Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,16
Spanish moss. No pastels here or cheerful blooms—just peeling white paint and a creaky staircase leading to her one-room apartment.
The light above the door was out still, big surprise. She’d mentioned it to Frank, but he’d ignored her, of course.
“Freaking cheapskate,” she muttered, digging through her backpack in the dark. She found her key, and it took her two fumbling tries before she got it in and unlocked the door. A slip of paper fluttered to her feet, and she grabbed it before the breeze could snatch it away. It was a message from Frank, no doubt, and she cursed him again for tromping all the way up here without bothering to bring a lightbulb. She tucked the message into her jeans pocket for later and stepped inside.
Her apartment was an oven. She flipped on the light and the ceiling fan and eyed the silent AC unit that had sputtered its last breath during her first month here. Under any sane lease agreement, the landlord would have been required to repair the damn thing by now, given the triple-digit heat enveloping the city. But Tabitha didn’t have a lease agreement, only a spoken promise of discounted rent in exchange for work.
Tabitha closed the door and flipped the latch. She sniffed the air for any hint of tobacco that would indicate Frank had been in her place while she was out, but it smelled only of mildew. With a sigh, she kicked off her sandals and dropped her backpack on the futon. The back of her tank top was damp with sweat, and she stripped down to her bra as she crossed the room to open the window. The pane stuck, but she jerked it up a few inches and used the can of tomato soup on the windowsill to prop it open. A faint whisper of air drifted through the screen.
She returned to her backpack and retrieved the roll of cash from the inner pocket. Eighteen dollars. Pathetic. She opened the narrow closet and shoved the hangers aside to access the green peacoat she hadn’t worn in well over a year. Carefully, she pulled open the Velcro seam in the lining and slipped her hand inside the hidden pocket to pull out a thin stack of bills held together with a binder clip. She counted the money, added her tips, and replaced the stash.
Tabitha flopped onto the futon and stared at the ceiling. The fan turned listlessly, barely stirring the air. For a minute she just lay there, listening to the cicadas outside as a bead of sweat slid down her temple and into her ear.
She tugged the folded paper from her pocket. As suspected, it was a page from one of the freebie notepads in each of the bungalows. Sunset Oaks Bed & Breakfast was printed in formal script above Frank’s jerky scrawl: #201 202 203 #101 LATE checkout!!
“Shit,” she hissed.
Four units. And 101 included the garden, which entailed sweeping the patio and picking cigarette butts out of the planters. Late checkout meant she’d be doing everything after noon in the suffocating heat, too. She felt sticky just thinking about it. And she had to be at the restaurant by four.
Eighteen dollars tonight. It was pitiful for a five-hour shift. Between both jobs, she’d put in sixty hours this week.
Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, sixty hours had seemed like a tough workweek. But that was a lifetime ago. That was back before she had any real appreciation for her salaried job or her 401(k) plan or her air-conditioned office, which she’d once lamented not having a window, for crying out loud. Her routine back then had included venti lattes and sushi lunches and occasional happy hours with fruity drinks served in delicate martini glasses.
Tabitha’s chest tightened. She closed her eyes against the hot burn of tears. She couldn’t give in to nostalgia. Or despair. She had to be practical.
Never look back. Never, never, never.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in six hours. She dug into her backpack again for the brown to-go box. The hamburger and fries were cold, and she got up and popped the box into the microwave of her apartment’s tiny kitchen. Then she opened the mini fridge. The only contents were a blueberry yogurt and a half-finished bottle of chardonnay that had been left in 102 last week. She didn’t even like chardonnay, but she pulled out the bottle and poured a few glugs into a plastic cup.
She