Page 20 of Piggy

Charlotte

The lawyer, Nevin, a man with kind eyes, light brown hair, and a sweet smile, leans back in his chair. He tries to soften the blow, but his shrug says it all.

“I’m sorry. The court determined you don’t have adequate living arrangements or financial stability to care for Atticus. Even though your older brother signed over guardianship rights during their sentencing, the judge didn’t believe you can—”

“Atticus wants to be with me!” My voice breaks. “He needs to be with me. He won’t do well in some random foster home. Do they even know how to care for someone with autism?”

Nevin folds his hands. “I understand your frustration. But if you want the court to reconsider, you’ll need stable housing. That’s the first step. Your mother’s home is being foreclosed.”

“I didn’t know Brax stopped paying the mortgage!” My heart races. “I organized the bills for him. I thought— ”

“That’s part of the problem,” he interrupts gently. “The home was used to sell drugs. The court sees that as an unsafe environment. It looks negligent.”

“But I passed the drug test! I swear I didn’t know Brax was dealing.”

He sighs and leans forward, elbows resting on the desk.

“I’m going to be straight with you. You need to catch up on the mortgage or find a new place to live.

Something suitable, with space for Atticus.

You’ll need a plan to show the court how you’re going to support his condition. Therapy, structure, stability.”

I stare at him, stunned.

“He told the court he stayed in his room most of the time. That he was overwhelmed by loud noises. That he was bored. Lonely. Stressed.”

I blink rapidly. My throat burns. “We were both pretty miserable.”

“I know you love him,” he says gently. “But right now, love isn’t enough.”

I nod, but it’s slow. My limbs feel numb.

I’m losing him.

How the hell am I going to find twenty grand to cover the mortgage? Even if I work overtime every day, it’s not enough. I could try to rent, but with my job? I can’t even afford a one-bedroom. And Atticus needs his own room. He needs quiet. Routine. Safety.

And I couldn’t give him that .

Guilt hits hard and fast. My chest caves.

How could Brax do this to us?

I come home to silence.

For the first time in a long time, the house is peaceful. No shouting, no loud TVs, no chaos.

I thought it would feel good. Like I could finally breathe.

Instead, I feel like I’m suffocating.

The place is a disaster. The police tore through every drawer, every cupboard, every closet, flipping mattresses, dumping boxes. My room looks like a robbery happened. Brax’s, too. Everything’s trashed.

I don’t even know why I bother, but I start cleaning. Maybe because it’s the only thing I can control.

In the kitchen, I find a bottle of vodka left behind on the counter.

Unopened. Full. Forgotten.

My hand hovers over it.

Mom drank this when she couldn’t deal.

Brax drank this when he didn’t want to feel anything at all.

So did everyone at his parties. They all looked happy. Loud. Free.

Meanwhile, I’ve been sober. Careful. Trying to do everything right. And where did that get me?

Alone. Job that doesn’t pay the bills. House I’m losing. Brother in prison. Little brother taken away.

Still, my fingers tremble when I twist the cap. I find a red solo cup and pour just a little. Barely a sip. I taste it .

Nasty!

It burns all the way down. Bitter. Like nail polish remover. I cough and shake my head. No idea how people drink this stuff.

But then, I add a splash of pop. It fizzes. I try again.

Better.

Ice makes it smoother. Another sip. Another. Before I know it, my cheeks are warm. My lips feel soft. My mind slows.

And just like that, I get it.

This is why they drank.

Because when the buzz hits, everything awful fades like a dream. Grayson’s left? Doesn’t hurt as much. I might lose the house? Who cares? Atticus is gone? Still hurts, but it doesn’t hollow me out the same way.

That night, I fall asleep on the couch with an empty cup in my hand and music playing low.

And the next night?

I do it again.

And the night after that.

Within a week, I have a new routine: I wake up early, go to work, smile like I’m okay. I take extra shifts. I lie to my boss about how well I’m doing. I buy cheap vodka at gas stations and drink it with whatever soda I can afford.

No one knows.

And tonight?

Tonight, I dance barefoot in my torn-up kitchen with drink in hand, spinning and laughing at nothing. The music thumps in my ears, and I feel... something close to joy. Or maybe it’s just the numbness.

Whatever it is, I like it better than grief.

Knock, knock.

I glance over as the front door cracks open and Keysha steps inside.

She smirks. “You’re always dancing when I come over.”

“Better than crying,” I reply, shrugging.

Her smile falters. She leans against the kitchen counter, her eyes soft. “I know everything sucks right now, but maybe you can get a new job. Start saving. Build toward something.”

I nod, though my limbs feel heavy. “It’d be cool to be an EMT like you. Riding in ambulances. Helping people.”

Her eyes light up. She claps her hands. “Yes! It’s always exciting. Car crashes, falls, heart attacks... okay, lots of chest pain calls from old folks, but you never know what you’re gonna get.”

“Does it pay well?”

She shrugs. “Better than Nautical Treasures, for sure.”

I sigh. “But not enough to save the house, huh?”

She shakes her head, her new auburn wig swaying with the motion. “Training’s about five or six months. So yeah, probably not in time to save the mortgage. But... it’s a start. You could get a two-bedroom for you and Atticus down the line. Maybe in a couple years.”

A couple of years .

The words hit like a dull blade. That’s a long time to be away from Atticus. He hasn’t been happy in foster care. And when he turns eighteen, the group home lined up for him looked more like an institution than a place for someone like him.

But what other choice do I have?

“I’ll do it,” I murmur. “It’s better than working in a tourist shop forever.”

Keysha jumps up a little, clapping her hands again. “See? Something to look forward to!”

A real smile tugs at my lips. It feels unfamiliar. I let it grow.

Yeah. This is great.

I jump with her. For a second, I let myself feel good. Keysha’s the only person in my life who’s ever made me feel like I can move forward. I’m not stuck forever.

Except—

I shove the thought down. I can’t think about him right now. Every time I do, I spiral.

So I keep dancing.

“You really love dancing, huh?” she says with a grin.

“Yep.”

She leans in. “Wanna do something fun tonight?”

I’m mid-twirl, music blasting from my phone. I freeze and nod, eager.

“Ever been to a club? ”

I shake my head.

A wicked smile graces her full, beautiful lips. “Oh, baby. It’s time to party. It’s time to celebrate your new future!”

She lets me pick a dress from her closet. Red, tight, and sexy as hell. I barely recognize myself in the mirror.

Then we’re off. Two hours of windows down driving until we hit the lights of downtown Tampa.

The club is ice cold, like a winter breeze hitting me as soon as I walk in the door.

It’s dark and alive . Lasers slice through fog.

Bass rattles the floor. Half-naked dancers move like goddesses on suspended stages above us.

The music thrums through my body, lighting up every nerve. One of my favorite songs, too! Came to Party by Too Short.

Let’s get wild tonight, turn the fuck-up We goin’ out tonight I’ve been waitin’ all my life, every time I go out I think I found my wife I can’t help but turn down the lights I’m gon’ take some down tonight This shit is so hot, that’s what it sounded like Make you wanna fuck around at night, bitch

I don’t know how this night ends, but something tells me, it’s going to be one hell of a night .