Resilience

Four

<Ellie>

"Girl, next time something like this goes down, you better call me," Baylee's voice resonates through the phone. I sigh but let her continue. "You can't just shut me out like this, girl. You're still my best friend." This time, I detect a hint of hurt in her tone.

"That's why I'm calling you now, Bay," I reply calmly. "I know you've got a lot on your plate with finals and graduation next week. Don't get me wrong, it sucks what happened, but Tate and I are safe. It was just stuff. We stayed in a motel last night, and I'll get everything sorted today."

"I just hate being so far away, you know. I stab a skank for you and that little guy, she declares". I let out a much needed laugh, and her laughter follows.

Something about talking to your best friend always makes things better. Baylee and I have been best friends since our days in foster care; we bonded instantly. She was adopted by an uncle shortly before I was sent to live with my mom. Despite our different paths, we've remained close, and she even lived with me and Tate for a year until I convinced her to go back to college. Baylee is fiercely intelligent, and her loyalty knows no bounds when it comes to her loved ones—I'm grateful that we fall into that category.

Our laughing subsides. "Your not alone Ellie, I don't ever want you to feel alone. If you need me I will come right now.' Her voice is determined and serious. I don't doubt for one minute what she is saying.

A tear runs down the side of my face, and wipe it off before it can drip from my chin. "That's why I waited until this morning to call you," I explain. "I knew you'd want to help. But I've got it handled."

"Still sucks." Baylee sighs on the other end of the line. "I hate that you have to handle this all alone." Her voice carries a sense of resignation.

"I know, girl, but you're out there saving lives and whatnot," I joke.

"You greatly overestimate a nursing student's importance. More like wiping snot and butts than saving lives. I'm so ready to be done with tests and teachers and actually make a difference."

"You're almost there. Now, on to more important things, how did date number three with the doctor go?" I inquire, steering the conversation away from me.

Baylee was positively glowing as she excitedly recounted her date with her "hot doctor"—what she wore, their evening together, and their plans to meet again next week. She was thriving and seemed to be getting the very best life had to offer.

"He sounds great, Bay. I'm really happy for you," I said, genuinely pleased.

She playfully asked, "What about you? Any new cute single dads on your radar?"

"Nope, and let's not revisit that topic. Dating and I just don't mix."

My dating history could make "Romeo and Juliet" look like a fairy tale. I didn't have the time or inclination for dating when Tate was young. Plus my mothers lifestyle and "friends' made me wary of men.

A few years ago, when Bay lived with us, I dated Chris, her cousin. He was kind, funny, and great with Tate. We spent the summer together, but as an 18-year-old single mom with a 4-year-old and him being a college junior, the long-distance relationship didn't last. It fell apart after four months, leaving me heartbroken and Bay delivering a nose-breaking punch to Chris.

Last year, I thought I'd give dating another shot by joining an app. I matched with a single dad, and we had one date. It turned out he was Tate's teammate's dad—and very much married. His wife confronted me at a game, calling me a "home-wrecking slut" and throwing her hot dog and drink at me. I'd never quite fit in with the other parents, and it took a year to stop being treated like a pariah at the field. Thankfully, new scandals soon took the spotlight.

"Come on, Ellie, you've got to get back out there," Baylee urged, her voice tinged with frustration.

I was never so grateful to arrive at work. "Sorry, Bay, I can't talk right now. Just got to work." We exchanged a quick goodbye before ending the call.

As I walked inside, my mind drifted to Tate. He's far too serious for his age. Before I dropped him off at school, he insisted on skipping his baseball game to help me with the apartment. Baseball is his sanctuary, one of the few times he truly lets go. I assured him we'd get to the game and sort out the apartment later. Although he hesitated, his worry evident, he eventually went to school.

Anticipating a long chat with Bay, I first called the landlord again, leaving yet another message. Then I reached out to Barb to explain what happened the previous night and request permission to leave work after lunch.

The day flew by, and before I knew it, lunch was over and I was heading to my ransacked apartment. As I approached the building, I saw two men working on the door. I maneuvered around them to see a new keypad entrance and a sturdy, thick door being installed. Tate and I had lived there for four years, and during that time, the old keypad had been broken, allowing anyone on the street to enter. It was all I could afford as an 18-year-old single mom without a high school diploma, and we had relied on an extra lock that Baylee's uncle had installed on our apartment door.

Seeing our usually indifferent landlord quickly investing in new security measures after the break-in gave me a glimmer of hope. It seemed he might have actually received my message and, surprisingly, was willing to make an effort.

Approaching my apartment, I was hit by a wave of dread. The door stood wide open.

I stepped cautiously inside, peering around the door. The lingering scent of bleach mingled with the remnants of fear from the previous night. Despite the tidied appearance—no glass shards on the floor and trash neatly bagged—an unsettling tension hung in the air.

A sudden slam from down the hallway startled me. Grabbing Tate's old baseball bat from behind the door, I advanced carefully. A voice in my head whispered warnings, like those ill-fated characters in suspense films: "Don't go in there... turn around. Why do they always investigate?"

Ignoring the voice, I followed the sound, my heart racing. As I turned into Tate's room, I froze. A figure stood with his back to me, an imposing presence in the space. His short brown hair and a visible tattoo suggested an unexpected tidiness for an intruder. His black pants and neatly rolled-up grey dress shirt seemed oddly formal compared to the chaos of the break-in.

Gripping the bat tightly, I forced myself to speak. "What are you doing in my apartment?" I demanded, trying to sound assertive despite the tremor in my voice.

The man turned slowly, his movements deliberate. As he faced me, his sharp hazel eyes met mine, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before a smirk settled into a composed calm.

"My apologies for the intrusion," he said smoothly. "I'm Xavier. I received your message about the break-in."