Page 13 of Castaway Whirlwind
And so, after a total of two hours of sleep on Violet’s couch, I apply for an apartment as soon as the complex’s office opens. Another hour later, I hand over a cashier’s check from my bank for the full amount needed, plus a little extra cash on the side to waive the three-day waiting period.
Ms. Theresa, the new owner of the recently updated two-story complex, leads me to one of the twelve units, her long black braids swaying with her steps. My unit is smack dab in the middle on the ground floor between the two stairwells, with a concrete walkway separating the small parking lot from the complex. She unlocks the freshly painted sky-blue door and leads me inside the off-white apartment, which is one big open concept room with a lone window to the left of the door.
On the right is a small kitchen with new appliances, then a closet and bathroom just past it with updated fixtures and a stackable washer and dryer. The left side of the studio is big enough for a full or possibly queen-sized bed, a console and TV if I put them in front of the window, and maybe a bookshelf or two.
There’s a spark of optimism within me for the future after the two-minute tour of the quiet, clean space. It’s small, and I only have two suitcases of personal items to fill it, but it’s all mine.
I find I’m able to match Ms. Theresa’s warm smile when she hands me the key and a spare and says, “Welcome to CastawayParadise, Layla.”
* * *
Russell
“You look like shit,” Jared says as soon as I open the passenger door and climb inside his SUV after it took forever and a boatload of cash to catch a flight with an available seat to Dallas.
He was kind enough to make the two-hour drive to pick me up from the airport, so I skip past his insult and ask, “How’s Layla?”
“She just got the keys to her apartment.” Jared dives into a break in the heavy airport traffic, and I press my foot to the floorboard, wishing he would speed up.
“Where?”
“Castaway Paradise.”
“Where’s that?”
He gives me a sideways look. “In town. The old complex where Wyatt used to live.”
I’m about to go apoplectic. “Oh hell, tell me you’re lying. That place is a dump. Not good enough for—” I almost saymy darlin’, and no one can know that’s what I call Layla in my head.
“Not anymore. Ms. Theresa bought the place and fixed it up real nice.”
I grumble, irked by the idea of Layla living even a few minutes farther away from the diner, and thus, farther away from BT and me. And with neighbors just a breath away,someone’s bound to notice me sitting in my truck overnight every night now that she’s living on her own. “I don’t like it.”
Jared huffs a laugh. “Figured you wouldn’t. But she does.”
Squirming in my seat, I ask, “Do you think she’ll be happy there?”
He sucks his teeth, taking a long time to answer. “Don’t know that she’s ever been happy since her dad died, so I hope so.”
I look sharply at him, and my efforts to curtail my cursing fly out the window. “The fuck does that mean?”
He sighs deeply. “Listen, you didn’t hear this from me, but…Violet told me some upsetting things she found out after going through Layla’s budget with her.”
“What. Things.”
He gives me a nervous glance from the corner of his eye before he swings his attention back to the road, the blasted interstate under construction since the dawn of time. “I don’t want you going to prison, so you gotta promise not to kill Steven if I tell you.”
“I ain’t promising shit. You tell me right now, or I swear to God, I am going to unleash unholy hell—”
“Fuck! Ok. So, you know how she’s been working two, sometimes three jobs at a time? And how she never seems to get ahead?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes.” It drives me crazy how hard she has to work when I’ve cash tipped her under the table in the thousands since meeting her, hoping she would finally slow down. Pick one job. I’d give her more than that, enough for her to quit working altogether and go back to school if I thought she’d take it.
“Well, she’s been at it since she was fifteen when her momand stepdad kicked her out, and she moved in with Steven.”
“Fifteen fucking years old?” My head pounds as my blood pressure skyrockets. At fifteen, my son was playing football and goofing off with his friends. He worked part-time at the warehouse during my half of the summers with him to earn extra spending money—his choice—but he never had to rely on it to pay bills. It should have been the same for Layla.
“It gets worse. Steven was eighteen at the time.”
