Page 6 of Saving Grace

“Last time I checked, Graceless, I didn’t need to tell you who I’m hanging out with.” He pushes off the jamb and stalks toward the bedroom.

“Your wallet’s in the kitchen,” I offer.

He turns back, threading his belt into the loops on his ripped jeans. I release a breath; thankful it’s on its way to secure around his waist. “Don’t forget those errands. And clean up while you’re doing nothing all day. Can’t have Timmy thinking we live like pigs.”

“I’ll need some money for the store.”

I wait, holding my breath.

He grunts and tosses a twenty at my feet.

“I don’t think that’ll be enough, Joel.”

“Well, I guess whatever that doesn’t cover will be free.”

He wants me to steal. Again. I swore I would never—not after last time.

“Keys?” I whisper.

He slides my car keys from his pocket where they live and throws them into the air. I catch them in one hand, heart in my throat, tears on the verge. I refuse to let them fall.

Not for him.

He slaps my ass as he walks past, wallet in the other hand. Snatching up the keys to his old, busted white Volvo from the small front table with one too-short leg, he’s on his phone, tapping out a text before he disappears through the front door.

I slump against the wall and blow out the air in my lungs. The cash digs into my spine, sticking to my skin. The early morning heat is catching up with me already.

Happy to be left alone, I tidy the already neat living room and vacuum the entire house. Dreaming of all the ways I could spend the money from my mama. Dreaming about throwing caution into the wind and calling her up. Wondering what I would say. What would she say to me?

What would be the point?

I lost all respect from my parents when I chose this pathetic existence over finishing my college degree and taking the internship at the art gallery in Pennsylvania that I’d been guaranteed as part of my scholarship.

I can’t blame them.

I hate myself for that decision on a daily basis these days.

Once finished with the chores, I grab my keys and push my hair into a ponytail. The singlet top I have on is smeared with dirt from cleaning. I rush to the bedroom and find a button-down shirt. Tossing the singlet into the hamper, I pull on the shirt and button it up.

The short denim shorts I have on accentuate my toned legs. My long light brown hair sways as I turn on my heel and check my ass for stains. Light blue eyes stare back at me in the long mirror behind the door. Plump lips and dark eyebrows that seem to always be pulled down these days are the only parts of me I recognize now.

The driven, exuberant girl that was full of life is nowhere to be seen. That girl who was happiest when covered in paint and elbows-deep in a new project. Zoned into her creative mind, and hard to reach.

Now, the most beautiful thing I work with is watching bubbles die a slow death as they slip out of existence with water’s demanding force. A little yoga when Joel’s not around or passed out. I used to go to classes when we first arrived. I was competent at it, too. Thought about teaching it a few times.

My phone pings.

Joel.

Toilet paper. Ciggies.

Ugh. Alright, already. Men and their butts. Seriously.

I lock up and jog to the car. My 1960s Beetle sits in the sun, light blue paint blistering. It breaks my heart to see her in this condition. She should be taken care of. Have a proper home, like a carport or maybe a garage. She’s a classic, after all. Precious.

I slide on the black velvet seat and pump the gas a few times before turning the key in the ignition. She splutters a little but purrs to life. I run a hand over the steering wheel. “Attagirl, Blue.”

Backing out of the drive, I let her idle for a little before tweaking the radio. When I hit a catchy song, I shift her to drive, and we head to the store.

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