Page 25

The apartment feels different when I walk in—colder, more foreign. There’s a random woman sleeping on the couch, her blonde hair splayed across the throw pillows like she owns the place. I try to remain quiet as I creep through the house, my heart pounding with each careful step.

I knock softly on Emma’s door and turn the knob. The room smells like sex.

“Emma?” I say, even though she’s clearly asleep. “Can we talk? I have a work thing, so––”

She opens her eyes and immediately rolls them when she sees me. “No, just leave.”

“So, I seriously need to move out?”

She nods without hesitation. “Yeah. Your replacement is on the couch.”

No fucking way.

I glare at her for a moment, my stomach churning at the reality of how quickly I’ve been replaced. Less than twelve hours and I’m already yesterday’s news.

I close the door and retreat to my bedroom—former bedroom—not knowing where to start. The space feels smaller somehow, like it’s already rejecting me.

I decide to start with the bathroom. As I pack my toiletries, I realize this will be my last shower in this place.

The water feels too hot against my skin, but I let it burn anyway.

The tears come without warning, mixing with the shower spray until I can’t tell where the water ends, and my breakdown begins.

What am I doing with my life? I could move back to the city I ran from, but that would mean facing my ex. I could call my mom, but she’s been an alcoholic since I was sixteen and can’t even take care of herself, let alone help me. My dad is a deadbeat doing God knows what with God knows who.

I grab my phone and dial the one person who might actually care—my best friend from high school who lives in a different time zone. Maybe I can catch her on her day off.

“Sage!” she answers, and her voice is bright and energetic. “Guess what I’m doing right now?”

“Oh my god,” I say, trying to inject excitement into my voice as I dump my bathroom products into a trash bag. “What are you doing? Tell me.”

“I am finally taking that spin cycle class!”

“No way!” I force enthusiasm into my voice. “Is today your first day?”

“Yes! I’m so excited! I have to go, but tell me what your new job is like?”

My heart sinks. Of course she has to go.

“Oh... uh, it’s good. Yeah. Really quick before you go—my roommate was too good to be true.

She tried pulling a move on me while we were out and then a guy I work with saved the day and I blacked out.

But I have three-day work trip out of state, so I have three days to figure out what I’m doing. ”

“Bitch! What!” she’s astounded. “No! No, this cannot be another basketball player.”

“He plays hockey.” I wince even saying it.

“That’s even worse! Hockey is not a nice sport.”

“I know. I know.”

“You cannot live with him.”

“I’m packing my apartment because my roommate is serious about kicking me out. She already replaced me.”

“That’s illegal as fuck, Sage. She can’t do that.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to stay. I’m uncomfortable. She wants to hook up with me.”

“I bet she has a stash of dildos.”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “Okay, that’s my update. Call me later. I need your energy.”

“Take a spin class!” she calls out. “Love ya. Talk later.”

“Bye.”

The silence after I end the call is deafening. I stare at my phone for a moment, then throw it onto the bed and start attacking my closet with renewed fury.

Trash bags. That’s what my life has come to. Stuffing everything I own into black garbage bags like I’m some kind of refugee. I yank clothes off hangers with more force than necessary, not caring if they wrinkle or tear. What does it matter? I don’t even know where I’m going to be wearing them.

The bag rips as I’m shoving in my winter coats, and I have to start over with a new one. My hands are shaking now, whether from anger or panic, I can’t tell. Maybe both.

I grab my books next, the few novels and textbooks I’ve managed to hold onto through all my moves. They’re heavy and awkward, but I refuse to leave them behind. They’re proof that I’m more than just a series of bad decisions and failed relationships.

My jewelry goes into a smaller bag, along with the few photos I have left. Most of them are from before—before Tyler, before the video, before my life imploded the first time. Looking at them now feels like staring at a stranger.

The dresser drawers stick as I empty them. I have to put my whole-body weight behind getting the bottom drawer open, and when it finally gives way, I nearly fall backward.

Underwear, bras, socks—all the intimate pieces of my life that I never thought I’d be packing in trash bags again. I was supposed to be building something stable here. I was supposed to be starting over, doing better.

Instead, I’m right back where I started: homeless, dependent on someone else’s charity, with nowhere to go and no one to call

I tie off the bag with shaking hands and reach for another one.

There’s still so much left to pack, and Slater is waiting outside because we have a plane to catch in a few hours.

Slater, who thinks I’m moving in with him permanently.

Slater, who has a sex room and antidepressants and who looked at me this morning like he might like me.

God, what am I getting myself into?

The kitchen is next, and I move through it like a woman possessed.

My coffee mug, the one with the chip on the handle that I’ve had since college.

The nice knife set I saved up for months to buy.

Spices, pasta, the good olive oil that I splurged on.

I can’t leave anything behind because I don’t have the money to replace these things whenever I get a new place—if I can even find one.

My hands shake as I wrap my dishes in dish towels, trying not to think about how pathetic this all is. Everything fits into two more trash bags, which I throw right outside the front door to transport easily one time.

Loading my entire life into the backseat and trunk of my Honda takes longer than it should, but Slater helps me without hesitation.

The bags are awkward and heavy, and by the time we’re done, I’m sweating despite the cool morning air.

My car looks like I’m fleeing a natural disaster, which isn’t far from the truth.

“Follow me?” Slater asks.

I nod, sliding into the driver’s seat.

He walks back to his car, and I follow him. The drive back to his house is a blur of panic and adrenaline. I keep glancing at the clock on my dashboard, calculating how much time we have before we need to be at the airport because packing all the things I own took way too much time.

At his house, we both move franticly. I throw my trash bags into the empty guest bedroom—not the sex room, thankfully—and quickly dig through them to find what I need for a three-day trip.

Travel-sized toiletries, enough clothes for multiple outfit changes, my work supplies, everything I’ll need packed into my professional travel backpack.

“I need to stop by work before the flight,” I call out as I zip up my bag.

“Why?”

“I have to grab stuff for work.”

So, we race there in his car. Even though we’re rushing, he’s still cold, quiet, shut off, seemingly cool. He disappears into the locker room while I grab stuff from the empty office, along with the team roster and my notes on each player’s current treatments.

The time is cutting it dangerously close, but we make it to the airport an hour before the flight takes off. We run through the terminal like we’re in some kind of action movie, our bags bouncing behind us as we sprint toward the check-in counter.

My lungs are burning by the time we reach the gate, and I’m pretty sure I’m sweating through my carefully chosen travel outfit. But we made it. Somehow, we actually made it.

Now I just have to survive three days with Slater breathing down my back and pretend like my entire life didn’t just turn upside down this morning.