8. Mira

8

MIRA

A key slides into my apartment door and I freeze.

My entire body goes still as I listen to the shuffling feet and movement coming from the hallway.

When the knob twists, I slam into motion. I lunge, breathless, for the knife block on the counter. Then I hold the blade to my pounding chest and stare at the door, waiting.

"Mira?" Taylor's muffled voice filters through the thin door. "Are you home?"

I'm so relieved I could cry. Actually, a small sob does in fact burst out of me as I lower the knife and wrench the door open.

My best friend is standing on the other side, wearing an effortlessly chic jersey sundress—and, when she spots the knife in my hand, a worried frown. "It's moments like this that I understand why I'm your only friend. You can't open the door like that, babe. It's spooky."

"I was… cooking." I spin around and drop the butcher's knife back into the block.

Taylor Hall breezes past me into the kitchen. She looks at the bare counters, glances in the empty fridge, and lifts one perfectly waxed eyebrow. "Cooking air for dinner? Grim."

I shrug wordlessly, stuff the knife back where it belongs, and turn away so she can't see me blush in shame.

Taylor comes stomping after me, though. "I'm serious, Mimi. It's bleak in here. First, you quit your job. Great! I'm thrilled. You aren't nice enough to be a good barista and you were overqualified, anyway."

"Hey! I'm nice!"

She ignores me and carries on. "Then you disappear on me for days. I get it; you're in mourning or transition or whatever. That's fine. But this?" She jabs a manicured fingernail at my fridge. "Are you starving yourself or something? Is this a cry for help?"

"I'm not crying for help. I didn't even know you were coming over," I mumble.

"Oh, and speaking of me coming over…" She waves the key in the air. "Why doesn't my key work? Did you change the locks again?"

"It was a building-wide thing," I lie. "They changed everyone's locks. I forgot to tell you."

Taylor drops the useless key on the counter and saunters into the living room. Well, what would be the living room, if I had a couch or a chair or a television. As it is, I have a taped-up bean bag chair someone online was giving away for free and a low coffee table with a stack of quarters taped to one leg. It's only half as sad as it sounds.

She looks down at the bean bag chair like she expects it to grow legs and crawl away from her. "Be honest with me, babe. Do you need money?"

"No!"

She puts a hand on her hip and fixes me with a glare. "I told you to be honest."

"And I told you ‘no.'"

"That kitchen is apocalyptic. I've learned to live with your college-boy-dorm-room aesthetic, but I can't live with you starving."

"I just haven't been to the grocery store in a few days. It's fine!"

"You're so annoying," she mutters, rolling her eyes to the ceiling like someone up there might lend her a hand. "You're all weird about accepting money, but what about a recommendation?"

"All you do is give me recommendations," I complain. "On what couch I should buy, what guys I should date?—"

"I gave up on you ever dating a man or owning a couch ages ago. I'm talking about a job recommendation. I can put in a good word for you. Apparently, someone my dad knows is looking for an in-house nanny."

I stare at Taylor for a few seconds, blinking. Then: "Not a chance."

But Taylor isn't paying any attention to me. "There would be no customers to deal with and you can still hide out inside all day. You'll get paid for being a recluse."

"Except for the part where I spent all day with a kid ."

"My dad says this kid is a dream," she insists. "He's quiet and polite. It'll pay well, too."

I look at my purse on the counter and I swear I hear it taking its desperate final breaths. "How well?"

"You'll be able to reliably stock your refrigerator, that much is for certain."

I groan and drop down into the bean bag. The beans part beneath me like the Red Sea and my ass hits the vinyl plank flooring hard. "How old is this kid? If it's someone your dad knows, the kid has to be older, right?"

I try to picture what my days would look like with a ten-year-old. Maybe even a tween. They probably wouldn't even want me around very much. I'd be more of a chauffeur than anything. That wouldn't be so bad…

"The kid is four, I think. It's not one of his friends; it's a player on the team."

