ARIA
A month.
That's how long it had been since the funeral.
Thirty days since I'd stood in that cold cemetery pretending to be made of stone while the last person who loved me unconditionally disappeared into the ground.
Grief, it turned out, was a slow strangling, not a storm. It didn't hit all at once it just sat on your chest, pressing down a little harder every morning until breathing felt like work.
But life didn't stop just because I was breaking. The rent still came. The bills still showed up like uninvited guests. The world didn't care that I'd lost my dad it just handed me another shift.
And so, every weekday at exactly 7:30 a.m., I tied my apron, put on my best fake smile, and poured Dalton Gray his double espresso.
The man was like clockwork flawless, unreadable, and infuriatingly polite ever since that day at my house. No lectures, no pity, no comments about my life. Just a curt nod, a "thank you," and a twenty-dollar tip that made me want to throw it back in his face.
I didn't. I needed groceries. Pride didn't pay for bread.
We kept this bizarre routine me pretending he was just another customer, him pretending not to watch me every time I walked past his table. It was almost peaceful in its weirdness. Predictable. Manageable.
Then the notice came.
The paper was taped crookedly to the door when I came home one Wednesday evening, exhausted and running purely on caffeine fumes. I peeled it off, scanning the bold letters like they were written in another language.
NOTICE OF SALE AND VACATION REQUIREMENT
All tenants are required to vacate the premises within fourteen (14) days due to upcoming property transfer.
For a second, I just stood there. Staring. Waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something sane.
They didn't.
Fourteen days. Two weeks.
"Perfect," I muttered to the empty room. "Just what I needed. Homelessness."
Lucifer the neighbor's demon cat I still occasionally babysat for Mrs Evans watched me through the window like he was personally judging my life choices. I flipped him off. "Don't look at me like that. You'd be evicted too, Satan's intern."
I dropped the notice on the kitchen table, where it joined the growing collection of bad news: unpaid water bill, unpaid electric bill, an old hospital invoice I hadn't had the nerve to open.
Mrs. Evans knocked a few minutes later, her frail frame framed by the doorway.
"You saw the notice?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound casual. "Guess I'll be looking for a new place."
She smiled apologetically. "I'm moving in with my daughter next week. She's been asking me for months, so I suppose this is God's way of pushing me."
I forced a smile. "That's great, Mrs. Evans. You'll get to see your grandkids more."
Her eyes flicked over my shoulder, into the dim apartment. "You'll find something, dear. You're strong."
I nodded, because lying was easier than breaking. "Yeah. I'll be fine."
The next morning, The Grind was slammed. The espresso machine hissed like a dragon, customers yelled orders over the music, and for once, I was grateful for chaos. Busy meant no thinking.
Lena and Ben were tag-teaming the counter when I dropped the bomb between rushes.
"They're selling the building," I said flatly while refilling the pastry case. "We have to be out in two weeks."
Lena gasped. "What? You can't be serious."
"Dead serious," I said. "Mrs. Evans is moving in with her daughter. I'm just… figuring it out."
Ben leaned an elbow on the counter. "You can crash at my place for a few nights if you need to. Couch isn't comfy, but it's free."
I smiled, genuinely touched but shaking my head. "Thanks, Ben. But I'll manage. I just need to find a small studio. Something cheap."
"Cheap in this city?" Lena scoffed. "Unless you're okay with a rat roommate named Carl, good luck."
I laughed weakly. "Carl sounds friendly enough."
They exchanged looks, the kind that made you want to disappear. Pity looked good on no one.
I didn't realize Dalton was at the counter until he cleared his throat.
Of course. Perfect timing, as always.
He looked between the three of us, his expression unreadable. "The usual," he said, voice clipped.
I poured it silently, pretending my hands weren't shaking. He waited, took his cup, and dropped the cash on the counter without comment.
But his gaze lingered. Just for a second. Like he'd heard everything.
I ignored it. Or tried to.
By Friday, I'd seen six apartments and hated all of them.
The first one smelled like dead mice and broken dreams.
The second had "shared bathroom" written in the listing, and the landlord had the audacity to mean with another family.
The third was affordable but located in a neighborhood where even the streetlights had given up.
I came home every night more exhausted and less hopeful. My savings were laughable, my insulin supply was running low, and I was starting to feel that familiar fog in my head the one that came before my blood sugar nosedived.
Still, I pushed through. I always pushed through.
Saturday morning, Marcus showed up like he always did carrying enough takeout to feed an army.
"Good morning, Miss Davis," he greeted cheerfully. "Boss insisted you eat something decent this weekend."
I shot him a tired look. "He does realize that's borderline harassment, right?"
Marcus chuckled. "You can call it what you want. I just deliver."
"You enjoy this too much," I muttered, taking the bag. "What's in here?"
"Grilled chicken, vegetables, and some kind of overpriced dessert I can't pronounce. Also water bottles because apparently you can't be trusted to stay hydrated."
I rolled my eyes but smiled despite myself. "Tell your boss I'm not a child."
He raised an eyebrow. "Should I also tell him you look like you haven't slept since 2003?"
"Don't push it, Marcus."
He grinned and tipped an imaginary hat. "Enjoy your food, Miss Davis. And for what it's worth, I hope you find a place soon."
"Me too," I said quietly, watching him leave.
That night, I sat at my kitchen table surrounded by flyers and half-eaten dinner, scrolling through endless apartment listings. Each one worse than the last.
Deposit: Two months upfront.
Utilities not included.
No pets, no smokers
your income must be three times your rent
what next ? No broke baristas with chronic medical conditions allowed? Fuck them.
I shut my laptop and dropped my head onto my folded arms.
"Two weeks," I whispered to the ceiling. "Two weeks to figure out how to rebuild a life I can barely afford."
For a brief, stupid second, Dalton's voice floated through my mind.
You're coming with me.
I snorted out a laugh that turned into something like a sigh. "Yeah right. Over my dead body, Gray."
But the thought wouldn't leave.
Not because I wanted to accept his offer but because deep down, some twisted part of me knew he'd keep insisting.
He was that kind of man.
Relentless. Cold. Unshakable.
And I was running out of options.
I pushed up from the table, grabbed my notepad, and started a list:
1. Check local classifieds tomorrow.
2. Ask Mel if she knows anyone renting.
3. Visit that old complex near Elm Street again maybe negotiate rent it was okay.
4. Don't panic.
The last one was underlined twice.
I tacked the list onto the fridge like it was a battle plan. Then I stared at it for a long time, my reflection faint in the metal door eyes tired, shoulders tense, but still standing.
I might be broke, grieving, and one late notice away from disaster but I wasn't giving up.
Not yet.
I was going to find a place.
I was going to make it work.
Even if I had to drag myself there one piece at a time.