desertion

134

LYDIA

The clock on my car dashboard read 11:39 PM as I pulled into the driveway, headlights illuminating the familiar curve of our front porch. My hands ached from rolling dough and flipping pizzas, and my feet protested every step as I made my way up the front steps. I twisted the key in the lock, slipping inside quietly. The house was dimly lit, the soft glow of the kitchen light the only thing illuminating the stillness of the night.

I was halfway to the kitchen when I heard my dad's voice from the couch. "Where've you been?"

I startled, glancing toward him. He was sitting there, still dressed in his work clothes, his face tired but warm with concern.

"Work," I said, setting my keys on the table by the door. "I just got home."

He nodded slowly, his eyes scanning me as if checking for signs of exhaustion. "Long shift?"

"Yeah," I admitted, giving him a small, tired smile. "But I survived."

"Good," he said, standing up and stretching. "I've got an early shift tomorrow, so I'm heading to bed."

Before I could respond, he stepped closer, pressing a quick kiss to the top of my head. "Don't stay up too late, okay?"

"I won't," I promised, though we both knew I probably would.

He disappeared down the hall, and the house was quiet again. I headed to the kitchen, dropping my backpack onto one of the dining chairs. The fridge hummed softly as I opened it, scanning for something to eat. My stomach growled at the sight of leftover chicken alfredo, so I grabbed the container and popped it in the microwave.

Leaning against the counter, I scrolled through my phone as the microwave whirred. Miles had sent a text: Survive the shift?

Barely, I replied.

The microwave beeped, and I grabbed the food, settling down at the table. The first bite was heaven, the creamy sauce and tender chicken exactly what I needed after a long day. I kept scrolling as I ate, pausing to like a picture Delilah had posted of the pizzeria crew. The caption read: Late shift survivors.

I laughed quietly, shaking my head.

Once I finished, I rinsed my plate and set it in the dishwasher before grabbing my backpack and heading to my room. The mess greeted me like an old friend-clothes draped over my chair, notebooks scattered across my desk. I shoved some things aside, making room for my laptop, and sat down with a sigh.

I opened my budgeting spreadsheet, the numbers glaring back at me. College tuition, books, housing-it all added up so fast. I typed in a few more expenses, watching the balance shrink.

"This is fine," I muttered to myself, even though my chest felt tight. Dad had been saving for years, I'd been working every weekend, when I had first gotten a job, but it still didn't feel like enough.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. It wasn't like I hadn't dealt with stress before. I always figured it out. But lately, it felt like the weight was pressing down harder, and I didn't know how much more I could carry.

Taking a deep breath, I shook the thought away. I always made it work. I always would.

********

I closed the laptop after about an hour and climbed into bed, too tired to care about the clothes still piled on my chair. The silence of the house was comforting, a reminder that, for now, everything was okay.

As I pulled the blanket over me, my phone buzzed with another text from Miles.

Goodnight. Dream about pizza or something.

I laughed softly, typing back: Goodnight. Dream about me kicking your butt at work tomorrow.

His reply came quickly: In your dreams.

Smiling to myself, I set the phone down and closed my eyes. It had been a long day, but it was over. Tomorrow would come, and I'd face it, just like I always did.