Chapter 5
Present
Some days the universe didn’t just kick you when you were down—it spit in your coffee, too.
I stared at the weird blob floating on top of my latte, tilting the mug slowly as if that might help me diagnose the problem. Spoiled milk? Or had my roommate actually spit in it this morning?
Both felt equally possible.
Living with Lauren for the last three years had been a slow, grinding lesson in endurance. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from a roommate who listed her spare bedroom—closet, really—on Craigslist, but an eternal party girl with no respect for personal space or common decency hadn’t been it.
Lauren didn’t have a job. She had a dad with a credit card and a vague “budget” she liked to complain about when it tightened.
In those months, my increased rent conveniently covered the gap.
After years of the same game, I did my best to avoid her—late nights, early mornings, headphones always in—because everything in Chicago was expensive, and misery was cheaper than moving.
As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone buzzed in my hand with a text message.
Lauren
Hey, so heads up. I rented out your room. You need to be out by Friday.
I stared at the screen, rereading it as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less insane.
Daisy
What do you mean, out by Friday? That’s tomorrow. You can’t do that.
Lauren
Dad checked the lease. We never signed a new one after the first year.
My stomach dropped as I thought back over the last few years, trying to remember if that was true.
Lauren
He says you’ve been month to month for, like, two years. And you’re paying below market price.
I scrolled through my email, heart pounding, trying to look for any digital footprint that what she said wasn’t true. Anything about the apartment usually came from her dad’s attorney, and there it was—two years ago. A renewal notice I meant to print and sign, but never had.
Daisy
Why didn’t you ever say anything?
Lauren
You never asked.
Tomorrow morning, btw.
I’m throwing a party and don’t have time to have you messing up the place.
My grip tightened around my phone, my thumbs flying over the screen as I typed and deleted every rage-filled thought that flitted through my mind.
Daisy
So I just have to leave?
Lauren
Yes. ASAP.
Anger flared hot and fast, immediately followed by something that felt a lot like relief.
The thought sat there, ugly and undeniable, that I might have stayed forever if Lauren hadn’t kicked me out.
Sure, I knew I avoided conflict at just about any cost, but I was ashamed I’d let my unhappiness go this long.
And there’s one.
I shoved the phone into my bag and headed into the office. My apparent lack of housing would have to wait until later.
Parker Collective was typically bright and busy—phones ringing, calendars packed with donor luncheons and community fundraisers, the low hum of people who believed in the events we planned and the money we brought in for the charitable organizations we worked with.
Today, it was quiet. Too quiet.
That should have been my first clue.
“Daisy, hey.” My boss, Jerry, motioned me into his office before I’d even set my bag down. “Can we chat for a minute?”
I plastered on my best fake smile, dropped my things in my tiny cubicle, then followed him into his corner office. “Did you hear from the Fairview team? They seemed pretty happy with the gala on Friday night.”
He blinked, looking surprised. “The—oh. Yeah. Yes.” He nodded. “They were thrilled. You did a great job. Really great.”
Relief flickered through me. “Good. I thought the rain plan might’ve—”
“No, no,” he cut in. He shifted, then finally sat down, folding his hands together. “You’re great with contingency plans, always ready to pivot at a moment’s notice. Everything went really well.”
“Thanks,” I said, his praise not explaining the bead of sweat trickling down Jerry’s brow. “So, what did you want to chat about?”
The breath he took was more like a gale-force wind.
“We’re downsizing.” Jerry slowly looked up from his desk to meet my eyes. “Unfortunately, your position has been cut. I’m sorry, Daisy.”
I blinked several times, trying to make sure I had heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, can you say that one more time?”
“This is never an easy conversation to have, especially because you’re such a hard worker.”
I nodded on autopilot while my right leg did the Cha-Cha Slide under his desk, unable to sit still. My brain started sprinting a hundred miles a minute through everything this meant for my life.
“Who else is being let go?” I asked, clinging to the question as if it made a lick of difference.
Jerry stacked and re-stacked the papers. “Right now, we’re starting with just your position.”
