Page 9 of Desperate Games

Not from the pee, but from the nerves that have completely taken over my body.

My hands are shaking. My knees feel like jelly. My heart? Racing like it’s trying to escape my ribcage.

The little plastic stick just sits there on the counter, smug and silent.

I set the timer.

Three minutes.

God, three minutes has never felt so long. I lean against the sink, palms pressed to cool porcelain, trying to breathe through the storm inside me. I feel queasy.

Not nauseous—just that crawling anxiety that tightens around your throat and won’t let go.

I don’t puke. Not really.

I can count on one hand how many times in my life I’ve actually thrown up.

But this?

This might be number six.

Knock knock knock.

“Andrea, hurry up! I have to get to practice this morning!”

I groan.

“Oh my God, Julia. What practice? Are you sleepwalking?”

“Ha ha. You know I’m coaching youth soccer this year,” she calls back, all smug and helpful.

I roll my eyes so hard I almost sprain something.

Yes, I do know that.

I know everything about my overachieving little sister and her perfect schedule and her perfect job and her perfect fiancé—an up-and-coming exec at Volkov Industries, approved of by our parents—and her perfect everything.

And yes, I’m bitter.

Sue me.

I mean, I love her. I love all my siblings—but really?

What the actual fuck is going on here?

Why is my twenty-four year old sister about to head into marital bliss while I can’t even land a fuck buddy?

I’m thirty-two years old and back in my childhood bedroom, sharing a bathroom with my sister because my Hoboken apartment was overrun with rats.

Literal ones.

As in exterminators-in-hazmat-suits, full building evacuation, we’ll let you know when it’s safe to return rats.

Disgusting.

As if apartment hunting in North Jersey wasn’t already a nightmare.

Add rodent infestation and a zero-refund policy, and it's like insult to injury wrapped in rent hikes and rat droppings.