By the time Bloom finally got home from the party, her feet were screaming at her, and the faint smell of champagne still clung to her hair. She kicked off her heels at the door, letting them tumble wherever they wanted. It was past midnight, and the apartment was quiet too quiet.
The silence wasn't peace; it was pressure. The kind that reminded her that the glitter and laughter of the night couldn't follow her here.
She dropped her clutch on the couch and pulled out her phone. Four missed calls from Jay. No voicemails. That was his style never explain, just expect her to show up.
She sighed and hit redial.
He picked up on the second ring, voice low, words fast. "Bloom… I messed up."
Her shoulders tensed. "What kind of messed up are we talking about?"
There was a pause on the line, the kind where you can practically hear someone choosing how much trouble to admit to. "I owe some guys money. Not a lot."
"How much?" she pressed.
"…Seven thousand."
Bloom's stomach dropped. She sat down, gripping the edge of the couch. "Jay, are you insane? Who even lends you that much money?"
"Not a bank." His voice was almost a whisper.
Which meant only one thing. Bad people. Dangerous people. People who didn't send polite reminder letters.
Bloom closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I can't deal with this right now. I've got David in the hospital, bills stacking up"
"I didn't know who else to call," Jay said quickly, and for a second, she heard the younger brother in him. The one who used to trail after her in the grocery store, asking if they could get extra cookies.
But he wasn't that kid anymore. And this wasn't a small mistake she could fix with a lecture and twenty bucks from her tips jar.
"I'll call you tomorrow," she said finally, voice flat. "Don't do anything stupid in the meantime."
She hung up before he could say anything else.
The next morning, Bloom was already at the hospital by 9 a.m. The nurses at the front desk knew her well enough to wave her through without asking for ID. She stopped at the vending machine for a bottle of water before heading up to the third floor.
David's room was dim, the blinds drawn halfway. He was propped up with pillows, flipping through a sports magazine like it could distract him from the fact that his left leg was elevated and wrapped in layers of bandages.
"You look like you didn't sleep," he said the moment she walked in.
Bloom shrugged. "Who has time for that?"
She sat in the chair by his bed, handing him the water. "How's the pain today?"
"Manageable," David said, but his wince told another story.
They talked for a while about the hospital food ("cardboard disguised as chicken"), the nurse who had dropped an entire tray of Jell-O yesterday, the football game David was missing. But it didn't take long for him to notice she was distracted.
"What's going on?" he asked finally.
Bloom hesitated, but lying wasn't her strong suit. "Jay's in trouble again."
David groaned. "How bad?"
"Seven thousand dollars bad. And I think it's the kind of debt that comes with broken kneecaps if you don't pay up."
David let his head fall back against the pillow. "That idiot."
Bloom crossed her arms. "I don't know what to do, David. I can't magic up that kind of money, and I'm already drowning in your hospital bills."
"You shouldn't be the one fixing it," David said, but his voice was tired, not angry. "Jay's an adult. He keeps making these choices because he knows you'll bail him out."
Bloom looked at him, her eyes sharp. "And what's the alternative? Let him get hurt? Let him end up in one of these beds, or worse?"
David didn't answer. And that silence told her they both knew the truth if she didn't step in, Jay's luck would run out.
Later, after David drifted off for a nap, Bloom sat by the window, scrolling through her banking app. The numbers were grim. Between rent, food, and hospital payments, she was already walking a financial tightrope. Seven thousand might as well have been seventy.
She thought about selling things her laptop, her mother's necklace, maybe even the car. But the car was her lifeline to work. And the necklace… she couldn't. Not yet.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Jay.
> Jay: Bloom, they said I have until Friday.
Today was Tuesday. Three days.
Her throat felt tight as she typed back.
> Bloom: I'm working on it. Stay home. Don't answer unknown numbers.
She didn't know if he'd listen.
By the time she left the hospital, the sky had turned heavy and grey. A storm was coming, and it matched her mood perfectly. She took the long way home, walking past the corner store where her dad used to buy them soda when they were kids. Back then, problems were smaller. Money wasn't endless, but it wasn't life-or-death.
She remembered her parents' voices steady, grounding. If they were still here, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe Jay wouldn't have gone looking for quick money. Maybe David wouldn't have been driving that night.
But they weren't here. And she was the one left to hold everything together.
She reached her apartment, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the couch without turning on the lights. In the dark, the city outside felt far away, the party from last night a fading echo.
Her phone lit up with another call. Jay. Again.
She answered, her voice firm. "I told you I'm working on it."
"It's not that," Jay said quickly, and there was fear in his voice now. "Bloom… they came to my place."
Bloom froze. "What do you mean they?"
"The guys I owe. They banged on the door, yelling. I didn't open, but they know where I live."
Bloom's mind raced. "You can't stay there. Pack a bag. Come to me."
Jay hesitated. "You sure?"
"Just do it."
She hung up, already pulling on her jacket.
By midnight, Jay was asleep on her couch, a duffel bag at his feet. Bloom stood in the doorway, watching him. He looked younger when he slept, his face softer, the stress lines gone. For a second, she almost believed this was just like when they were kids, crashing on the couch after watching late-night movies.
But reality was louder than memory. He was in trouble, David was still in the hospital, and Bloom… Bloom was running out of moves.
She closed
the door to her bedroom quietly, sat on her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
The party was over.
The real fight had just begun.