My spine stiffened, heat creeping up the back of my neck. “So, am I being laid off or fired?”
He attempted a sympathetic smile that only made me want to launch my coffee at his face.
“A little of both. Fundraising and event planning is a small network, and everything is connected to our donors. Unfortunately, they have a lot of sway the more they spend. But I thought at least this way, you can file for unemployment, which I felt better about, considering your circumstances.”
My head jerked back. “My circumstances? What circumstances?”
Jerry’s gaze darted to the window as if an escape hatch would open there. “Well, you and Lauren…”
I gripped the chair’s armrest hard enough that the faux leather squeaked. “Me and Lauren, what?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, a bead of sweat trickling off his forehead and down his temple. “You don’t know yet.”
“Oh, I know plenty about Lauren.” My voice was sharp and fast; my patience dangling by a thread. “I’m trying to connect the dots as to how you know my lint-licker of a roommate evicted me not even 10 minutes ago, insisting I be out by the end of the day.”
Jerry winced, dabbing a tissue along his brow. “Why did Donor Relations tell us since you two had a spat and you were moving out, it would be easier if we let you go too?”
“They WHAT?” My voice cracked up about three octaves, outrage detonating inside me like a firework.
“I’m so sorry,” Jerry whispered. “They said you can’t have run-ins with the Kingsleys, and you know how they’re connected to everything in Chicago. This is terrible, and I feel horrible.”
My mouth fell open. Words refused to form at first. Then they tumbled out in sharp little bursts. “So she’s kicking me out of my home”—one—“and asked Daddy to use that donor money to have me fired”—two—“So what’s number three?”
Jerry was turning green, looking like he might throw up on his desk. “I don’t follow.”
“Come on, Jer-Bear, complete the set. I collect catastrophes in trios.”
“You want more bad news?”
A laugh burst out that sounded more like a bark. “Don’t go soft on me now, Jerry. What’s next? Did my car get towed? Is the USDA banning cherry flavoring? Come on, rip off that Band-Aid for me, buddy.”
His face crumpled. “I really am sorry, Daisy. I’ll write you a shining letter of recommendation. We can use every connection I have to find you something else.”
I blew out a sharp breath, forcing myself not to flip his desk like a bad game of Monopoly. I knew where the blame belonged. Jerry was just the messenger. The knife in my back had Lauren’s fingerprints all over it.
I managed to keep it together long enough to shove my things into the cardboard box Jerry dug out of a supply closet. Walking down the hallway was a lesson in humility, balancing what had to be the most deranged assortment of belongings anyone had ever been fired with.
Front and center was a half-dead snake plant, slumped over like it, too, had given up on me.
Wedged beside it, a stack of notebooks full of ideas that had never seen the light of day.
Most embarrassing was a single black stiletto I’d been missing for over a year, discovered under the back of my desk like a crime scene clue to the inner workings of my neurodivergent brain.
Too bad I’d already donated the other one.
A gallon-sized bag sat on top, full of envelopes addressed to Dizzy.
Each one contained cute little stickers my niece loved to send me, knowing I, too, couldn’t resist the siren call of a good holographic cow wearing roller skates.
Each one was too precious to me to use. Instead, they’d been sitting in my drawer for years because what if I came up with somewhere better to put it later?
This little chaos box was a perfect representation of my time here: a shiny, messy graveyard of dreams that didn’t fit anymore. Maybe they never had.
My coworkers’ heads popped up like meerkats when I walked by, pity painted all over their faces. I lifted my chin higher, praying no one would ask if I was okay—the answer was a resounding no, and I refused to cry in front of them.
As I reached the elevator, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The box wobbled as I tried to reach for it, and the heel nearly made a break for it down the hall, so I let the call go to voicemail.
By the time I got to the parking garage across the street I’d paid to store my car in, the weight of it all pressed down—not just being fired, but the years I’d wasted here.
I’d come to Chicago chasing a new adventure, thinking that living the big-city life was the change I needed.
That it would be full of fun experiences and new friends and opportunities I couldn’t even imagine.
