Page 222 of What We Brave
Well there it is. The thing nobody's talking about. The big hairy worm in the cereal bowl.
"I live here," I say. Yeah. I don't believe me either.
Jamila just looks at me.
"Ipay renthere."
"That's not what I asked."
I take a long, slow sip of wine. "I'm here twice a week. Sometimes. To grab mail and?—"
"Check that it still exists?"
"...Yeah."
"That's not living here. That's visiting a storage unit."
"It's not a?—"
"How many nights have you slept here in the last month?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Actually count.
"Two," I say. "Maybe three."
"In a month."
"It's been busy."
"It's been busy." She repeats it. Flat. Not buying it.
"Mila—"
"Where do you sleep the other twenty-seven nights?"
I don't answer. She knows where.
"Okay." She leans against the counter. Crosses her arms. Not aggressive — thoughtful. "So you're paying rent on an apartment you sleep in three times a month, with expired chips and a dead plant?—"
"The plant was alive when I?—"
"—and you're spending every other night at a house with two men who love you, and you're telling me this apartment is... what? What is this place, Laine?"
The wine glass is empty. When did that happen?
"It's my apartment."
"That's a fact. Not an answer."
God, she's relentless. "It's my space. My?—"
"Your backup plan."
The words hit the center of my chest.
"It's not?—"
"It's your exit strategy." Jamila's voice is gentle, but her eyes aren't letting me go. "It's the thing you keep so that if it all falls apart, you have somewhere to land. So you never have to be the woman with nowhere to go."
