulders, and drop my bag onto my unmade bed. Then I go in search of the half-eaten tub of vanilla ice cream tucked away in my freezer. People can call vanilla ice cream bland and boring all they want, but I can’t help but love it.

The container gives a little too easily in my hold, and my stomach sinks. I know before I even take the lid off that the ice cream has melted. I close my eyes and breathe. This feels like the cherry on my already shit-tastic day. Though the eviction notice is far more harrowing, the melted ice cream is what sends me over the edge.

Tears sting my eyes.

“Don’t you fucking cry, Sabrina,” I mutter. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Crying won’t get me anywhere. It won’t solve my problems.

I have a degree in elementary education, yet I can’t find a single job in the field. Surely there will always be a need for teachers. That need just isn’t around here, I guess. What a waste those college years feel like. Not only because I spent years working toward a pointless goal, but because I buried myself in debt in the process. I’m drowning in loans, not to mention the bills that have been piling up.

Mrs. Coin, my favorite high school teacher, was such an encouraging and motivating presence in my life. I’d always loved school, and after her ninth-grade English class, I decided I wanted to be just like her. We stayed in touch through my time in high school, and she urged me to pursue my passion for teaching and my desire to better the lives of children. She passed a year ago. It was crushing. And now I feel like I’m failing her. Whatever she saw in me, no one else has noticed, I guess.

I pour the ice cream into the sink, then run the water and watch it dissolve and drain away.

My fingers end up sticky in the process, which only adds to my already mounting annoyance. The sensation propels me across the tiny kitchen to the trash, where I toss the carton.

There’s no point in calling my landlord about the broken freezer, not when I can’t even pay rent. He’s not going to do anything to help me, and I’m not sure I can even blame the guy. He’s been beyond understanding, but his generosity has apparently run out.

I wash my hands, then, weary from it all, drag myself over to my bed, drop onto the mattress, and yank off my combat boots. They drop to the old wood floors with a thunk. Within seconds, Mrs. Torres, who lives below, bangs the ceiling with her broomstick. I swear that woman stands there day and night just waiting for me to make some sort of noise so she can chastise me.

Blowing out a puff of air, I collapse backward onto my sheets.

“What am I going to do?”

The idea of working yet another dead-end job in an effort to make ends meet causes dread to coil in my stomach. But what choice do I have? If I don’t work, I’ll be homeless. At this point I’d say yes to any job I was offered.

I drag my arms up and down in a mockery of a snow angel.

A sheet angel, if you will. Sheets I should’ve washed two weeks ago, along with the pile of clothes in the corner. I hadn’t wanted to spare the money at the laundromat. That’s how I spend my time these days: looking at the meager amount of money I possess after paying bills and deciding what needs to be done and what can wait.

Even then, I can’t pay my stupid rent.

I thought I’d at least have some semblance of order in my life by the time I was twenty-two.

I figured I’d feel more adult-y.

Although I guess using words like adult-y, even in my head, proves how un -adult-y I really am.

I heave myself up to sitting again, then drop to my hands and knees beside the bed and dig my duffel bag out from beneath it.

The last thing I want to do is crash at my best friend’s place yet again, but I’m out of options. There’s no point hanging around here hoping I can scrounge up enough funds to buy my way out of an eviction. I don’t even have a working refrigerator.

The duffel is in the farthest corner. I stretch until my fingers barely touch the fabric, then pinch it and tug it closer. It slides out easily, along with a cluster of dust bunnies.

“Ew.” I pluck them off, then drop the bag onto my bed. I send up a silent prayer that there are no spiders hiding in the dust bunnies, but I’m already envisioning them burrowing into my sheets.

In my purse, my phone buzzes, and when I dig it out and see my best friend’s name on the screen, it feels as though she somehow knows I need her.

I slide a finger across the screen to answer, smiling. “Lu!”

“My Sabrina senses were tingling. What’s wrong?”

I turn, facing my reflection in the mirror hung over the back of the bathroom door, and twist a curl with one finger. “I’m being evicted.”

“ Sab ,” she scolds. “When I asked you if you needed money yesterday, you swore you didn’t.”

Lucy is only a year older than me, but man, those twelve months make a whole world of difference. She has a whole wife, while I haven’t even made it to the end of a date in the past six months. It’s not my fault that the last three guys I went out either spent the night whining about an ex or straight-up told me they were only paying for dinner if I agreed to have sex with them. As-fucking-if.

