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BAD, BAD THINGS

GRACE

I f I weren’t desperate, I wouldn’t take the apartment.

It’s not bad, necessarily, but it is wrong.

I’ve spent my entire life striving for sunshine and warmth, bright colors and easy laughter.

This is…earthy. The girl—Tessa McDowell—is wearing black skinny jeans and a matching tank top.

Her hair is messy, thrown in a bun, and her face is without a stitch of makeup.

The apartment fits her vibe perfectly.

One glance at my pink mini skirt, eyelash extensions, and glittering phone case, and it’s obvious I don’t belong.

Yet, here I am. Studying the dark wood furniture and the large bookshelf that’s overflowing with antique novels. I wonder if she actually reads them, or if they’re just for show. It could be a sign she’s pretentious. One of those, classic fiction is the only acceptable literature kind of people .

Forget what I said earlier, this place sucks .

There are too many plants and sage-scented candles and a freaking fish tank in the corner. Who has a fish tank? It’s not even the cute bubble kind. It’s a full-on rectangular fish tank with dull brown guppies and a miniature shipwreck .

Mom would hate this place too, and she’d be horrified to know I’m even considering it. She’d tell me to stay in a hotel until I find a better option. If she wasn’t dead, I might do that.

Since she is dead, I’m stuck settling for one of the only month-to-month rentals I can find. This one might have somber colors and a vintage rug that looks like it was dragged in off the street, but it’s cheap and Tessa—though weird—looks harmless.

“I’ll take it,” I say.

“Really?” Tessa asks, arching an eyebrow. She leans against the wall between the fish tank and the bookshelf.

“Yup,” I say. I tighten my purse to my side. “As long as you’re not in a cult and don’t throw sex orgies in the living room, I’ll take it.”

“Not in a cult,” she confirms. “I’ll keep all orgies in my bedroom.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking, and I decide it’s better not to ask. Instead, I dig the first month’s rent out of my purse. Tessa crosses the room, counts the cash, and jerks her chin toward the empty bedroom.

“You can move in whenever,” she tells me. She plucks a key off the well-worn counter and holds it toward me. “Rent is due on the first, and if you’re late by more than a week, I’m kicking your ass out.”

“It won’t be a problem,” I say, and so long as I get the shitty Target job I interviewed for this morning, it won’t be.

It takes nearly a week to fully settle into Tessa’s apartment.

I didn’t bring much stuff from South Carolina.

I drive a beat-up Camry, and there was only so much space for my personal belongings.

Definitely no room for a rug or a bed or a desk.

Luckily, I was able to find a few gently-used items from a nearby thrift shop.

With ten minutes of flirting, I was able to convince two of the workers to deliver the four-poster bed and the antique dresser.

They’re both hideous, but I don’t plan to use them for long.

I did buy a brand-new mattress though. I’ve gotten better about shopping second-hand, now that I’m poor and all, but I draw the line at dirty mattresses.

I’m sitting on said mattress now, surveying my bedroom.

It’s sort of a masterpiece, if I do say so myself.

I’ve got a few art prints to cover the beige walls, a beautiful fluffy rug to hide the scratched hardwood floors, and a couple houseplants to decorate the elongated window.

Directly across from me, a standing mirror reflects me and my hot pink quilt.

I collapse back into the overstuffed pillows and pull my current project onto my lap. It’s a stack of Mom’s old letters, most of them from my father. He skipped out on us when I was only four years old, and though Mom insisted he would never leave us, I always assumed she was in deep denial.

A lot of women assume their husbands would never cheat or leave or end up being a raging asshole. So, despite what Mom believed, I always figured my dad was a deadbeat loser. I never asked about him, and Mom eventually stopped trying to enlighten me.

I didn’t know who he was, where he was from, or what happened to him. Before Mom died, I didn’t really care. Good riddance, I’d always thought.

Then I found these stupid letters. Dozens of them over a ten-year span, all sent from an Aberlena, Washington address. They’re all sweet and loving, and maybe that was why I started digging deeper into the mystery of my father .

Walter Pruce.

A man who never existed, according to the results of Mom’s police report. He’d used a fake name, obviously.

My current theory is that Walter Pruce has another family here in Aberlena. That he either decided to pick them over me and Mom or that he died in a car accident and that’s why he never came back.

I’m still flipping through the letters when my phone lights with a video call. I glance at the caller ID and restrain a groan. If I don’t answer, I already know she’ll call until I do.

