Little Sunshine

3. Be Prepared

Trudging up to my apartment, I felt like I was about to die—and not just because walking up four flights of stairs was an intense workout.

I was used to it. My building had an elevator that was perpetually out of order. According to Ron—the building manager who only blew in when rent was due—it would be repaired any day.

Any daywas going on nearly two years—the entire time I’d lived there and then some. When new tenants pressed on the matter, they were told the same rotation of excuses.

Just waiting on one part.

Just hit a snag.

Just need a little time to figure it out.

Any day.

It would never happen. The people who could move did so quickly, and the ones who couldn’t had to suck it up.

I was in the suck-it-up category since it had the cheapest rent for a place on a bus route.

Usually, I didn’t mind the hike up the stairs, but my stomach had already been iffy after I’d eaten the delicious food at Moonlight. When I’d taken off running, that iffy had turned into an outright no. I’d barely made it to a side alley before throwing up everything.

I hadn’t cared that the few onlookers had loudly taunted me, assuming I was drunk or high. I’d just been happy the behemoth wasn’t among them.

The downside was that the hunger I’d finally satisfied was back. And thanks to the retching, it hurt so much worse than before.

Enough nutrients must’ve hit my blood sugar, though, because I no longer felt like passing out.

Small victories.

Tiny victories.

Infinitesimal ones.

Whatever bright side I tried to look on disappeared as I went to open my door, only to find it already unlocked.

Shit.

A sane person may have seen that and backed away to call the cops.

I didn’t bother.

For one, it’d take the cops forever to get over to my side of town. I was too tired to wait.

Mostly, though, it was because I knew the likely culprit.

Positioning my keys between my fingers like a discount, off-brand Wolverine, I rushed inside, not stopping to check that I was truly alone.

Not really caring.

Going right to the kitchenette, my stomach sank to my feet when I saw the cabinets were open. I ignored the pain that radiated as I dropped to my knees and dug around the mess left under my sink.

Please.

Please.

Please, please, please.

But I knew.

Even before I grabbed the innocuous-looking rubber tube of wipes.

Even before I wedged the lid off.

Even before my eyes fully processed what I saw—or, more accurately, didn’t see.

Every tiny bit of cash that I’d hoarded away was gone.

Stolen.

When I’d moved out of my mother’s house at sixteen, I’d vowed that eviction and homelessness were a thing of the past. No matter how strapped I was, I’d always kept aside enough money for a couple of months’ rent. Or, if things really went to hell, it would secure a new, equally shitty apartment on short notice.

At times, I’d wanted to dip into those funds. To splurge on a huge meal. To shop for groceries that weren’t on sale.

To go out. Have fun. Join the party that everyone else seemed to perpetually live in.

But I’d never done it. Not when I’d been sad, bored, or desperately hungry. I’d forced myself to be responsible, if only to combat the anxiety and memories.

All that sacrifice, and I had nothing to show for it.

Both dreading what I’d find but needing to know what else had been stolen, I stood on trembling legs. I scanned the place, which was easy to do from one spot because my studio apartment really was that tiny, and I really owned that little.

My small TV was no longer sitting on the rickety stand I’d found by the side of the road.

Drawers were left open.

Clothes were strewn on the floor.

A sleeve of dollar store saltines sat on the counter, left open to get more stale than they’d already been. I didn’t care that she’d eaten most of them. In fact, I hoped she’d choked on their dryness. My issue was the jar of peanut butter sitting next to them.

The empty jar.

There was a dirty spork on the counter next to it, inviting ants—or worse—to come feast on the sticky mess and the cracker crumbs.

That peanut butter was the only protein I had in my apartment.

And thanks to my mother, it was gone.

Sad as it was, I hadn’t realized she knew my address. It wasn’t like she’d ever popped in for a visit with her only child. I also had no idea how she’d gotten inside. Even if I had a spare key, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t have given it to her. She’d never had the patience and intricacies needed to pick locks—that was my skill.

That left one likely option.

Ron.

All she had to do was bat her lashes at him, and the shitty building manager would’ve let her right into my apartment.

I eyed my bed with distaste.

Hopefully, that was all he did.

