First Draft Romance

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I wake up early Saturday morning with some of the worst back pain I've ever felt in my entire life. For a second, I'm groggy and confused; the next, I feel nothing but head-splitting pain as I try to rise from my awkward, corkscrewed position on the couch. I cry out as I stretch, right until I hear a satisfying pop, and the pain immediately dissipates.

I glance at the scene around me, half-amazed. I guess I fell asleep while writing on the couch last night. Which, wow. I haven't done that since college.

I stand slowly (sorely) and try to rearrange the couch cushions—not to the way Gina likes them, but instead to the way I usually have them when I'm reading and writing, not ... whatever this scrambled mess is.

My laptop is open on its side, set on the floor. When I swipe at the trackpad, the screen doesn't turn on, so I'm assuming it died while I was asleep. Which, no biggie. I bring the cold, half-filled cup of coffee and my barely-touched glass of water to the sink. Then I lean against the counter, yawning, trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes.

What to do today?

In my head, I make a list of everything I should do. First off, go down to the bodega and try to see if Ms. An will give me any boxes for free. Otherwise, go bother Ibrahim and Waleed, because they'll definitely give me some of theirs. Sort through all of mine and Gina's things, box up what's mine that I don't need right now, and pack everything into bags that I want to take with me to Kirby and Daniel's. I'm nervous about Gina having all of my things right here, so I search for storage units near me. Luckily, there's one nearby that's only three-hundred-eighty a month. Not exactly the kind of money I want to be spending while I'm trying to save up for my own apartment, but if it means I can get shit out of Gina's way—I really don't want to give her anything more to complain about—I'll do it.

I just want to be done. Done with her. Done with all of this.

I try to figure it out in my head. If I can try and get all of my things into this storage container today, then I can spend all of tomorrow working on Roz's first seventeen chapters. My chest swells. That's right. She's paying me for the weekend, too—six hours of work. It's basically freelancing. With my pay, that pays for about a third of a storage unit. If I assume she pays me for the second half, then it's almost as if I paid for the majority of the storage unit freelancing, meaning I'm really only paying something close to twenty bucks for my unit. Which is not bad.

Wow. I love girl math.

I call the storage unit place first. Luckily for me, it's about a fifteen-minute walk from here. I think we have our old laundry cart somewhere around here, from when we first moved into the apartment. Theoretically, I can make several trips by myself today and tomorrow. The call confirms it: if I show up and pay, I can come anytime between ten a.m. and eleven p.m. to drop things off.

Next, I call Kirby, who doesn't pick up, then Daniel, who says of course I can move in tomorrow evening. Which works perfectly for me. After four different dorms during college and two post-college apartments, I'm kind of a moving out pro. This should be easy peasy.

I don't even bother slipping into fresh clothes before I leave. I walk out in yesterday's teal sweater and black skinny jeans, the ones I've had since high school and absolutely hate but have endured so many years of misuse that I'd almost feel bad getting rid of them. I almost forget my headphones and tote bag, but luckily realize that I can't lock the door behind me without them. Happy little coincidences, I guess.

On the walk there, I listen to my new book's playlist. It's a mix of spunky feminist punk, slow indie pop, and punchy early 2000's alt rock. I don't know why, but it makes me think of my first year in college—perfect vibes for Isabella and her slightly lopsided sapphic love triangle. I keep a brisk pace all the way there, content to breathe in the early morning air, my hands wrapped tight around the strap of my crossbody tote bag. It's early enough that the air is still a little brisk, and the scents of miscellaneous piss, vent fumes, and the garbage piled up in our neighborhood are almost ignorable. I pass by one of those nuts carts and almost stop, before remembering that I'm not living in the realm of truly disposable income quite yet.