Page 259 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

Not anymore.

I give him another five minutes because it’s not freezing out, but as each one passes, my ‘reality’ becomes more and more clear.

I let my resting bitch face slide into place as I get onto the subway a short while later. It’s filled with university kids, most of them drunk, high, or both. And none of them seem to have a care in the world, other than getting wasted or laid.

How lucky they are to enjoy their evenings without giving a single fuck about anything.

That used to be me.

I ride to my stop and then get off the train, sure to keep an eye behind me as I jog up the steps to the street. I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and keep that fierce look on my face as if to challenge anyone who dares get too close. I pass the bars and delis and storefronts in my shitty neighborhood, looking straight ahead as cars zoom past me in the road. I turn my head every once in a while, a knot in my gut warning me that there is always calm before a storm.

But nobody follows me.

Nobody speaks to me.

And nobody?—

I yelp, my foot getting caught in a sidewalk crack. I put my hands out to brace my fall, landing on the pavement with my full weight on my wrists. Bits of gravel and grit scratch up my hands, and my knees scrape against the sidewalk, tearing a hole in one pant leg.

Fuck.

I sit back on my heels, a sob rising in my throat.

That’s when it hits me.

No matter how hard I try to keep my head up, no matter how much time I put into planning for a better life, reality is always back to smack me in the face.

And it fucking sucks.

I drag myself to a standing position, whisking the dirt off my jacket and pants. I examine my hands, the thin cuts on my palms already bleeding. I let my hands fall to my sides and turn to my right, catching a glimpse into the overflowing tavern. A song by the Dropkick Murphys interrupts the pity party in my mind, girls and guys singing and drinking and dancing.

I wish I was one of them.

Come to think of it, I wish I was anyone other than who I am right now.

I should feel guilty for thinking that, for despising my father for unraveling what remained of our family after Mama died, for wishing I could just run away to a place where nobody knows who I am, a place where I can get a fresh start and a new lease on life since my current one is about to expire.

Maybe it already has.

* * *

After a fitful night’s sleep, I wake up to a lot of banging. Cabinet doors, closet doors, pantry doors. I lift my head from the pillow, rubbing sleep out of my eyes as I pull myself into a seated position. “Frankie?” I call out, my voice groggy. “What the heck are you doing out there?”

But he doesn’t answer.

I’m just greeted with more banging and heavy footsteps pounding around the apartment.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reluctantly launch myself off the bed. I said we’d go for a run, so maybe it’s better to get up and at ’em early.

I catch a glimpse at the time on my phone and groan.

Seven o’clock?

Ugh, I was thinking more ten-ish.

I pad into the kitchen, running a hand through my sleep-tousled hair. Frankie is dressed and thumping all over the place, piling things together by the front door. I furrow my brow as I take it all in.

“How was your date?” he grumbles when I come into the kitchen.

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