Grimacing, I dropped my gaze to the empty jar of peanut butter. The longer I looked, the more enraged I became.

The Roulette Hotel was a cruddy place filled with skeezy people. But I liked my job. Not necessarily where I’d been doing it, but the work itself was good. It was honest. I had solitude. I had independence since neither Todd nor Steve ever had to micromanage me. I had something to be proud of.

Every day was like one of those satisfying viral videos where a house gets organized or a stain gets removed. I liked sitting back and seeing my hard work pay off.

And the money may have been woefully low for all that effort, but it was still money.

Money she’d stolen.

Along with my savings.

My TV.

My job.

And my peanut butter.

For whatever reason, that enraged me the most. The damn peanut butter.

With a frustrated groan, I picked up the jar and threw it across the room. Thankfully, it was empty and didn’t make much noise as it hit with a hollow thud and fell to the ground.

The last thing I needed was a neighbor in my business. Or, worse, for them to complain.

I was already going to be frantically scrambling to make rent in time. I didn’t need to speed up the eviction process with complaints.

No.

Screw this.

I’m not letting her drown me to keep herself afloat.

My mother or not, it was time to start pushing back.

I just had to find her first.

Riled up onpeanut butter indignation, I stormed out of my apartment and onto a bus. I took it across the city, waiting for my anger to fade as time passed.

It didn’t.

It grew with each seedy bar I’d had to enter searching for my mother. All I’d learned was that she hadn’t been to her usual haunts.

Oh, and some of her old drinking pals already had the mother but were happy to try out the daughter, too.

Barf.

Beyond barf.

I should’ve gone home. My time and effort would’ve been better spent searching for another job rather than my deadbeat mother.

It wasn’t like I was going to accomplish anything by finding her. She wasn’t going to pull me into a hug before groveling at my feet for forgiveness. I had a snowball’s chance in a Vegas heat wave of getting anything from dear ole Roni.

I knew that, but I was too pissed to think rationally. And the longer I searched, the more that anger festered and grew.

Because it was the principle of the matter.

The stench of stale beer and cigarettes filled the air as I neared a bar Veronica used to love. It’d been her favorite place—unless she got behind on her tab.

I remembered having to come drag her home when she was too wasted to walk the few blocks to our apartment alone.

I’d been six or so.

Instead of doing the smart thing, I did the stubborn one. I steeled my back and tried not to touch more of the sticky door than was necessary as I pushed inside.

It’d been a long time since I’d been there, but nothing had changed. And that wasn’t a compliment. The interior looked even worse than the outside—something I hadn’t thought possible.

As I approached the corner of the bar, the two bartenders spoke to each other quickly. The man continued filling glasses from the taps while the woman headed my way. Her brows were lowered—not hostile but definitely curious. Before she reached me, a surly, older man moved in front of her. He, on the other hand, looked outright intimidating as he glared at me.

“Get out.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

“Ya heard me. We don’t need whatever trouble you’re about to bring, so just do us both a favor. Go.”

“I’m looking for?—”

“Don’t care if you’re looking for a score, a date, or the mystical chupacabra. You ain’t finding it here.”

I bristled at the insinuations he made, but I focused on what was important. “I’m looking for Veronica Rogers.”

That got a reaction.

The male bartender’s gaze shot to me as he continued to pour a dark beer until it overflowed. He cursed and shook off his hand before dumping the glass that was mostly foam.

The woman’s expression swapped from curiosity to distaste in an instant.

And the older man’s glare tightened like he was trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes.

Yup, they definitely know my mother.

Before anyone else could speak, an older woman pushed through a swinging door behind the bar. Her eyes landed on me, and she froze mid-step. “Whatever cookies you’re selling, Girl Scout, we don’t want ’em.”

Ohhhhkay.

So much for a warm welcome and helpful assistance.

The man looked at her. “She’s looking for Roni.”

Before more insults could be flung my way, a woman flopped onto a stool and nearly fell from it. She turned and nearly fell again. “Roni? What do you want with her?”

Revenge for my damn peanut butter.

“She’s my mother,” I said instead.

I expected her to be skeptical. After all, if she was my mother, why would I need to search for her in a dive bar?

But the woman must’ve known her well because she wasn’t fazed by the estrangement. “I see it. You’ve got her eyes.”

