Page 11 of Soup Sandwich
Astrong hand grips mine as we carefully step on the waterlogged hardwood floor. Surrounding me is nothing but devastation. The visual remains of my apartment so closely mirror my insides that I’m ready to throw up right here.
“That was—”
“My sofa,” I answer Stella, my voice already shaking. She took this morning off from her restaurant to come here and be with me for this. Stella has been my best friend since I was fourteen. She’s also my stepcousin since she’s the daughter of Landon who is Oliver’s older brother and Oliver is married to my sister Amelia. That was a mouthful.
After I snuck out of Callan’s somewhere around three this morning, I snuck undetected into Amelia’s and Oliver’s place and passed out until my landlord called me to tell me that the fire marshal officially cleared the place for me to come in and gather any salvageable belongings.
Salvageable.
That was the word he used, and as I stand here, the roof over my head gone and replaced with a soaked blue tarp, I see he wasn’t kidding. The storm last night along with the roof that caved in makes this place look like something out ofThe Wizard of Oz.
“Maybe we should just—”
I shake my head. “I can’t go, Stella, and I can’t have someone else do this for me. I have to be the one.”
“Okay. I get it. And I’m here with you.”
I give her hand a squeeze because I fucking love this woman with my entire heart.
“I haven’t even told Amelia and Oliver about this yet.”
She gives me a funny look I catch out of the corner of my eye. “I thought you slept there last night.”
“I did, but I didn’t get there until after three. They didn’t wake up and they were already out the door taking the girls to ballet class before I got up.”
“Oh. Well then. And where were you before that?”
At her suggestive tone, I throw her a side-eye. “Is this the place where we’re going to talk about my one-night stand?”
“If talking about your one-night is worth talking about then yes.”
“Definitely worth talking about. But later. After I’m done here and you’re plying me with alcohol.”
“Deal.”
“Bedroom—”
“First?” she finishes my sentence since that’s what we do with each other. “That’s what I was thinking too.”
We both nod and then move toward the bedroom like any second the floor will give out beneath us. My apartment wasn’t big. The third floor of a three-family house, it boasted a small galley kitchen, a small living slash dining area, and my bedroom.
“Oh fuck. I can’t.”
Those words leave my lips the second I step over the threshold and take in the bedlam. My bed is covered in black stuff, the frame half-broken. Same with my dresser, the mirror above it shattered. But neither of those is what I’m even remotely focused on. My bookshelf, my precious, precious bookshelf filled with all my precious, precious books is absolutely decimated. The books are spread out across the floor in heaps and bunches, the pages scattered, many torn from the books. All wet and ruined beyond repair.
“Stella.” That’s as far as I get before I start to cry. And crying isn’t particularly my jam. When your life isn’t all roses and sunshine, you learn to go with the flow and make the best of every situation and not waste time on such trivialities as crying.
But I’m crying now, and I can’t stop.
Stella lowers herself to her hands and knees.
“Careful!” I cry out. “The glass.”
She throws up a hand as if she’s already aware of it and starts to crawl over, picking up one of my mother’s paperbacks. It falls apart in her hands and it gets worse from there. The box that held the small keepsakes from my parents is upside down on the floor, the lid gone. Stella turns it right side up, and I sob, my hand clapping over my mouth.
My ticket stub to the first Red Sox game I went to with my parents. My mom’s old charcoals. The note from the tooth fairy when I lost my first tooth that was in my dad’s handwriting. All gone.
“That was—”