“You’ll regret this,” she snapped. “You think you’re so special just because your grandparents gave you a house. One day you’ll be alone in it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But alone is better than surrounded by people who treat me like a maid.”
She stalked down the walkway, heels clicking. Brandon followed, carrying a box labeled “Brandon: Consoles.” Sierra trailed behind, still crying, filming herself.
The deputy watched them go.
“You okay?” she asked me quietly.
I took a breath.
For the first time in a long time, it went all the way down.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I will be.”
Schadenfreude isn’t cute.
But it’s honest.
Tracy and my dad didn’t move to Tampa.
They moved to her sister’s cramped two-bedroom apartment in the next town over.
Her sister lasted about a week before she posted a vague Facebook status about “some people” who move in and expect you to do all the cleaning while they sit on the couch complaining.
I cackled.
Brandon sold part of his gaming setup to cover the deposit on a room in a sketchy shared house near a strip mall. His new roommates don’t appreciate screaming at two in the morning over Fortnite. He got a job at GameStop.