Suitcase in hand, I knocked on Monica’s door. Her apartment straddled the border of the East Side and was smaller than mine was. She rented from an old lady who converted her basement into a cozy open living concept. There was a galley kitchen, a living room, and a bedroom separated by gauzy linen curtains. I hated to impose on Monica but I had nowhere else to go. The atmosphere in Andrew’s loft was uncomfortably strained and unwelcoming. He was too polite to kick me out so I did it myself. Nine in the morning, I wrote him a note, packed my meager belongings and closed the chapter on us. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was better now than later when he had captured my entire heart.
Giggles could be heard on the other side of the door followed by a gruff male voice. Knocking again, I blew on my hands to warm them. A low rider car drove by blasting “I Need a Doctor” by Doctor Dre. How appropriate. The door cracked open and Monica peered out.
I gave a weak wave. “Hey, it’s me.”
She unlatched the chain. Wrapped in nothing but bed sheets, she looked flushed and had sex hair. A man was lying on her bed in the background, shirtless. I had forgotten about the negatives of renting a studio. There wasn’t any privacy and or additional room for guests. Falling asleep on the couch next to Monica’s moans wasn’t appealing in the least.
“Hey.” Her gaze wandered over my face with concern. “Are you ok?”
I felt like a truck had run over me, backed up and finished me off. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. “I was wondering if I could stay here for a couple of days, but you’re busy.”
“What happened to your apartment?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.” Picking up my suitcase, I stepped off the stairs. “Have fun.”
Monica clutched the sheets to her body. “You sure? I can kick him out and fix us some tea.”
She had to be really concerned because not once in the many years of our friendship had Monica ever offered me tea. Whiskey was her poison.
“It’s fine. Just because I’m not getting any doesn’t mean nobody else should.”
She flashed an unsure smile then nodded. “Alright, but promise to call me later.”
“I promise.”
Spinning around toward the street, the door softly clicked closed. My breath hung in the frigid cold air. Slipping my cell phone out of my pocket, I scrolled through my contacts and was dismayed to find very few options. There was my old friend from my brief stint at community college but last I’d heard, she moved to Las Vegas. My finger stopped on Mallory and while we were more co-workers than friends, she had a weak spot for strays.
Pushing the call button, she answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Hey, it’s me, Haven.”
I was relieved when she sounded genially happy to hear from me. “Hey girl! Are you calling to tell me that the coffee shop has re-opened because I’m bored to tears over here.”
“Um, no. I’m actually calling because I was wondering if you might have a spare room. My apartment caught on fire last night.”
“Oh heavens, that’s awful!” In my mind, I pictured her slapping her hand over her chest in shock. “Of course you can stay with me and Clint.”
“Thank you so much. It won’t be for long.”
That was a bold faced lie. The amount of money that had to be acquired now was staggering and Rogue didn’t provide enough income to cover half. I’d have to get a second and third job or else I would be living with Mallory and her boyfriend for the next three months.
“No worries. We have the room and with Clint gone most of the time, it will be nice to have the company,” Mallory said.
She gave me the address of her house, which was in the suburbs of Detroit. If I wanted to fall off the grid for a while, this would be the place to do it. Nonetheless, as much as that sounded heavenly, Big Ted’s threat echoed in my mind. Since the building had been old, faulty wires could have been the reason for the fire but my gut said otherwise. Big Ted had showed up at my work and threated to kill everybody close to me. Conveniently, my apartment burned to the ground two days later. It looked like a message to me.
“Hey!” I looked over my shoulder at Monica who was running barefoot down the walkway. “I called you a cab.”
“Thanks but you didn’t need to do that.”
“You have been standing out here for the last forty minutes.”
“I have?”
“Yeah.” Her tone became gentle as if she was talking to a fragile toddler. “What happened to Andrew, Haven?”
I winced. His name was a jagged piece of glass that cut my chest wide open, leaving my heart vulnerable and exposed.
“Nothing happened. I couldn’t crash with him forever,” I said.
“It’s been three days and when we talked last, it seemed like everything was going fine, so obviously something happened.”
The cab arrived, saving me from an explanation. “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m staying with a friend for a couple of days.” Monica’s expression of worry made me blurt out one-half of the story. “There was a fire at my apartment last night so that’s why I can’t go home. I don’t have one.”
Monica and I weren’t huggers. I could count the amount of times we hugged on my fingers but when the situation called for it, we did. She wrapped me in her arms as my eyes sprung a leak. I sniffled against her shoulder.
“Oh honey,” she counseled. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I.”
“If you need anything, blankets, linens—anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Stepping apart, Monica had teared up as well. She wiped her face on her white t-shirt and I laughed. “We are a mess, aren’t we?”
“We are always a mess but remember when we lived together and were too poor to buy toilet paper?”
“How can I forget?”
At twenty years old, Monica and I had roomed together in a crummy studio apartment above a porn shop. We lived off ramen noodles and viewed toilet paper as luxury item. While it had been a year a growth, I wouldn’t want to relive it. Nor did I want to relive the years when I lived on the streets. The day I moved into my own place was considered one of the best moments of my life. However, that only happened because the landlord felt bad for my poor ass. She let me pay off the security deposit in installments. Who knows if luck would strike twice?
Monica clamped her hands on my shoulders. Steely determination twinkled in her eyes. “Repeat after me. If we can survive that, we can survive anything.
“If we can survive that, we can survive anything.”
“Good.”
“You are like a younger and skinnier version of Dr. Phil,” I joked.
She cocked her hip and put on her best impression of her grandmother. “Honey, I’m like the modern day Oprah. Dr. Phil is a joke.”
Monica’s grandmother, Mrs. Lovette, had been a fan of daytime talk shows to where it bordered on a religion. She would plop herself down in front of her 1980s boxy television until Monica came home from school, where she would then proceed to tell us how she would counsel the guest differently. Mrs. Lovette passed away two years ago, but she was greatly missed by everybody who knew her. The cab honked twice, impatiently.
I shifted my weight. “Alright, I better go before the cab driver blows a gasket.”
“Ok. I’m really sorry you can’t stay with me. My apartment isn’t suited for two people.”
“It looks like you were doing just fine with having Marco there.”
She rolled her eyes skyward. “Well yeah, it’s fine when you are doing the naked tango.”