5: Corporate Emails
1412 Words
He’s staring at me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m brave or just stupid, and honestly I’m not sure myself anymore, and then his phone rings.
He pulls it from his pocket and glances at the screen and his jaw tightens. “I need to take this.”
He turns away and answers in that same foreign language from before, Greek maybe or Italian, I still can’t tell, and his voice is low and urgent and he walks toward the windows with his back to me, and I realize this might be the only chance I get.
I don’t think, I just move, and I’m out the door and down the hallway and I take the emergency stairs because the elevator will take too long and also he’ll hear the ding.
By the time I hit the lobby my lungs are burning and my legs feel like jelly and I push through the front doors and I don’t stop walking fast until I’m three blocks away.
I order an Uber and climb in when it arrives and spend the whole ride staring out the window and trying to process what just happened, and my brain keeps circling back to that word, mate, like it’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make any sense at all.
The driver drops me at my building and I drag myself up the flights of stairs.
I’m fumbling with my keys and muttering to myself like a crazy person. “Mate, what does he mean MATE, like soulmate? That’s insane, he’s insane, I’m insane—”
I get my door open and I’m still muttering when I stop dead.
My stepsister Vanessa is sitting at my tiny vanity trying on my jewelry, holding up my silver necklace to her neck and examining herself in the mirror.
Vanessa is twenty-five, two years older than me, and she’s the kind of beautiful that makes people stop and stare, blonde hair, blue eyes and perfect bone structure that she got from her mom Patricia, who’s been my stepmother since I was ten and who married my dad for his money, which everyone knew but no one said out loud.
When my dad died five years ago he left everything to Patricia with the understanding that she’d take care of me until I was eighteen, which she did in the technical sense, meaning I had a roof over my head and food sometimes and a constant reminder that I should be grateful she didn’t kick me out.
I moved out the day after my eighteenth birthday and I’ve been scraping by ever since, which is why I live here in this shithole of an apartment.
“You really should lock your door,” she says without looking at me. “Anyone could walk in.”
“You’re not anyone and you broke in, how did you even—” My voice comes out sharper than I meant but I’m too tired to care.
“Mom gave me her spare key. She said you never visit anymore.” She finally turns to look at me and there’s something calculating in her expression. “You look like hell, by the way, what happened to your face?”
I catch my reflection in the mirror behind her and I do look terrible, my hair’s a mess and there are dark circles under my eyes and my mascara’s smudged. “Long night.”
“Clearly.” She turns back to the mirror and fastens my necklace around her neck. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by, it’s been what, three months since I saw you?”
It’s been six weeks actually, the last time she needed money, but I don’t correct her. “What do you want, Vanessa?”
“Can’t I just visit my sister?” She stands and walks over to my mini fridge and opens it and makes a face at the contents, which is basically leftover Chinese food and a questionable carton of milk. “God, Astrid, do you eat anything that’s not takeout?”
“I’ve been busy with work.”
“Right, work, that job you never shut up about.” She closes the fridge and leans against my counter. “How is that going anyway, still slaving away for corporate America?”
“It’s fine.” I drop my purse on my bed and kick off my heels because my feet are killing me.
“Just fine? That’s depressing, you work like eighty hours a week and all you can say is it’s fine?” She’s picking up things from my desk now, looking through my mail, and I want to tell her to stop but I’m too exhausted to start that fight.
“What do you want, Vanessa?” I ask again because I know she didn’t come here just to critique my life choices.
“I need to borrow some money,” she says and she’s still not looking at me, still sorting through my stuff like this is casual. “Just two thousand for rent, I’ll pay you back next month like always.”
She’s never paid me back, not once in the three years since I moved out, and I don’t have two thousand dollars anyway because I barely have two hundred dollars after rent, student loans and the credit card bill.
“I don’t have it, Vanessa, I told you last time I can’t keep doing this.”
“Come on, don’t be dramatic, it’s just a loan.” She opens my desk drawer before I can stop her and pulls out an envelope and I know what it is immediately and I want to grab it from her but I’m frozen. “What’s this?”
She’s already reading it and her eyebrows raise and there’s this little smile on her face that makes my stomach drop. “A rejection letter from grad school? You applied to grad school and didn’t even tell anyone?”
“Give that back—” I move toward her but she steps away.
“University of Washington MFA in Design, we regret to inform you,” she reads out loud and her voice has that mocking tone she uses when she wants to make me feel small. “Aw, Astrid, that’s so sad, you really thought you could get in?”
I snap out and maybe it’s the exhaustion or the stress or aftermath of my exchange with Rhys but I’m done, I’m so done with her and her condescension and the way she makes me feel like I’m still that awkward kid who didn’t fit in with her and Patricia’s perfect little family.
“Get out,” I say and my voice is quiet but firm.
“What?” She looks genuinely surprised.
“Get out of my apartment, Vanessa, I’m not giving you money, so just get out.”
Her expression changes and for a second she looks actually hurt, but then it smooths back. “Fine, whatever, I was leaving anyway.”
She picks up my jewelry box from the vanity and sorts through it and selects a pair of earrings that belonged to my mom, my real mom who died when I was twelve, and she pockets them along with the necklace she’s still wearing.
“I’m borrowing these by the way,” she says like it’s not a question.
“Vanessa, those were my mom’s—”
“And I’ll give them back, relax, you’re so dramatic about everything.” She’s walking toward the door now and I should stop her but I don’t because what’s the point, she’ll just take them anyway and make me feel guilty for being upset about it. “You should call Mom sometime, she worries about you.”
She doesn’t wait for a response before she’s out the door and I hear her footsteps in the hallway.
I lock the door this time and check it twice, and then I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower and stand under water that’s lukewarm at best because the building’s hot water situation is a disaster.
When I get out I put on an old t-shirt from my college days and pajama pants. I’m about to turn off my phone and collapse into bed when I see the notification.
One new email, received seventeen minutes ago while I was in the shower.
From: Rhys Blackwood
Subject: New Employment Terms
- Writer