Our blue eyes were the only trait we shared. That and our poverty-chic frames.

The woman picked up her beer. “But Roni hasn’t been around for a while. She’s living with her new man.”

Unsurprising.

“Do you know where?”

She preened, like having the knowledge made her special. “Of course I know where my best friend lives.”

Such is the manipulative power of Veronica Rogers.

I didn’t bother to tell her that Veronica didn’t have friends. She didn’t care about anyone unless she had something to gain from it.

Including her own daughter.

The woman took out her cell and touched the screen a few times before turning it my way.

The fact Veronica had a new man was predictable. But my jaw hit the floor, and my disbelief reached an all-time high when I saw the address where she was supposedly staying.

My first lead, and it’s one of Veronica’s embellishments.

“You got your answer. Now go,” the older man bit out before I could question the woman further. He looked two seconds away from siccing the bouncers on me. The threat on his face was followed by an outright one. “I’m not gonna say it again.”

Even though I doubted the address was legit, I gave a small nod and thanked the woman before hightailing it out of there.

I walked down the street toward the bus stop, trying to decide what to do.

It was unlikely the fake address would lead to anything. It was a waste of time and money. If I was smart, I’d go home, grab the metaphorical scissors, and cut her out of my life for good.

Yet when the bus stopped in front of me, I climbed on.

What do I have to lose? She’s already stolen everything.

You’ve got tobe kidding me.

After taking the bus as close as it went, I’d had to walk the rest of the way through a lot of cute.

Cute houses with cute little gardens where cute kids played with cute toys.

The longer I hiked, the bigger those cute houses became until I stood outside the address the barfly had shown me.

It wasn’t a mansion, but it wasn’t far off. It was way nicer than any place I’d expect to find my mother.

Standing on the sidewalk, I was about to approach the door when a racing car squealed into the driveway. Veronica launched herself out from behind the wheel so suddenly, I thought the car would continue rolling until it crashed into the garage.

She snagged herself a man with a nice house and a garage. Not to mention that expensive car since there’s no way that’s hers.

Why the hell did she have to steal my shit?

“What’re you doing here?” she hissed at me, her worried eyes darting behind me to the front door.

“Give me my fucking paycheck.”

Her voice was low. Wounded. As fake as the rest of her. “Camila, is that any way to talk to your own mama?”

Oh barf.

“I have no mama,” I hissed back. “No mom. No mother. I have a thief I share some DNA with.”

Not that I’m much better up here on my pickpocketing high horse.

“I can explain.” Another nervous dart of her eyes. “Later.”

History might repeat itself, but she’s really got it on a loop.

Most of my childhood memories involved being left alone or with my grandparents. But I’d seen enough pictures of us when I was a baby to know Veronica hadn’t minded me back then. I’d been a cute accessory she could use for attention. That’d changed when I’d gotten older. She hadn’t wanted people to know she was old enough to have a kid. By the time I was five, she’d taught me to call her by her first name.

In her head, we were Roni and Mila, basically sisters.

That’d changed again when I became a teenager. Then I was her secret. Her enemy.

Her competition.

Her shifty behavior made it clear nothing had changed. Her new man had no clue she had a daughter.

I was exhausted. Stressed. Sick to my stomach.

It’s finally happened. I’m out of patience.

I’m done.

Steeling my spine, I did something I rarely had the desire or energy to do.

I stuck up for myself.

“I’m not leaving without my money.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed to slits, and I could practically see the vicious insults she had forming on her tongue.

It was our typical routine ever since I was old enough to know she was trash.

That we were trash.

Any time I questioned her grand stories, she would lash out and cut me down until she felt superior again.

I didn’t give her the chance.

“Now,” I emphasized, though I honestly didn’t expect to get a single cent from her. I just couldn’t back down. I couldn’t let her continue taking advantage of me.

It needed to end.

Veronica fidgeted with a too tight hoodie that matched the sweatpants that were also too tight and too low on her hips. That was her signature style.

Too.

Too tight.

Too low-cut.

Too short.

Too revealing.

Too much bleached hair, lashes, and perfume.

She clung to the past like she clung to her youth.