That I’d be fine living on my own, not relying on my sister to fix all my many problems I usually created for myself.
Instead, the last three years were spent in a beige cubicle and hiding from a narcissistic roommate.
I blamed Huddy, my mystery man, for setting the bar too high. Every day after that first one here had been a little more of a letdown until I’d arrived at rock bottom with a box of junk I didn’t even care about.
I sniffed back the tears, refusing to let them fall, and crossed the parking lot to my old red Volkswagen Beetle.
My phone rang again as I pried open the trunk and wedged the box inside, shoving it against the usual chaos: a half-full trash bag of items to donate I’d been carting around for months, a pair of golf clubs from my three-week attempt at being sporty, and—of course—the other black stiletto.
“If this is my reward for such a shitty day, I. Will. Riot.”
The phone shrilled for the third time. I finally tugged it free, ready to give whoever kept calling a piece of my mind, but the screen displayed an unknown number from Colorado.
My chest tightened, heart racing at who would call me. Spam didn’t call three times in a row, and the only people I knew in Colorado were my sister and niece.
It continued to ring as I slammed the trunk. This time I answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Daisy Winslow?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is Dr. Montgomery with Mountainside General Hospital in Glenwood Springs. Are you Violet Winslow’s sister?”
“Yes,” I managed, though my voice came out thin and shaky. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”
There was a pause, and that momentary silence said everything before the words even landed.
My knees buckled as the doctor kept talking, the world narrowing until all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears. I gripped the edge of the Beetle’s roof, but my fingers slipped and I slid down the side of the car until I sat down hard on the garage floor.
His words broke through in shards, jagged and senseless.
Headaches.
Tests.
Brain cancer.
Too late.
She’s gone.
Each one cracked against my ribs like a stone, and my brain refused to string them together, refused to let them mean what they meant.
I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, eyes burning, the parking lot spinning around me as if I’d been shoved underwater. Somewhere, a car door slammed, a train went by, and someone laughed. The world kept moving, but mine came to a screeching halt.
Three.
The biggest, baddest three there ever was.
And then, like a second wave I wasn’t ready for, one word rose above the rest. “…Juniper.”
My mouth moved before my brain could catch up, and I leapt to my feet.
“Junie—oh, God. She’s just a kid. She—she’s afraid of the dark, or at least she used to be.
I don’t know anymore. And she won’t eat carrots unless they’re the crinkle-cut kind.
She—” My voice cracked, the words tumbling out in fragments, useless and desperate.
“Where is she? Who’s with her? She’s not alone, is she? Please tell me she’s not alone.”
Dr. Montgomery’s voice softened, but I kept pacing. “She’s not alone, Ms. Winslow. She’s perfectly safe. They’ve placed her with a temporary foster, someone who lived next door to your sister. Has Juniper mentioned the Hudsons before?”
The name tugged at something in my memory from one of our many weekly phone calls. I could hear Junie’s voice rattling off stories about the neighbor’s animals: the dog that always ran the fence line, the chickens with ridiculous names she loved.
“She’s in excellent hands,” Dr. Montgomery assured me.
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
There was a pause, then gently, “Ms. Winslow, are you okay? Do you need help? Is there someone we can call for you?”
A high-pitched laugh burst out of me, sharp and too loud in the quiet parking lot. It wasn’t funny, not even close, but my body didn’t know what else to do. Help? Someone to call? I had no one.
No home.
No job.
No Violet.
Nothing left but a box of junk and an eight-year-old niece who needed me in Colorado.
The sound cracked off into silence, leaving me gasping, my phone hot against my ear. “No,” I whispered. “There’s no one. But I’m okay.”
I wiped my face on the sleeve of my shirt, shoved the phone into my pocket, and forced myself to move, already thinking through the logistics of getting out of here as fast as possible.
Pack a suitcase.
Fill the Bug with gas.
Get on the highway.
I chanted my to-do list in my head, trying to stay focused.
Sure, my world was unraveling at an alarming rate, but the Winslow girls were good at rising from the ashes. And this was not the time to fall apart.