Wrecking his car? An envelope full of cash that I asked my “friend” to drop off? Here to see who? Who’s here? My confusion levels hit an all-time high.

“Um…” I take a breath. “Yes, I'm here to see him,” I lie, and my gaze drifts toward the upstairs apartment. “He lives up there?”

“Stays here once in a while, from what I can tell. When your parents cleaned out the place, I rented it out to him." He drops the cigarette on the floor and grinds out the butt with the heel of his boot. "But if you’re aiming to move back in, you can work it out yourself, since you two know each other. Don't really care who stays up there. I'll consider your rent paid through until February." And with that, he disappears inside his house, leaving me shell-shocked.

I remind myself to breathe, and start processing everything he just revealed. I lived in this place. I had access to money because I paid rent here—probably on a monthly basis. Given that it's the end of November, I'd paid through December. My parents not only knew about this apartment, but also came and took all my belongings from it. Where is my stuff? Everything in my bedroom is new except for a few pieces of clothing. Did they throw it away? Are they hiding it? What would be the point in that?

All the promises I made to myself about forging beyond the past are forgotten with these small glimpses of my past. I charge up the stairs, nurturing the idea that there’s a living, breathing individual upstairs who knows me. No one from Astor would live here. They drive cars that cost more than this whole house. The person is someone who knows me outside of Astor, outside of my family, and therefore someone who can be real with me.

At the top landing, I throw myself at the door, pounding on it fiercely until I hear footsteps. Clasping my hands together, I hold my breath as the door is whipped open.

“What the hell are you doing here?"

“Easton?” I gasp.

If I was forced at gunpoint to list all the people who could possibly be living in this apartment, Easton Royal would’ve been the last on the list. In his bare feet, jeans, and a tank top so thin that I can make out every ridge in his defined abdomen, he still looks too expensive for this shabby environment.

"Nice jacket," he drawls, reaching out to flick the tab collar.

Self-consciously, I tug on the jacket's hem. I’d forgotten I was wearing it. I clutch the hem tightly. "Um, I meant to give it back to you but I didn't know how to get in touch."

"A phone call would've worked. A text, even." He leans his long frame against the doorway, effectively blocking out the view.

“That man downstairs…” I trail off. “He’s the landlord?”

“Jose?” Easton nods. “Yeah, he owns this place. Good man.”

“He said something about me wrecking his car.” I rub my temples. “And then paying for it, and my friend dropping off the money, and…” My head is beginning to hurt again.

Easton’s blue eyes take on a serious glint. “You borrowed his car the night of the accident.”

“Oh.” A horrible jolt of guilt brings the sting of tears. “And then I crashed it?” I moan. “That’s awful. He must hate me.”

That gets me a shrug and a faint smile. “Nah. I took care of it. Paid him more than the insurance ever would’ve. Trust me, he’s thrilled.”

I gape at him. “You took care of it? Why?”

He gives another shrug, not answering the question. “Want to come in?”

“Yes.” I don’t wait for him to move aside. I don’t wait for another invitation. I charge forward and then come to a sudden halt in the middle of the empty room. I guess it's not entirely empty. There's a black bag in the center of the room crunched together in the middle. I also spot a crumpled Astor Park blazer, a pair of tennis shoes, and two towels. A bottle of vodka, a baggy of some dried green stuff, and a case of beer sit on the counter.

My eyes widen at the weed and booze. Is this some kind of Astor Park crack house where I provided alcohol, drugs, and…me? Is that how I paid for this place? The urge to vomit all over the floor seizes me. Did I earn money by selling my body to Astor Park boys? Is that why my parents got rid of everything? Why they’re so cryptic? Maybe it’s why I got sent away in the first place.

The insults Kyle hurled at me about being easy ring in my ears. I wanted to write that off as him being an asshole who made up things to make me feel bad, but as I turn in a slow circle, seeing nothing in the room but a few personal items that I assume belong to Easton, I can’t help but wonder.

“Is this…Did we…What is this place?”

Easton closes the door quietly and crosses over to the counter. He uncaps the bottle of vodka, pours two glasses and then holds one out to me. “Your old apartment. What did you think it was?”

I take the drink and roll it between my sweaty palms. Do I tell him that I fear I’m a teenage prostitute and he’s one of my marks or will the fact that that’s where my head went to reveal some deviancy I’d rather keep hidden? I mean, I could just go with the response that I’m surprised because I’m not living with my parents and in a part of Bayview that I don’t think any respectable girl frequents. Those are as truthful as the worry about turning tricks.

I open my mouth to go with the parental thing but end up blurting out, “Did we have sex here?”