Page 12 of Returned Mail

“Because I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you decide something about my life and then harass me until I agree.”

She looks offended. “I do not harass. I aggressively support.” Despite feeling like shit, I smile, and she takes that as encouragement. “I'm serious. What if you found somewhere outside the city? Not super far. Close enough that I can get to you if you need me, but far enough that you're not paying city rent.”

“I’m not moving from the city.”

“I didn't say right now.”

“This is my home.” The words come out sharper than I intend and Lyann goes quiet. I stand too quickly, the tequila making the room tilt just enough that I grab the arm of the couch. “He left,” I say. “Why should I have to leave too?”

“Mia—”

“No. Seriously. He cheats on me. He walks out. And now I have to give up my apartment too?” My voice breaks. “I have to lose everything because he decided he wanted someone else?”

Lyann's face softens, and I hate it. I hate that she understands. I hate that I'm crying again.

“This isn't fair.”

“No,” she says quietly. “It isn't.”

“I want my old life.”

“I know.”

I wipe my face. “And I really fucking hate that you keep saying that.”

“I know.” I throw another tissue at her. This time she catches it.

For a while, neither of us says anything, then Lyann reaches for her laptop. I stare at her. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, I’m just opening my laptop.”

“Why?”

“Because that's generally how laptops work.” I narrow my eyes. She opens it and types something.

I lean over. “What are you searching?”

“Nothing.”

“That says apartments, Lyann.” She grins.

I should stop her. I should close the laptop. I should remind her that I'm heartbroken, slightly drunk, and in absolutely no position to make decisions about my life. Instead, I sit back down. “Nothing too far.”

Lyann's fingers stop over the keyboard. She looks at me, smiles, and turns back to the laptop. For the next hour, we look. And mostly, it's terrible.

One apartment has a kitchen so small I could probably cook dinner from the toilet. Another describes itself as “rustic,” which apparently means the floors are collapsing. The bedroom has no windows.

“Is that legal?” I ask.

“Probably not.”

“Then why is it twelve hundred dollars?”

“Capitalism.”