"‘The team'?" I ask, eyes wide. "You want me to nanny for the kid of some famous hockey player on your dad's team? Absolutely not."

"It's the Phoenix Angels," she snorts. "Hockey players are chill and normal, for the most part. The guys on the team are lowkey."

"Not lowkey enough." I dig myself out of the bean bag and rub my bruised ass with a wince.

"You're kidding, right? I mean, you wouldn't really turn down a paying job right now because you're too shy. Right? Tell me I'm not crazy."

If I was Taylor, I'd think I was crazy, too. I've turned seclusion into an extreme sport.

But I have my reasons.

And Taylor can't know any of them.

"Thanks for thinking of me, Tay, but I'm good."

Her jaw unhinges. "You're ‘good'? As in, you're good with siphoning your nutrients out of the air like a sponge? As in, you aren't going to do it just because some people watch the kid's dad play hockey?"

"Because a lot of people watch the kid's dad play hockey," I correct. "But it's more than that. I just… I don't want to be a nanny. It's not a good fit." Taylor's forehead creases. I grab her shoulders before she can say anything. "You're a great friend. If I die of malnutrition, you can carry on knowing you tried your best to save me."

"That's not funny, Mira," she complains with a whimpering laugh.

"I'm kidding. I'm going to be fine. I'll figure something out. I always do."

As I shift past her, Taylor mumbles, "That's exactly what I'm worried about."

Once Taylor leaves, I try to shake off her worry. Mine is debilitating enough on its own.

Short of selling my kidney on the black market, I don't have a lot of options at the moment. I have a few resumes floating around, but as it turns out, my spotty work history isn't a huge selling point with most employers. And none of them are going to get back to me before the moldy cheese in my fridge turns radioactive.

When my existential panic threatens to strangle me and the walls of my apartment start to close in, I hit the gym down the street.

Try to, at least. But when I swipe my membership card at the door, the light flashes red.

"Try it again," the girl behind the front desk says between smacks of gum. "The card reader can be so annoying."

I swipe again, but the LED strip remains a stubborn red.

I see the moment her face falls. Her mouth sours into a pitying wince. "Your membership payment is past due."

"Oh. Right." My cheeks are burning the same color as the LED light. "I got paid late this month. The check probably hasn't cleared. It's there, but it's not?—"

"You get one good grace workout," she interrupts. "Today is free. If your balance is still overdue next time, you won't be allowed in."

Shame heats my face and I duck my head, practically sprinting past her desk. "Thanks."

I slink to the locker room and tape my knuckles. Slipping into my boxing mitts is usually a sigh of relief, but today, they feel heavy. It takes all the energy I have to shuffle out to the mat and get through even the most basic of workouts.

When I'm sweaty and my arms are useless, I limp back to the locker room to grab my stuff for what may very well be the last time. I have no idea when I'll be able to afford the membership again.

Skipping breakfast and coffee this morning sucked. Nibbling on a piece of molding cheese for lunch was a personal low point. But this? Giving up the gym and the one outlet I have for all of the shit swirling inside of me?

This is the worst.

I rip my gloves off and chuck them into the locker. As I'm peeling off the tape, I catch a glimpse of my arms.

My scars aren't as noticeable now as they used to be. Since moving to Phoenix, my year-round tan has hidden them pretty well. But even still, they're there. An ugly reminder of what happens when I can't fight back—when I don't fight back.

Today, they look as fresh as the day I got them.

I swore to myself a long time ago that I'd never be that person again. I'd never cower in a corner and let life beat the shit out of me.

Isn't that what I'm doing now, though?

I promised I'd build the life I wanted for myself, but the only thing I see in my future is a mushy banana for dinner and an eviction notice stapled to my front door.

Refusing a paying job because I'm scared of being recognized is the same as hiding in a closet and hoping no one realizes I'm home. I'm not that little girl anymore—and it's long past time I proved that to myself.

My hands are shaking as I fish my phone out of my bag. I fire off the text to Taylor before I can second-guess it.

I want you to recommend me for the nanny job. I can start immediately.