Her hands trembled, and fear pinched her features. Her blue eyes brimmed with tears. Whether it was genuine or not, I wasn’t sure. She was a brilliant actress. “They would’ve hurt me.”

I must’ve been stupider than I thought because sympathy bloomed in my chest like a daffodil in a cracked sidewalk. If I let it, it would grow and take over, desperate for hints of sunshine. For love.

I didn’t let it.

I hardened my heart against it and her. “That’s not my problem.”

There was that edge of hatred in her eyes as she glared at me even while she aimed for pity. “An old… friend found me. He thinks I owe him and threatened to hurt me, Mila. Said he’d tell my new man who I really am and ruin my life. And I finally got a good man.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you have him help you?” I snapped before I thought better of it.

Because I already knew the answer.

Veronica would always come first.

Whatever man she was bleeding dry was next.

And down at the bottom was me.

Her daughter.

Her only child.

The one who’d ruined her life by simply existing.

She opened her mouth, and I could almost hear the excuses. Almost taste the lies.

I lifted my hand, cutting them off before she could start. “You know what, I don’t care. About him. You. Any of this. I don’t even care about my missing TV and the damn peanut butter. I just want my money.”

Her brows lowered. “What TV?”

“The one you stole and pawned for a whole, what, five bucks?”

“I didn’t steal your TV,” she insisted, indignation filling her tone like she had any high ground to stand on.

Stealing a paycheck is totally fine. Someone’s life savings is fair game. A TV, though? Noooo, that’s far beneath Veronica.

I shot her an impatient stare. “I’m supposed to believe you broke in and stole my money, but the missing TV has nothing to do with you?”

“I didn’t steal anything.” Crossing her arms, she truly looked insulted. “I just… borrowed the money. And I didn’t break in. Your nice landlord let me in so I could wait for you. To explain and avoid this,” she said, gesturing around. “But then I had to leave before you got home.” It was her turn to give me the stare that said she thought I was a moron. “You think I’m gonna lug that cheap TV down the stairs?” She held out a hand to show off her long acrylics. “It would cost more to fix a broken nail than that piece of shit is worth.”

She wasn’t wrong.

However, if she didn’t take it…

Oh God. Someone was in my apartment.

And I strolled right in.

The fact I wasn’t immediately butchered is a miracle.

Taking in the self-righteous way Veronica lifted her chin in that small victory, I forced a sugary-sweet smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry for accusing you of stealing my TV. Now if you’ll just return my whole fucking paycheck and the cash that you did steal, I’ll be on my way.”

Her face fell as she grudgingly admitted, “I don’t have it.”

Even if it’s what I’d expected, the confirmation made the ground beneath me bottom out. The thread of hope I’d been desperately clinging to went up in a burst of fire, leaving me to fall.

To hit rock bottom.

Before I could speak—or shout the whole neighborhood down—I took a moment to inhale deeply. To try to get control of my rage and fear and the anxiety that was lodged in my throat, choking me.

I don’t make scenes.

I never make scenes.

That’s Veronica’s thing.

She’s already pushing me down to save herself. I refuse to help by lowering myself to her level.

A tiny bit of clarity and calm started to grow in my brain.

Or maybe it was rage suppression that would turn into an aneurysm to kill me.

Either way.

I’d said my piece. More than that, I’d stood up for myself—something I rarely did when it came to Veronica.

It may not have been the return of my money, but it was enough.

“You’ll be fine, hun,” Veronica said. “You’ve always been responsible.”

She didn’t mean it in a good way. In her world, responsibilities were a boring killjoy. But I took it as a compliment anyway.

Wow, this is rare. Ending an interaction with Veronica on a high note.

But that would’ve been too easy. Too good. Veronica had to go and ruin it. Because of fucking course she did.

With a dismissive wave, she rolled her eyes and continued. “There’s no reason to get your panties in a twist. It was just one paycheck, Camila, and not a very big one?—”

The warmth her—albeit backhanded—compliment had created turned to acidic fire, and I saw red. Rather than anxiety choking me, it was rage that stole my breath as it tightened my chest until I vibrated with it.

“It wasn’t one paycheck,” I cut her off, my volume growing with each word. “It was my last paycheck because you got me fucking fired.”

