Chapter 7
“Hard Times” - Paramore
Saylor
I cringe as the clerk scans the last item on the belt—a box of generic crackers—and my total appears on the screen. My reusable shopping tote isn’t even bulging, and the total still manages to take a nice chunk out of my last paycheck.
I swing the bag over my shoulder and head home.
Food would probably be cheaper at one of the bigger supermarkets, but then I’d have to take public transit, which is undesirable for several reasons.
For starters, it costs a lot more than walking, and I’m a big sucker for free.
Second, I know myself, and myself would try to make the trip worth it by buying enough for several weeks, which I can’t afford to do.
So for now, the neighborhood market, which carries only two brands of toothpaste—both with fluoride—will have to suffice. And of course, it starts raining on my way home, making me regret my dedication to walking.
My tooth throbs as I jog up the stairs to my flat, as though it wants to remind me that it, too, has needs. It’s become like a pet after all this time, waking me up in the middle of the night, costing more than my dinner, preventing me from getting anything done with its incessant nagging.
The thrift store won’t pay me until this weekend, and even when they do, it will only be enough to cover a small portion of my rent. I took the job for the sweet discount, not for the pay.
Thank God I still have the housing allotment—the only reason I still haven’t filed the divorce paperwork—but I have to find the money for the rest of the rent, which is due in less than two weeks.
No one is going to hire and pay me in that amount of time, even if I do manage to find a job, which means I’ll have to dip into the minimum balance in my account.
It kills me, because the fine isn’t cheap, and it took me months to save up that money. But I’ll be damned if I lose this flat.
I put the groceries away, then reach for the bottle of painkillers. There’s a single pill left. “Crap,” I mutter, and put the cap back on. Saving it for tonight when the pain won’t let me sleep is the wise thing to do.
Naturally, I forgot to grab more at the shop, which means either another trip—in the rain—or some alternate method for pain relief. Thunder cracks loudly, as though helping make my decision. Guess I’ll try my hand at home remedies.
A quick online search gives me a few different options, and I call the thrift shop while I set the tea kettle on to boil.
“Justine’s Attic.”
“Hey, Justine. It’s Saylor.”
“You calling in sick?” Justine is no-nonsense and as predictable as tax season.
I fill a cup with water and add a spoonful of salt. My gag reflex activates, and I haven’t even held it to my lips yet. “Actually, I was wondering about picking up some extra shifts.”
She tsks into the phone, a bad sign. “Oh, girl. I wish I had some to give you.”
“I’m free any time of day. I’ll even work Saturday nights.” No one wants to work Saturday nights.
“Don’t you already work Saturdays?”
I blink at my reflection in the window above the sink. The sky has grown dark, rain slashing against the windows. “Maybe I could clone myself?”
Her chuckle sounds more tired than amused. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything available.”
“Darn. You sure? Damian calls in sick so often—”
“I’m sorry, hun, but I’ve got too many people in the same boat as you.”
I sigh and stir the saltwater with a spoon. “It’s fine. If anything opens up, keep me in mind?”
She assures me she will and ends the call.
I slump against the counter, already feeling defeated, and I haven’t even started looking for jobs yet. Before I can talk myself out of it, I take a large mouthful of saltwater and swish it around my tooth.
It’s disgusting. I spit it into the sink, then get a fresh glass from the tap while my laptop reboots. Time to stop delaying the inevitable. If I want to stay alive, I’m going to need to find a new job.
Rhett’s proposal taps me on the shoulder, reminding me I’ve already received a better job offer than I’m likely to get again in my lifetime, if you’re only considering the pay.
But since I’m not, I shove it away. While I’m drawn to the idea of helping him avoid falling back into addiction, I’m more worried about how drawn I feel toward him.
Better not to play with fire.
I soak a cotton ball in clove oil—as per the instructions I find online—and sit down to see what kind of jobs are out there. I’ve never done an official job hunt before. Restore Hope and Justine’s Attic both fell into my lap at an opportune time, and I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I stick the cotton ball onto my tooth and bite down while I scan the postings. The first one is for a “Social Media Sorcerer,” whatever the heck that is. I click to read more, but the description doesn’t shed much light.
“Seeking a Social Media Sorcerer to conjure up compelling content that charms followers and boosts engagement. Ideal candidates are wizards in crafting viral posts, have experience in brewing up magic marketing strategies, and can spellbind audiences on Instagram, TikTok, and Threads.”
Okay, then. I click back to the rest of the results.
They are just as bleak, but with fewer wizards and more CEO talk.
I have the skill set for most of them, but I can’t imagine wasting it on promoting their mindless products.
How am I supposed to face myself after posting about a supplement that promises to make your hair grow an inch a day?
I have a BA in communications, but I feel like a high school dropout looking at these jobs. There isn’t a single charity listed. I was actually helping people at Restore Hope. Now I’m supposed to sit in a cubicle all day, tweeting about Miley Cyrus?
I shut my laptop in frustration and go to grab my kettle, which has been whistling at me for the past minute. There’s one bag of peppermint tea left, and I add it to the hot water rather than my cup to make it stretch further.
My phone rings on the coffee table, and my first thought is that it might be Rhett. My second is that if it is, I will take him up on his offer, threat of hellfire be damned.
It’s not Rhett. It’s a FaceTime call from my parents, who are currently traveling in southern Asia. I sit on the couch and accept the call. Their faces press together to fit on the screen. Behind them, I can make out what appears to be a lush green rainforest.
“Hi, love!” my mum says, louder than necessary. “How are you?”
“I’m good!” I insert an extra dose of enthusiasm into my voice. My tooth pulses with pain at my lie, and I quickly turn my head away from the screen to remove the cotton ball from my mouth. “How’s Indonesia?”
“Beautiful,” my dad answers at the same time my mum says, “Stunning.” They give each other goofy smiles, then my dad waits for her to continue.
“We just got back from a monkey sanctuary,” she says. “It was incredible. You would have loved it.”
“I’m sure I would have,” I say.
“We wanted to hike up Mount Bromo, but with your dad’s heart condition, they didn’t recommend it. We’re not in the same shape we were twenty years ago.” She giggles at this and shares another look with Dad.
My gut pinches. I’m happy that they’re able to finally do this, but the truth is, they would have gone much sooner if it hadn’t been for me. I was an “accident,” although they’ve never worded it like that. “A happy accident,” my mum would say if she could read my thoughts.
Thankfully, she can’t. She prattles on about the things they’ve experienced so far. It’s been a culture shock for them.
Neither of them has ever left the country before, but it’s been their dream my entire life.
Our home was always full of travel guides, atlases, and globes.
They watched foreign films every night they weren’t grading papers or planning lessons for the next day.
I knew how badly they wanted to travel, but living in the city on two teacher salaries isn’t easy.
It definitely doesn’t leave money for luxuries like travel, especially not once you add in a child.
I ignore my tooth, which badly wants attention right now. If I asked them for the money, I’d have it by the end of the day. I could schedule an appointment with a dentist tomorrow.
But I know how long they’ve saved and planned for this trip. I refuse to do anything to jeopardize it. They deserve this. They cared for me for eighteen years. It’s time to be a big girl and take care of myself.