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Authors: Jennifer Ziegler
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much chance of that in this rat hole of a town,” Gabby said, smiling crookedly. Her mom looked relieved.
Gabby didn’t want to tell her that her warnings were unnecessary. She’d made up her mind soon after the divorce to never end up in her mom’s situation: alone, panicked over bills, with a child or two to look after. She would always have money, independence, job skills, and a backup plan—or five. Plus, she’d already gone crazy over a handsome face. Losing Sonny and that silly alternate universe she’d hoped for with him had messed her up enough as it was; she couldn’t imagine how badly it would have hurt if there’d been an actual relationship.
So no. Gabby had learned her lesson: you can only rely on yourself in life. She knew that fairy-tale endings only happened in books.
Daphne, on the other hand, was a lost cause.
Daphne lay sprawled on the green and beige striped couch they’d gotten from Grandma’s house—the one that still smelled like a mixture of White Linen perfume and Aqua Net. Hereyes were raw and crusted from her big cryfest the day before, which had lasted late into the evening. She felt as she usually did after those bouts of sobbing: purged, weary, and noble in her sadness. She imagined herself as a tragic character in an epic miniseries, the kind who wore beautiful dresses while staring pensively out rain-streaked windows. Lonely and misunderstood, but not too far gone to forget to brush her hair and apply a light coating of Tawny Mountain lipstick. In those films the heroine was always rescued from her predicament by a handsome and very well-off guy who could somehow look manly in leggings. And that was exactly how Daphne wanted her story to end. (Only without the form-fitting man pants.)
Normally on Sundays she stayed in bed until noon, but today, she was up by nine-forty-five. At ten-thirty she figured it was late enough to text Luke, so she sent him a quick message— HOW WUZ BOWLING AND HOT DOGS? —and then sat cradling her cell phone as if it were a baby bird, eagerly awaiting his reply.
She could hear her mom and sister in the next room. The door was shut, so she couldn’t make out any words, only the rising and falling of their voices like droning bumblebees. But she could tell by their tones that they were still in ultraserious mode about having to move.
She supposed she should go help them, but why? They’d only tell her she was doing everything wrong. Besides, the more she thought about it, the more she was kind of glad they had to leave. They’d moved into this slummy little house right after the divorce two years ago, and Daphne had always hated it. It reeked of sadness. And also—because the previoustenant had had a lot of cats—it reeked of cat pee and tuna fish. The windows were too few, the closets too small, and the rooms impossible to brighten. Even when they opened all the curtains and switched on all the lights and lamps, it still seemed as if they lived at the bottom of a well.
Daphne set her phone on the coffee table. Then she stood and stretched her arms, glancing around the living room to see if there was anything, any corner or nook or view, that she would miss about the house. But she couldn’t find a thing. The main problem was that there were no good memories here. Since they’d arrived it had been an endless blur of crying, arguing, and freak-outs about money. All that negativity seemed to have seeped into the fake wooden paneling and gathered like moss on the bumpy spray-acoustic ceilings.
It had never been a home. Instead, it had always felt like one of those cheap motel rooms they used to stay at on their way to some vacation destination. A place to shower and crash in but not truly live in.
All of a sudden Daphne’s cell phone let out an irritable buzz and scooted three inches across the coffee table. She quickly snatched it up. She was so startled and excited that her fingers trembled, and it took a couple of fumbling tries before she
Gabby didn’t want to tell her that her warnings were unnecessary. She’d made up her mind soon after the divorce to never end up in her mom’s situation: alone, panicked over bills, with a child or two to look after. She would always have money, independence, job skills, and a backup plan—or five. Plus, she’d already gone crazy over a handsome face. Losing Sonny and that silly alternate universe she’d hoped for with him had messed her up enough as it was; she couldn’t imagine how badly it would have hurt if there’d been an actual relationship.
So no. Gabby had learned her lesson: you can only rely on yourself in life. She knew that fairy-tale endings only happened in books.
Daphne, on the other hand, was a lost cause.
Daphne lay sprawled on the green and beige striped couch they’d gotten from Grandma’s house—the one that still smelled like a mixture of White Linen perfume and Aqua Net. Hereyes were raw and crusted from her big cryfest the day before, which had lasted late into the evening. She felt as she usually did after those bouts of sobbing: purged, weary, and noble in her sadness. She imagined herself as a tragic character in an epic miniseries, the kind who wore beautiful dresses while staring pensively out rain-streaked windows. Lonely and misunderstood, but not too far gone to forget to brush her hair and apply a light coating of Tawny Mountain lipstick. In those films the heroine was always rescued from her predicament by a handsome and very well-off guy who could somehow look manly in leggings. And that was exactly how Daphne wanted her story to end. (Only without the form-fitting man pants.)
Normally on Sundays she stayed in bed until noon, but today, she was up by nine-forty-five. At ten-thirty she figured it was late enough to text Luke, so she sent him a quick message— HOW WUZ BOWLING AND HOT DOGS? —and then sat cradling her cell phone as if it were a baby bird, eagerly awaiting his reply.
She could hear her mom and sister in the next room. The door was shut, so she couldn’t make out any words, only the rising and falling of their voices like droning bumblebees. But she could tell by their tones that they were still in ultraserious mode about having to move.
She supposed she should go help them, but why? They’d only tell her she was doing everything wrong. Besides, the more she thought about it, the more she was kind of glad they had to leave. They’d moved into this slummy little house right after the divorce two years ago, and Daphne had always hated it. It reeked of sadness. And also—because the previoustenant had had a lot of cats—it reeked of cat pee and tuna fish. The windows were too few, the closets too small, and the rooms impossible to brighten. Even when they opened all the curtains and switched on all the lights and lamps, it still seemed as if they lived at the bottom of a well.
Daphne set her phone on the coffee table. Then she stood and stretched her arms, glancing around the living room to see if there was anything, any corner or nook or view, that she would miss about the house. But she couldn’t find a thing. The main problem was that there were no good memories here. Since they’d arrived it had been an endless blur of crying, arguing, and freak-outs about money. All that negativity seemed to have seeped into the fake wooden paneling and gathered like moss on the bumpy spray-acoustic ceilings.
It had never been a home. Instead, it had always felt like one of those cheap motel rooms they used to stay at on their way to some vacation destination. A place to shower and crash in but not truly live in.
All of a sudden Daphne’s cell phone let out an irritable buzz and scooted three inches across the coffee table. She quickly snatched it up. She was so startled and excited that her fingers trembled, and it took a couple of fumbling tries before she
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