ARIA
The drive home from The Grind on Friday felt longer than usual. My old car coughed and sputtered, a fitting soundtrack to how I felt inside. Every red light was a mercy, a chance to close my eyes for just a second and breathe. The argument with Dalton played on a loop in my head, a movie of my own stupidity. I'd let him get to me. I'd handed him my frayed nerves and he'd held them up for the whole world to see.
Stupid, Aria. So stupid.
I pulled up to our small, faded house, the one my dad had kept so proud and neat before he got sick. Now the paint was chipping and the garden was overgrown. Another thing I couldn't keep up with.
I went straight inside, the silence hitting me first. Then I heard it the ragged, wet sound of his breathing from the bedroom. My own heart stuttered in response.
I found him propped up on pillows, his face grey and beaded with sweat. The oxygen tube was in his nose, but it seemed like a pathetic, useless toy against the monster in his lungs.
"Hey, Dad," I said, forcing a brightness into my voice that felt like a physical lie.
His eyes fluttered open. "There's my girl." The words were a whisper, scraped raw. He tried to smile, and that small, failed attempt broke me more than any coughing fit ever could.
I helped him sip some water, my hand shaking as I held the glass. I adjusted his pillows, I smoothed his hair, I did all the useless little things you do when you're powerless to do the one thing that matters.
"How was work?" he asked, his voice thin.
"It was fine," I lied, the image of Dalton's cold, furious face flashing in my mind. "Busy."
I couldn't tell him I'd probably gotten myself fired from the one job that was actually keeping us afloat. I couldn't add my failure to the weight he was already carrying.
The guilt was a live wire in my chest. I had to leave him again in a few hours. The night shift at the motel waited a different kind of hell of dirty sheets and loud guests, but it came with a paycheck.
We stayed and talked for a while, this is our normal. I prepped his medication, two hours later after he was fed and watching some game on tv i was ready to take a nap.
"I'm just going to take a quick nap before my next shift, okay?" I said, kissing his forehead. His skin was clammy.
"Okay, sweetheart. Don't… don't worry about me."
Another lie we both pretended to believe.
I collapsed onto my bed, but sleep wouldn't come. The math wouldn't let me. Rent. Electricity. The mountain of medical bills on the kitchen table that I used as a coaster so I didn't have to look at them. Dalton Gray's infuriatingly handsome face.
God was he hot.
That's it, I promised the dark ceiling. On Monday, you become a robot. You say "yes, sir" and "no, sir." You make his coffee. You take his money. You do not engage. He is nothing. A annoying, handsome, rich blip. You will ignore him.
It was a good plan. I just had to forget the way his presence made my blood hum, a dangerous and alive feeling in a life that felt like it was slowly shutting down
After my shift at the motel Jake walked me to my car at 3 a.m as usual. "You good, Aria? You look… tired."
"Just the usual, Jake. Thanks for the escort." I managed a small smile. The world at 3 a.m. was quiet and lonely, and the walk to a dark parking lot was less scary with someone beside you.
When I got home, the house was too quiet. I tiptoed into my dad's room. His breathing was shallower, a faint, whistling sound. He was slipping away. I could feel it in my bones, a cold, certain dread. I kissed his cool cheek, my tears falling onto his pillow.
"I love you, Dad," I whispered into the silence. "Please don't leave me."
The weekend was a slow, painful blur. Saturday was for bills. I spread them out on the kitchen table, the money from The Grind a sad little pile in the center. I paid the electric so we wouldn't sit in the dark. I paid a chunk of the rent. The medical bills got a symbolic twenty dollars each, a drop in an ocean.
Mrs. Evans stopped by with a casserole. "How's he doing, honey?" she asked, her kind eyes full of a pity I both craved and resented.
"He's a fighter," I said, the automatic response tasting like ash in my mouth.
She patted my hand. "And how are you? You're looking pale."
"I'm fine," I lied. Always fine.
Sunday, I tried to rest. I picked up one of my dog-eared romance novels, seeking escape in a world where problems were solved with a grand gesture and a happy ever after. But I couldn't focus. The words blurred together. My head ached with a low-grade throb I recognized my blood sugar was off. I'd been so focused on Dad, on work, on Dalton, that I'd forgotten to focus on me.
I went to the pharmacy for my insulin refill. The total made my stomach drop. After the bills, I didn't have enough. I left with nothing, a hollow feeling of panic growing inside me. I'd have to stretch what I had left. I'd have to be extra careful.
The thought was overwhelming. One more thing to manage. One more silent, invisible battle.
The truth I'd been running from all weekend finally caught up with me, sitting in my silent living room. I was going to lose him. Soon. I had lost my mom. I had lost Olivia. And after this, I would be truly, utterly alone.
The air in the house felt too thick to breathe after dad went to nap. I had to get out.
I ended up at the cemetery. It was the one place I didn't have to pretend. I come here most weekends.
I knelt between the two headstones. Marion Davis. Beloved Wife and Mother. Olivia Davis. Cherished Daughter and Twin Sister. Forever Loved.
"Hey," I whispered, my voice breaking. The dam inside me burst. Sobs wracked my body, so hard I thought I might break apart.
"I'm not ready," I choked out, the tears falling freely onto the grass. "I'm not ready to say goodbye to him. I can't do this alone." I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, a helpless, childish gesture. "Everything is so hard. The bills… and I'm so tired. And there's this… this man. Dalton Gray. He's horrible and rich and he makes me so angry, but sometimes… sometimes he looks at me and I forget for a second that my life is falling apart. And that's the most terrifying part of all."
I poured my heart out to the cold, silent stone, telling them about the fight, the fear, the exhaustion, the crushing weight of it all. It was a one-sided conversation, but it was the only one where I could be completely, messily honest.
When the tears finally subsided, I felt empty. Clean, in a sad way. I placed a hand on each gravestone. "I miss you both. So much."
As I stood to leave, my eyes still blurry, I noticed a man standing some distance away, his back to me. He was tall, wearing a dark, expensive-looking coat. He was standing perfectly still in front of another grave. Another person mourning their world.
For a fleeting second, something about the set of his shoulders seemed familiar, but my mind was too foggy with grief to place it. I just felt a strange, sad kinship with him another soul visiting the ghosts they loved.
I turned and walked away, leaving him to his silence and his own private goodbyes. I never looked back.
That night, as I got ready for bed, the dread for Monday was a physical weight in my stomach. But it was different now. The weekend had carved me out, left me raw but also… resolved.
I would go back to The Grind. I would face Dalton Gray. I would be a robot. I would take his money and I would survive.
Because that's all I had left to do. Survive. For as long as I could.