She stayed through high school, college, and every year, I kept waiting for her to realize I was too awkward, too poor, and too much work.
Another difference between us was that Violet had a home to go back to.
All I had was a text from my brother:
“Don’t come back here, Layla. Don’t come home acting like anybody owes you something.”
Violet had a home to go back to.
So I followed Violet to her city.
Not in a creepy way. In a broke-twenty-five-year-old-with-no-plan way.
***
My apartment was tiny. The pipes screamed every morning, and the kitchen window wouldn’t shut, but it was mine.
Violet showed up the first week with groceries and a plant I killed nine days later.
“You need curtains,” she said. “Maybe a rug.”
“I need rent money, V.”
“You need a home-cooked meal. That’ll fix everything.”
That was how I met Rick, Violet’s grandfather.
My apartment was tiny.
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