Into My Arms - Lia Riley Page 0,3

no way I can sit on this semen sofa again. Time to find yet another living situation.

Fanfuckingtastic.

I toss my grocery bag on the counter with a muffled groan. This is already my third apartment in six months. In my first place, my roommate drank too much, which wasn’t optimal, but it wasn’t sufficient grounds for moving out. But then came the night she stumbled into my bedroom and peed in my closet, right on my trusty four-inch Christian Louboutin peep toes, remnants from my past life.

Goodbye, Number One.

Then I moved in with Roommate Number Two, a Stanford MFA who mocked the “raging misogynistic mediocrity” of my romance novel collection. Still, I rolled with her pretentious punches, grateful she spent most evenings handwriting her novel-in-verse at a Wi-Fi-free teahouse on University Avenue. But then she started “borrowing” my clothes. First a shirt here and there, then my favorite underwear went AWOL, and finally, my vibrator disappeared. When confronted, she called me a “battery-operated bourgeoisie bitch,” and it was time to peace out.

My dream is to live alone in a quiet, peaceful studio that’s decorated to my liking. No drunkies mistaking my closet for the toilet. No poetry student designating my vibrator as communal property. No open lube in the living room unless it’s at a time of my choosing.

Unfortunately, when your credit score is under 400, that dream is impossible to fulfill. It’s sort of ironic to be broke as a joke while working for Zavtra Tech, one of the most profitable start-ups in the nation.

I glare at the groceries. Hopefully a few multivitamins remain in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Is there a Guinness Book of World Records award for how long a girl can subsist on ramen noodles? Despite my financial belt-tightening, I splurged on two bars of artisanal chocolate. I’ve been eating dessert first for years. It started as a way to quietly support my best friend, Pippa. She used to obsess over every morsel that went into her mouth. It wasn’t anything we ever discussed. I meant to bring it up, especially once her size 2 pants required a belt, but wasn’t sure how to initiate the conversation without shutting her down.

Then she died and no one could say anything to her ever again.

Afterward, I made a promise. Never again would I body-shame myself. I said no to ever making idle self-loathing comments about my ass or lack of thigh gap. I strive to be healthy but like hell will I ever weigh myself. We women already have enough stacked against us not to base our self-worth off random numbers on the scale. We deserve all the damn chocolate.

I place two lemons from the tree in front of the apartment complex in the empty fruit bowl. Yep, I’m an ornamental lemon thief. Fingers crossed they keep scurvy at bay.

Silicon Valley used to be full of orchards before it turned into a concrete jungle, and plenty of orange trees still grow in front yards. Maybe I could cruise nearby residential neighborhoods and scavenge? Except I have barely enough gas to make it to work, my check engine light is on, my bank account has more cents than dollars, and payday isn’t for another week. My salary is better than decent, enough to keep debt collector wolves at bay, but there’s not much left over every month.

Hey, thanks for screwing me over, Mom and Dad.

How do I let them off the hook for opening credit cards and running up $100,000 in debt under my name? Yes, there was a global financial crisis. Yes, times got tight and their business almost went under. But I was their only kid, who had just survived a car accident that killed my best friend.

I’m the girl who used to shop at Anthropologie every weekend, spent summers at horse camp, and had a fridge stocked with whatever I wanted. But those halcyon days are long gone. My parents chose to protect their boutique winery over me, something that can’t be forgotten or forgiven. I met Mom’s last teary phone call with a threat to file a police report against her and Dad for identity theft. There hasn’t been a peep since.

The kitchen floor creaks before ice-cold glass presses against my neck. “What the hell?” I yelp, spinning around.

My latest roommate, Courtland of the Clan K-Y, grins down at me, gripping an unopened beer bottle. “You need to relax, honey.” He pushes up his black-framed glasses. Each of his ribs are visible because he’s not wearing