Beautifully Broken

Piper

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

The alert of my phone breaks the silence around me, killing any chance I had at a stealthy entry. I should have put it on silent. I flip the button on the side of my phone, killing the ringer before I forget again. Stopping beside a bush I look around, making sure I’m not being watched before reading the text.

Unknown Number: Hey! I looked for you at lunch.

Unknown Number: I actually went into the cafeteria. You should feel loved.

Unknown Number: Did you ditch?

Unknown Number: It’s Rex btw.

A small smile graces my lips. I checked my phone way too many times last week, waiting for Rex to text. After the first day, I thought he was doing that wait-so-you-don’t-seem-anxious-thing. After two days I began to worry and almost texted him but didn’t. I refuse to come off as that girl who can’t take a hit. Besides, on the off chance that I was a charity case, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. After three days, I gave up all hope of hearing from him. And then, a full eight days later, after I’ve washed all thoughts of Rex from my mind and accepted that last weekend was nothing more than a pity hang out, he texts me.

My stomach flutters, but I instantly kill the feeling with emotional cyanide—this is probably just a booty text. Afterall, I’m supposed to be the school slut. Why else would he wait a whole week to text? Still, I save his number and shoot back a quick reply.

Me: Yeah. Had some stuff to do that couldn’t wait.

Like sneak into my bio-mom’s apartment and steal her child support check.

Me: Where were you last week?

Rex: It was Gretchen’s birthday. I flew back to New York to celebrate.

Ah...the nanny. That was nice of him. Too bad he forgot how to use a phone in New York.

Me: For a week?

Rex: Go big or go home.

Rex: Did you miss me? ;)

A little.

Me: You wish.

…

…

Rex: I’m having a kickback tonight. Want to come by?

Me: Seriously? A party on a Monday?

Rex: Is there a better way to start the week?

Me: I’ve gotta work. See you tomorrow?

Rex: Definitely.

I shove my phone back in my bag and take a deep breath. I hate coming home, not that I’ve ever considered this place home. It has four walls, a front door, a dirty kitchen, a bathroom, and two tiny bedrooms, but that’s all. There have never been any family pictures on the walls or home cooked meals, no kisses goodnight or how was your day hugs. These four walls are as empty of love and nurturing as my wallet is at this moment of money.

With a trembling hand I turn the handle on our front door. I don’t have a key, let alone need one, because the house is never locked. Anything of value was sold years ago to feed Monica’s habits or stolen by the people she brought home.