The laminated bill was on the kitchen island when I got home at 2:47 AM.
I'd worked a double at The Clam. Seven hours on my feet, then a private party where some tech bro's girlfriend spilled cabernet on my only good jeans. My feet ached. My back ached. My head ached from the smoke and the bass and the way men look at you when you're carrying a tray.
The house was quiet. It's always quiet when I come home. No light under my mother's door. No sound from the master bedroom where Brent sleeps like he owns everything, which he basically does now.
I saw the paper before I turned on the light. Kitchen island, center, under the pendant light I'm not supposed to use because it "drives up the electric."
I turned it on anyway.
Laminated. Like a menu. Like something permanent.
My mother's handwriting at the bottom in permanent marker.
Maren – Your father's insurance ran out. Brent's not responsible for you anymore. This is what you owe to date. Payment plan on back.
I read it standing up. Still holding my work bag. Still smelling like fry oil and spilled wine.
Itemized.
Electricity: estimated share, 36 months, $2,160.
Groceries: protein portions (chicken, fish, the steak she buys for Brent), $4,320.
Water: $720.
Internet: $540.
Rent: market rate for bedroom (shared with Tatum's storage), 36 months, $21,600.
Air: square footage occupied, $4.50/sq ft/year, total $8,988.57.
I read the air line three times.
Air. Square footage occupied.
My bedroom is eight by ten. Eighty square feet. She calculated the cubic volume once and I thought she was joking. She wasn't. There was a formula. Something about oxygen consumption and HVAC costs and "fair distribution of shared resources."
Total: $47,328.57.
I didn't cry. I don't cry. I learned that early—crying costs more than it's worth. You're vulnerable when you cry. You show weakness. Weakness gets priced in.
I calculated.
Tips per shift: average $85. Shifts per week: five. Weeks per year: fifty-two if I never get sick, which I can't afford. Years to pay this off at current rate: 2.14, assuming I pay nothing for anything else. Which I can't.
Through the window, Tatum's Mercedes pulled into the driveway. Her headlights swept across the living room. She was laughing. Two other girls in the car. They sat there for a minute, maybe finishing a story, maybe just existing in that space where your biggest problem is what to wear tomorrow.
Tatum's nineteen. I'm nineteen.
She came in smelling like whatever club they went to. Saw me in the dark. Saw the light over the island.
"Oh. Hey." She didn't look at the bill. Didn't notice. "Mom said you were working."
"Working."
"She left something for you." She pointed vaguely at the kitchen. "On the island."
"I see it."
Tatum shrugged. Went upstairs. Her footsteps faded. A door closed.
I stood there until 3 AM.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number. Area code I didn't recognize.
The interest rate on your question is negotiable. Tomorrow. 8 PM. The Hideaway. Come alone.
I looked at the bill. Looked at the text.
I didn't respond. Didn't delete it.
I just stood there in the light I wasn't supposed to use and wondered who knew. Who was watching. Who had a number for a girl who worked double shifts and owed her mother for air.