Maybe it was time to move on. I could find another apartment and just lose myself. But with that thought came a pang of undiluted hurt and loneliness. Hadn’t I spent my whole life alone? But I seemed to lack the skills to change that. After all, whom did I ever have as a role model for healthy affection, cooperation, care and wanting to get along well with others? I didn’t even know what healthy looked like.
Unsure of how far ranging Ryder’s mind-reading skills were, I erected the thickest, most solid cement wall I could picture in my mind to make sure that my secret thoughts and feelings would now be protected.
With the living room as picked up as I could make it, I noted that I would have to replace the broken glass frames and find other little plants to adopt. I moved down the hall to tackle my bedroom.
Feeling like I was sinking into a great big pit of fabulous depression, I reminded myself I wasn’t that trailer-park, street-urchin kid whom everyone scorned and pitied anymore. From the time that I first got a job, I started collecting good pieces of quality clothing, because I didn’t want to be looked down on ever again. I picked classic pieces that could mix and match and that wouldn’t go out of style. I picked items made of good materials. I was even able to sew some of my clothes using designer patterns from the best fashion mags.
Taking utmost care, I rehung, repackaged in plastic and refolded all of the clothing items that were so disrespectfully dumped on the floor. I picked up stray jewelry and got my shoes back in order. I reshelved my books, double-checked that my laptop was still working (because strangely, it hadn’t been taken), gathered all clothing that needed cleaning and filled a laundry bag for another day. I took a shower, letting the hot water run over me until the bathroom became fogged, and put on my comfiest PJ bottoms and tank. Yeah, it was summer in L.A., but I just hadn’t been able to feel warm and secure since my car was broken into.
The show about teen moms was on, so I grabbed my sewing kit and got to work repairing the couch cushions while the tedious drama unfolded on the small screen. I could be thankful the robbers hadn’t busted the TV. Otherwise, I would have had nothing to keep my brain comfortably numb and away from painful thoughts. It took a few hours to sew the sofa cushions, but even I had to say that it was done pretty well. The day had dragged by, and it was early yet, only seven, but I decided to crawl into bed.
The front door lock wasn’t broken, but the fact that it had been picked so easily was just frightening. I grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and propped it under the knob, thinking that a good dead bolt and a couple of chains might be something worth investing in. I could probably go to the local home-improvement store.
I’d only eaten a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich all day, but I wasn’t hungry. I was horribly tired and wanted to just check out into la-la land for the next bunch of hours. I made sure my clock was set, so I could be to work on time, and I stripped to my skivvies. Just as I went to turn down my sheet, I saw my clothes neatly folded on my bed. They were the clothes I’d left at Ryder’s house earlier. How in the hell... Renewed anger sucker punched my gut, and before I fully thought about it, I marched to the wall I had in common with Ryder and pounded on it. “Goddammit! Stop with the freaky shit already. I have had enough!”
Though I hadn’t wanted a reaction, not getting one still deflated me. I turned back to my bed with a heavy heart, needing to just check out for a few hours.
I’d put clean sheets on my bed, which felt wonderful to slide into, and while I’d pretty much managed to put everything away, I could still feel the essence of the person who’d been in here trashing my place. It made me feel afraid, like someone could come at any moment, but what else could I do? I didn’t have enough money for a hotel, and there was no one I could go to for help.
That thought alone—I don’t have anyone to turn to—made me want to cry. Grandma had died a while ago, not that she was much the nurturing type. My aunt wouldn’t give a shit. I had no idea where my mother was, I’d never known my father, and my cousin was more a rival than a friend. In any case, she lived out in Malibu with a boyfriend. Not that I wanted to have to ask her for help, even if, hypothetically, I was 100 percent sure someone was going to come into my place and kill me, because we just didn’t have that kind of relationship. Don’t want to have to owe anyone anymore for my life.