She winced.

Not with guilt or shame.

It was because my yelling could alert her man to my existence.

“Shut up before someone hears you,” she snapped, looking ready to smack me.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

My voice was even louder. “Fine by me.”

She took a step toward me, violence in her eyes. I didn’t dodge to the side. I didn’t back away. I didn’t cower.

I lifted my chin.

A nonverbal dare.

When she faltered, her eyebrows raising briefly in surprise, I added a verbal one. “Do it, and I’ll scream and scream and scream until this whole fancy-ass neighborhood hears. You can explain who I am and why I’m here.” I looked pointedly at her front door and yelled, “Explain it to every?—”

“I’ll get you your money,” she interrupted, her voice tinged with panic and loaded with anger.

I reared back, more surprised than if she’d followed through with hitting me.

In all the times my mother had stolen from me, she’d never breathed a word about repayment. In her mind, it was all what I owed her. For ruining her body. For ruining her plans.

For ruining her life.

As soon as the words were out, she tried to backpedal. “I just need some time. A few weeks. Maybe a month.”

By that time, I’ll be on the street.

It’ll be like old times, except we won’t have Nan and Pop’s couch to crash on like when I was a kid.

That thought led to another. “If you’re staying here, what happened to Nan and Pop’s place?”

But I knew before her lips pressed into a thin line—her one tell of guilt. It wasn’t one I saw often since she typically lacked the soul to feel remorse.

She rallied quickly, raising her chin like she worried her invisible crown would fall.

The Queen of Trash.

“You mean my house?” She shrugged. “I sold it.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

The house had been paid off when Nan and Pop were still alive. It wasn’t much, but it was nice enough. It would’ve sold for a decent amount—especially with the way Veronica likely nickeled and dimed the buyer.

She could bleed a leech before it bled her.

How had she gone through all that money in months?

How could she sell the house without giving me the chance to take any of the sentimental items that were stashed away?

And how the hell was I surprised by anything she did?

I didn’t bother to ask any of those questions. I focused on the only thing that mattered at that point.

“I’m not waiting a month,” I said. “You sold the house, so you should have no trouble giving me my money now.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Then get it.”

It took everything in me. Every ounce of resentment, anger, fear, and stress was channeled into my backbone.

Because I knew what would happen when I pushed.

I’d lose her.

She may not have been much, but she was still the one relative I had in the world. The thought of losing that single strand of connection tore at my heart, leaving me feeling isolated.

Just so completely alone.

But I pushed anyway.

“Otherwise,” I continued, raising my voice once again, “I’m calling the cops. How many warrants do you?—”

“Monday,” she rushed out, hatred dripping from her words. “Just give me the weekend to get the money together.”

“The weekend. That’s it.”

I could practically hear the vile names she called me in her head.

It was better than hearing them out loud… again.

After hesitating for a moment, I decided to push my advantage. “I need money for a taxi home.”

“All that way? That’ll cost—” Her protests cut off abruptly when I opened my mouth, the threat of more yelling clear. With a grudging sigh, she stomped to her car before returning a moment later to thrust some crumpled twenties at me. “This is coming out of what I’m giving you.”

‘What I’m giving you.’

Like it was a gift or loan and not what she’d stolen.

“Good,” I said, and I meant it. I had no interest being indebted to my mother.

The interest and strings she’d attach to each penny would be never-ending.

“I’ll see you this Monday,” I added. “Not Tuesday. Not two Mondays from now. Otherwise, I’ll be back for another family reunion, Mother.”

I didn’t wait around for her to try to manipulate me, throw insults my way, or maybe follow through with slapping me.

I took my money and walked away.

I had no intention of actually paying for a taxi. A little—or a lot—of walking never hurt anyone. Even once I was at the closest bus stop, I ignored the sleazy catcalls and went about my own wild Friday night.

First, I stopped at the store for a small restock of staple groceries to get me through the weekend. I was extra cautious with what I chose because once I was done, I splurged on a fast-food burger.

It wasn’t as good as the one I’d had for lunch.

And eating it alone in my apartment wasn’t the same as sitting across from the behemoth.

But at least no one was bossing me around. That was way better.

Right?