Page 46 of Arranged Addiction

That evening, instead of heading home, I grab an Uber over to Aunt Sheila’s place. I let myself in through the front and call out, waiting to hear a reply, but there’s nothing.

She’s always playing bingo at the union hall a few blocks away around now. Which means I should have an hour before she comes back.

I stand around the living room for a minute. Even though I don’t live here anymore, this still feels like home. I was raised in these walls. I spent so much of my life right here. And now somehow I’m making a life with a strange man in an apartment that’s not even remotely my own.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh. A month back, Natalie and I watched an Indiana Jones movie right on that couch together. She’d never seenRaiders of the Lost Ark.Doesn’t hold up, she’d said afterward, which was like sacrilege.

I miss her so fiercely it hurts.

I’d let her talk shit on all my favorite movies if it meant having her back, even for just one more night.

I wipe my eyes and head up into the spare room. A bunch of junk is stored in the closet. I pull out boxes of old files, papers, books, and pictures, and I start rifling through it all.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.

All my life, my parents existed as vague memories. Sheila rarely talked about them and only when I asked. They both died in what I thought was a car accident, but now I’m learning they were murdered because they were criminals. And it was some crazy psycho assassin who pulled it off?

But that doesn’t tell mewhythey were targeted or who they were before they were ripped out of my life.

I have only vague images. My mother ripping open letters with a pair of scissors and laughing when she cuts her finger. My fatherin a white tank top and ratty jeans washing the car in front of the house while a boombox plays. My father laughing at the TV. My mother hugging me tightly and telling me to sleep. Disparate images, but nothing crazy. Nothing that might make me think I was raised by a couple of master organized crime members.

The spare bedroom is a bust. There’s nothing good. Just the same stuff I’ve seen over the years. Pictures of my parents and me at Disney when I was around eight. Pictures of my dad holding me on his shoulders down at the Jersey shore. A photograph of me in soccer clothes.

From the outside, it looked like we had a normal life.

I’m tired and feeling heavy by the time I drag myself off the floor. I’m about to put everything away when I hear a noise from downstairs that makes me go very still.

Sheila shouldn’t be home yet. She rarely leaves early. She always says,a quitter never hits it big, not in bingo, not in life. And she basically never wins.

There’s the noise again. A thump of a cabinet closing. I drift to the door, stomach tightening. I hear ice hitting a glass.

Someone’s making a drink.

“Hello? Aunt Sheila?” I go to the stairs and listen. There’s no answer. “Are you home early?”

I drift down the steps. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Clearly, she just left before bingo was over for once.

But instead of Sheila, I find my fiancé standing in the kitchen.

He’s got Sheila’s bottle of good whiskey at his elbow. He lifts his tumbler to his lips and takes a sip. I stare at him, not sure what the hell is happening right now.

“Did you follow me here?” I blurt out.

He tilts his head. “Yes, I did.”

“You’re not even going to try to deny it?”

“I could lie if you want.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I’m so outraged, and I’m not even sure why. “What are you doing here, Declan?”

“Making sure you weren’t doing something stupid.” He takes another sip. “Which you are.”

I glare at him, barely controlling my anger. “I’m allowed in my own house.”

“Nobody said you weren’t.”

“So what’s stupid about this?”