Lucy is a personal shopper at a luxury store in the massive mall downtown. It pays well, but her wife makes the big bucks. Alyssa created a dating app when she was only seventeen. The woman is a tech wizard. She met Lucy through the app. It kills them both every time another date I set up using it ends terribly.

They think something’s wrong with the algorithm.

I think they’ve forgotten that straight men are the literal worst.

“You know I don’t like taking money from you.”

I already have a running tally of every penny I’ve borrowed on my phone’s notes app.

Twenty-five dollars for gas.

Another $55.60 for groceries.

A total of $5.65 for Starbucks.

Was the coffee a necessity?

In the moment, absolutely.

In hindsight, I should’ve suffered the caffeine headache.

“Pack your shit and get over here.”

I pluck a T-shirt off the floor and assess it. It hasn’t made its way to the monster pile yet, so I give it a sniff, then stuff it in the duffel. At least I can do my laundry at Lucy’s.

“Already on it. I was planning to show up at your door and beg for sanctuary.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You know we always have room for you. Why don’t you stay with us for a few months? Give yourself some time to save and find a job?”

She’s made the same offer a dozen times. And like every time before, I respond with a firm “no.”

As much as I love Lucy and Alyssa—and I could go days in their palatial house without even seeing them—I refuse to be a mooch. Okay, I refuse to be that much of a mooch, since, in situations like this, where the alternative means sleeping in the car, I have to accept her help. But I can’t stand the idea of burdening them with my problems long term.

“Don’t be stubborn.”

My throat tightens. “I’m sure I’ll find a job in no time.”

“That’s what you say every time,” she argues. I can picture her pacing in her tiny office in the back part of the store.

“And every time, I find a job.” Eventually .

“I don’t know why you won’t let Alyssa help you. She has connections.”

With a groan, I shove another armful of clothes into the bag. “I’m not a charity case, Lu.”

She’s quiet on the other end.

I huff a sigh. Her nonanswer is answer enough. “You’re right. I totally am. But it’s bad enough having to crash at your place. I don’t want you to have to get me a job too. A girl has to have some pride, you know?”

“You act like we pity you. That’s the furthest thing from the truth. We want to help you because we love you.”

Ugh. Now she’s pulling out the big guns.

When my duffel is bursting at the seams, I put the phone on speaker and work the zipper closed. Then I scour my room for the rest of my belongings and shove them into tote bags.

“I’ll hear you out over dinner tonight. How does that sound? If one of your suggestions sounds like it would be a good fit, I’ll consider it.”

Lucy sighs, making the line between us crackle. “I guess if that’s all I’ll get, then I’ll take it. I assume you’re heading to the house now?”

“Yep.” I plop onto the bed and shove my feet back into my combat boots.

“I’ll let Alyssa know.”

Heart clenching at her generosity, I tug one set of laces tight. “Thank you, Lu.”

“You’re welcome. Things are going to get better, Sab. I know it.”

My shoulders sag. I hope she’s right. Most days it seems unlikely.

“I’ll see you later,” I say in response.

“All right. Be careful.”

Once the call is disconnected, I stuff my phone into my pocket. Then I strip the bed. I leave the bedding in a pile on the floor and heave my duffel bag across my body. Then I shoulder my tote on one side, purse on the other.

It’s pathetic the way all my belongings can be carried out in one trip, strapped to my body. Twenty-two years old, and this is it.

I open the door, then go back and gather up my bed things. It’s a challenge, getting the door closed and making it down the stairs without taking a tumble. By the time I reach my ancient Toyota 4-Runner, I’m out of breath and sweating.

I drop the bed things to the ground. They need to be washed anyway.

The back door opens with a creak.

The vehicle is older than I am and has nearly three hundred thousand miles on it. How it’s still running is beyond me, but it’s never let me down. Good ole Pearl just keeps on running.

My shoulders cry out in relief when I toss my bags into the cargo area. After my bedding is loaded, I slam the lift gate, dust off my hands, and round the bumper.

I crank the engine and take a moment to close my eyes and breathe. Pearl needs the warm-up, anyway.

After a minute, or more like five, I pull away from the apartment complex I’ll never return to and drive toward Lucy and Alyssa’s house on the outskirts of Houston.