They both go pale. Sebastian’s hand grips the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles bleach. For a moment, no one says anything.
“We’ll call the landlord,” he decides eventually, pulling out his phone. “Ask him to check in on her. He can knock on her door and see if she responds.”
“He won’t do that,” Jack says softly. Bill is kind of a prick. He flat-out ignores us if a pipe bursts, but tries to fleece us out of money every chance he gets. I seriously doubt he’s going to be any help.
“He will if we request a welfare check,” Sebastian says grimly. “If only to make sure he gets his rent on time.” He starts tapping at his phone screen.
I flop back in my seat, relieved. Cami lifts her arms to me, so I take her off Jack and put her in my lap. She buries her face in my shirt and starts to cry. I’m very tempted to join her.
Sixty-Three
Beth
I don’t know how long passes. I really, honestly don’t know. The days are blurring together. The nights feel too long. I spend all my time lying in bed and crying.
I’msad.I’m so sad, it feels like there’s an anvil sitting on my chest. I wake up every day, and for a few tiny seconds, I feel okay—until I remember the doctor’s visit. I remember meeting my mother. I remember that I’m never, ever going to have the family I wanted. And then I get sad again. So sad, I can’t even bring myself to move.
I’ve felt like this before, but not for a long time. Not since I was a kid. I felt it every time a foster family I’d fallen in love with sent me back to the care home. I don’t know ifdepressionis the right word for it, exactly. I think maybegriefwould be more accurate. It’s like I’m in mourning.
Which would make sense, right? I feel like I’ve lost a lot in one day.
Then again, I’m apparently fuckingmenopausal, so maybe it’s just my out-of-whack hormones. Or the pills my doctor prescribed me. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with me, does it? Nothing matters. Nothing at all.
I try calling the boys a few more times, but none of them respond. After the first day, I give up. They obviously don’t want to speak to me. I put my phone down somewhere, and then lose it immediately in all of my crap. My flat is a mess. I can’t eat or sleep. I just lay in bed all day, watching my crappy little TV set and drinking cheap wine.
That is, until the landlord comes and thumps on my door.
“Bethany!” He shouts through the wood. “Open up. It’s Bill.”
Panic floods me. I jump out of bed, looking down at myself. I’m wearing a stained t-shirt that hasn’t properly fit me since I was fifteen, and a pair of pink knickers with holes worn in the crotch. I haven’t showered in days, and my apartment looks like a tip. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dirty plates in my sink are growing mould.
He’s going tokillme.
“Shit,” I mutter, yanking open my wardrobe. It takes me a few minutes to scrounge up clean clothes, and by the time I’m changed, his knocks have become a steady, full-on pounding. I can hear him swearing under his breath behind the door.
“Coming!” I call, stumbling across my flat. I trip over some shoes strewn on the floor and collapse against the front door. “Sorry, I’m coming.” My fingers fumble on the latch. They’re shaky and weak. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I should probably do that.
I eventually get the door unlocked and yank it open. My landlord glares at me. He somehow looks imposing, even though he’s five-two and has a fluffy white Santa Claus beard.
“Rent,” he grunts. “You’re late.”
Fuck.“Shit. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”
It’s weird; I’ve been late with the rent before, and Bill’s never come to ask me for it in person. Then again, I’ve been pretty off-the-grid. For all I know, my email is filled with angry messages from him.
He studies me closely, taking in my unkempt appearance. I shift in the doorway, trying to block his view of the messy flat. “You don’t have the money?” He asks shortly.
“No, I do, I do. I’ll transfer it right away. I’m so sorry I forgot.” I pat down my pants, then remember my phone is AWOL. “Um, can you take a cheque?”
“Yes.”
I run to my little desk and yank open the top drawer, unearthing my cheque book. I have written exactly one cheque in my life, but luckily I still keep the thing lying around. “How much is it again?” I ask, grabbing a pen.
“Two thousand seven hundred for the quarter.”
Shit, that’s a lot of money. Thanks to the guys, I have enough, but I’ll be pretty much wiped out until they come back. If they still want me.
The thought slams into me like a truck. There’s no guarantee that Sebastian will still want to hire me when he gets home from the US. He’s certainly not in a hurry to fly back. Or call me.