Page 6 of I Hope This Finds You Well
And she’s always rude like that. I’d wave her off, but my hands are full of grocery bags, which are full of bottles of wine I bought to properly celebrate my birthday.
“No, Idon’thave Facebook,” I say quickly. “I see enough ugly babies IRL.”
“Really? I thought all old people had it. How do you stalk your friends from your glory days of high school?”
A jolt pushes through my abdomen. Not flinching is the only way she won’t notice.
“Do you have Instagram?”
I shake my head, the bottles clinking against each other in the bags.
Her gaze drifts over me, eyebrows scrunching together. “What are you doing tonight?”
Why are people so obsessed with asking about other people’s plans? Has anybody ever wowed someone with their answer? My answer will always be that I spend my days off recuperating and forgetting my dayson.
But because she’s a technical child I say, “I’m just watching a movie or something.”
She scrunches her face, disappointed. “Isn’t it your birthday today?”
“Who told you that?”
Miley curls her fingers uncertainly. “You did—last week during your tarot reading.”
For fuck’s sake. I nod in recognition over this conversation I have no recollection of. The thing about Miley is that she spends most of her time in the common areas of the building that people aren’t supposed to actually hang out in. She’s always trying to rope someone in to chat. Last week, she was sitting there playing with some tarot cards while I was heading to the liquor store for a top-up. The event is blurred, but I remember mentioning my star sign and sitting on the bench for a bit saying who knows what else. Bottom line: I have to be more careful avoiding her when I’ve been drinking. She tracks everything, and I’m bound to say something that’ll scar her.
“Right,” I mutter, taking another step up the path. I’m only a few feet away from the door.
“And are you having a party?”
Miley isn’t subtle about how she investigates the grocery store bags. I shake my head quickly and step around her. “I prefer my quiet times.”
“But it’s your birthday.” Her brow knits. “Last week you said you wanted to celebrate a new era of Jolene.”
Shit. The child may have seen too much at this point to ever lead a productive life. I need to cut things off with her while it’s safe. When I drink, it makes me feel less trapped inside myself. But sometimes, after a few too many, I’ll remember why the cage was built in the first place.
“When you get older, birthdays aren’t such a big thing,” I tell her.
“That’s not true. My mom’s thirtieth birthday was so big that I had to go to my cousin’s ’cause they couldn’t fit us all in.”
My heart constricts against my will. There’s a reason Miley is alwaysin the hallway or sitting on the stoop of the building, much as I try to pretend not to notice. Ever since she was six, her mom would send her outside to play alone. Then she started sending her out to eat dinner alone. When she was younger, she used to draw outlines of bodies on the walkway and insist on playing this portable piano for every passerby’s displeasure. Lately, though, she’s inconveniently become chattier. It’s like she’s suddenly become aware I’m a person with a whole life—in theory.
I take another step, almost past her.
“Can I come over?” Miley blurts out of nowhere. Her eyes are so round.
I shake my head before noticing the way her shoulders drop.
But there’s no way.
Miley shuffles her feet. “I’m running low on data, and I’m learning how to crochet from YouTube.”
“Don’t you have Wi-Fi?”
Miley’s eyes droop. “Yeah, but my mom’s working a double and she changed the password.”
I only ever notice Miley’s mom coming and going in scrubs at odd hours and occasionally leaving in makeup for the evening.
It’s the croak in her voice. I could just let her in, have a glass while I let her watch videos without interacting. The thing is, she’d never leave. And I can’t be a thirty-three-year-old woman hosting a twelve-year-old child in my apartment after the worst day of my career. A terrible plan. The bottles of wine twitch in my hands.
