Winnie, Monica, and me made three.

We split the utilities, the responsibilities, assigning the tasks between us—and hey, dividing everything with two people for the cutest place in Chicago you ever did see? Knowing I could travel for work and not worry about my shit being stolen or used without permission? It always gave me peace of mind.

They weren’t using me because my brothers were famous athletes. They weren’t in my stuff when I wasn’t there.

We rarely had to fight over the one parking space we shared, doing paper-rock-scissors to battle it out fairly.

It was a no-brainer living situation.

It was great.

A few months ago, our roommate Winnie went and found herself a boyfriend. They caught feelings—the kind where they wanted to spend all their time together, not experience any waking moments apart. So, Winnie? She went MIA.

With Winnie mostly gone and me traveling for work more often than not (which is easy because I’m single and unattached), that left Monica in our quaint little apartment all by her lonesome for the vast majority of the time.

Ergo, we trusted her with the day-to-day responsibilities, and let me tell you, Monica had. It. Made.

Gorgeous place. Lack of interference.

One job—to pay the rent on time.

To make his life easy, our landlord requested one check or deposit for the month, and we all agreed that considering Monica was the one most primarily there, it only made sense to put her in charge.

Winnie and I would shoot her the cash through an app.

Monica would pay the rent.

Easy enough, right? Simple.

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, oh how wrong we were.

The thing with Monica? I hate to call her flighty, but…

…she’s flighty. AF.

Also: incredibly loving and supportive and smart.

But forgetful? Unorganized? Hell to the yes, and how did we not see this coming?

Lost us our apartment because she started a pattern where she was consistently late. On a few occasions, didn’t pay two months in a row, and wouldn’t you know it—our landlord has a niece looking for an apartment, and considering we were becoming such unreliable tenants…

Evicted us just like that with thirty days’ notice.

Obviously, Monica was afraid to tell us, waiting and waiting and waiting until Winnie and I had two days to get our shit and get out, with nowhere to go.

What a shitty thing to do, especially considering we’d been friends since meeting in college, the three of us playing softball together for the university. Winnie and I haven’t spoken to Monica since the day we had to move our belongings out of the apartment, but I know someday we will. Things will get smoothed over and we’ll be able to exist in the same room together without fighting about how irresponsible she is despite being a grown-ass woman.

I stay in the bathroom for who knows how long, resting against the toilet, in no hurry to rise. It’s not that I’m going to barf again; it’s that so many things are going through my head I don’t want to stand and walk through the door to reality.

“True?”

My brother’s voice startles me, and I realize suddenly that the house is deafeningly quiet.

Molly must have gone.

“Hey, bro.” I croak it out, trying to sound as normal as possible. Casual enough to not raise suspicion, despite my location on the floor? Er. I hope.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

Shit.

I wasn’t planning on being down here when he got home, assumed I’d be unpacking my bag in his guest room or riffling through his fridge—not that I can keep anything down. Ginger ale, maybe?

At least he’s alone, and not with his girlfriend, Chandler.

“I…uh.” Exactly nothing pops into my brain, so I go to stand, bracing both my hands on the toilet seat. “I dropped my contact lens before and was trying to find it.”

Tripp tilts his head. “You wear contacts? Since when?”

Since never and we both know it.

I don’t even wear glasses.

Once though, when I was younger, a girl in my class got glasses. The dark, tortoiseshell frames were all the rage, and I wanted them, too. So I would squint and tell Mom my left eye was weepy, and eventually she was concerned enough to make an eye exam appointment.

Well, you can fake out your own mother sometimes, but not the optometrist, and wouldn’t you know it, my parents’ vision insurance didn’t cover that appointment and I got in deep shit.

“They’re the colored contacts. I wanted to see what I look like with blue eyes.” I flick the light off in the bathroom and exit, my brother trailing along in my wake, Chewy hot on his heels.

Standing at the kitchen sink to wash my hands, I pour a single glass of water to rinse my mouth out.

Rinse out the taste of vomit.

Yuck.

If Tripp thinks the colored contacts story is weird, he lets it slide, busying himself with Chewy, commanding the dog to ‘sit pretty’ for a tiny training treat, then he sends him scampering off to fetch a ball.