“Hey, Lib,” I say. I push the letters off my lap and settle deeper into the pillows.

My best friend Libby has wavy black hair, flawless dark skin, and unfairly full lips.

Right now, she’s decked out in a full face of makeup, complete with sparkly eye shadow.

She’s ready for a night on the town, and my stomach pinches with jealousy.

I should be there with her, wearing a low-cut top and not this ratty sweatshirt.

“Ew,” is her immediate reaction. I can’t decide if she’s talking about me or my surroundings. Her nose crinkles and she leans toward her camera. “Jesus, Grace. Where are you?”

Guess that answers that question.

“My new place,” I say. I shift until the dingy walls are out of sight, and my face is surrounded by nothing but frilly pink pillows. “It’s really not bad, but it doesn’t matter. It’s only temporary.”

Libby doesn’t reply for a long moment. She’s still staring at me with a mixture of confusion, disgust, and pity.

“You should be here,” she says, echoing my sentiments from a minute ago. “Literally, Grace. Just look where I am.”

She pans to her surroundings: a sleek and modern apartment with immaculate white walls and tasteful decor. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, New York City glitters, taunting me.

“I’ll be there in a month. Two months at the most,” I say. I can’t keep the desperation out of my voice, and not for the first time since arriving in Aberlena, I question if I’ve made the wrong choice.

“I don’t know why you’re chasing down some loser you don’t even know,” she says. With a heavy sigh, she returns the camera to her face. “You’re putting your life—a fucking NYC adventurous life, might I add—on hold for a deadbeat sperm donor.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. And I do. Despite what most people assume (either because of my platinum hair or my unyielding love of pink), I’m not an idiot. “I can’t explain it. I just…I want to know.”

Libby doesn’t reply, and I don’t blame her. If she had been the one to ditch our New York plan, I would’ve thought she was insane. We were both supposed to go to New York, live in her cousin’s sweet high rise apartment, and get jobs at any fashion magazine that would hire us.

“Only a month or two,” I say again. “Then I’ll be in New York, and you can talk me up to your snazzy fashion boss and get me a job.”

Libby snorts. “I think that requires me to have a snazzy fashion boss. I haven’t landed a single interview.”

My chest relaxes as we shift the conversation to lighter topics. I’m an eternal optimist, but I’m also a bit of a pushover. If anyone talks down on my ideas for too long, I’ll inevitably fold and give up. This is one of the few times I’m determined not to let that happen.

“It’s only been a week,” I say. “And besides, you’re in New York with a free place to crash. You better enjoy it. Let me live vicariously through you. Go to all the swanky clubs and convince hot guys to buy you drinks.”

“Trust me, I will,” Libby says, grinning. Nearly as fast, her expression shifts to a deep frown. “I’d feel better if my best friend wasn’t clearly falling into a deep pit of despair. I can’t remember the last time I saw you in sweats on a Friday night.”

“There aren’t exactly swanky clubs here,” I point out.

“There are absolutely bars and places to dance though,” she says. “You’re in a freaking college town. That you decided to banish yourself to, in case you forgot. So change out of that hideous sweater, grab your weird roommate, and go shake your ass at whatever bar you can find.”

“I like this sweater,” I say. When Libby only arches an eyebrow, I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, I’ll see what I can figure out.”

“Good girl,” she says. “And remember: safe sex is great sex!”

“I won’t be?—”

Libby hangs up before I can finish my protest.

“To my first week in Aberlena!” I announce. I raise my vodka shot above my head, frowning when half of it sloshes onto my bare arm. Across from me, Tessa snorts. I don’t even care. I’m just happy (and really, really surprised) she agreed to come out with me at all.

I throw back my shot and Tessa sips her beer. She doesn’t do shots, apparently. No, cool girl Tessa drinks the darkest beer she can find and maintains the world’s most intense grimace as she watches the drunken crowd around us .

Shit .

I’m being judgemental. That is basically the opposite of girl power. If she wants to drink yucky beer and wear a boring outfit to the bar, that’s her prerogative.

“Are you going to the college?” Tessa asks.

She leans her elbows against our table. We’re near the back, at the only open table we could find when we arrived thirty minutes ago.

Barco’s, according to Tessa, is the only decent bar in Aberlena.

The rest are overridden by college students.

She’d told me this, as if going to college was the equivalent of being a cockroach.

And now, she’s asking if I’m one of those cockroaches.