🤍 Jessica's POV 🤍
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"Thirteen hundred, fourteen hundred, fifteen hundred..." I count through the crumpled hundred-dollar bills in my hand, almost coming to tears.
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Twenty-one thousand dollars. I turn to my roommate and best friend, Rachel. "Rach... you don't have to do this."
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"Here we go again. Save it, Jess. You need help, I gave it. End of story. You know I'm more than happy to help," she replies, not looking up from her phone.
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"You're the best. I don't know what I would have done without you. I promise to pay every dime back." I shoot her a grateful smile.
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Finally, she meets my gaze. "It's a gift. You haven't gotten a job, and the strip club is doing really well. Why wouldn't I help? You'd do the same for me."
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For a heartbeat, silence hangs between us—then I surge forward, wrapping her in a hug so fierce it knocks her phone to the floor.
She laughs, a warm, familiar sound, and squeezes back.
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Rachel and I go way back. We trace our friendship to a cluttered library table, sophomore year at Berea College, bonded by chaos, cheap stationery, and mutual blackmail.
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We mistakenly took each other's diaries in the library, and the rest is history.
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Hard to believe, right? I'll explain. Two sleep-deprived losers, hollow-eyed from cramming for midterms, hunched over identical five-dollar diaries from the campus bookstore.
Basically, we had the same cheap-ass diary, and for some reason, thought it was sensible to bring it out while studying that afternoon.
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Fucking knuckleheads.
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We'd both scribbled our darkest secrets in those flimsy, faux-leather notebooks—hers in reckless cursive, mine in anxious print—too fried to notice we'd grabbed the wrong ones until we'd already dragged our big backs to our dorms.
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Oh well. I got home and shamelessly read it all. I didn't want to, but dang! Its contents were better than porn.
No kidding. Rachel is the wildest girl I've ever met. And in my defense, she read mine as well. And no matter how boring it was, a reading still takes place. No?
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Anyways, the next morning, we shamelessly met at that same library table, and I remember Rachel's first words—of course, she was the first to speak. "Don't even lie about not reading my diary! Your eyes tell it all."
I laughed genuinely for the first time that week and proposed a crazy idea.
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Since we now literally know each other's secrets, we decide to be friends and swear to carry them to the grave.
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A pact sealed in cringe and convenience.
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We've been inseparable since then, and years later, we're roommates, crammed into a mini shoebox apartment with my younger brother, Ken, trying to make ends meet.
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Speaking of my brother, I give Rachel a quick kiss on the cheek and go to his little mancave to find him.
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Typical. He is blasting NBA YoungBoy on the stupid speakers.
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I know it's NBA YoungBoy because that's all he blasts on those stupid speakers at skull-rattling decibels.
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I fling his door open for the hundredth time that day, and as usual, I'm hit with the torrid smell of Black Axe body spray and 10-day-worn boxers.
And there the little rascal is, sprawled on the mattress like a squirt of ketchup on the table, singing off-tune.
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I rub my temple, counting to three in a bid to calm myself.
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It doesn't fucking work.
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"Turn that shit off before I smack your two front teeth down your throat!"
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Whoa. I can't believe my voice was louder than the music. Mariah Carey was found shaking in her Christmas fit.
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Ken rolls his eyes at me before getting up and reaching for the remote.
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The silence hits like divine intervention, and my left eye visibly twitches at the bliss. All of a sudden, the world seems to be working fine again.
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Rachel is worried, though.
"Um... Is Ken still breathing?" Her voice comes from the living room.
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"Sadly, yes," I reply with a dry tone.
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"Can a guy get some privacy around here?" Ken asks, looking at me like I've cut off his air supply.
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"Can we not have our eardrums perforated?" I shoot back.
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"What do you want, Jess?"
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I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Rent's due. Your turn to bleed cash."
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He flops onto his bed, sending a tsunami of dirty socks and energy drink cans to the floor. "Seriously? Now? I'm in the middle of a vibe."
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"Your 'vibe' costs just $600 this month, thanks to Rach for covering half of yours" I fire back, gesturing to the house.
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"Oh, she did?" He smiles, surprised. "Thanks, Rach!"
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"Pay up."
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He groans, dragging a hand down his face.
"Jeez. Calm down, Jess. I'm short, okay? Just take it from my bakery salary this month."
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"Ah, yes," I snort. "Let's bankrupt the one business we've successfully been able to grow and manage. Brilliant plan, Einstein."
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"Then what do you want? My kidney? My soul?" He fakes a cry.
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"Hmm... Tempting, but kidneys are harder to sell on Craigslist. Let's stick to tradition." I pull out my phone, already scrolling.
"Let's see, last month it was your vintage Xbox. Month before, your 'limited edition' skateboard—which, spoiler, wasn't limited. You need to sue. What will it be this time? The signed Kobe jersey? The guitar you still can't play?"
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His mouth opens in astonishment, and his face twists like I've just found him guilty. "You're a tyrant!"
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"And you're a parasite with a Spotify addiction. Choose before I choose for you."
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With conflicting eyes, he glares at his closet, a shrine to impulse buys and buyer's remorse. "Dammit. Take the jersey."
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"Good choice."
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I'm halfway past the door when I think of something and smirk before turning back to him. "How much for the speakers?"
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He whips around fast and looks at me with death in his eyes. Then up he gets, slamming the door in my face.
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I burst out laughing before adding kerosene to the fire. "You know, with the rate at which you default on rent, you'll eventually have to forfeit them. I'm very patient."
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I continue on my journey out, but not before I hear a muffled thud on his door, likely from his already deflated pillow colliding with it.
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Do I like taking away his stuff? Heck no. But someone's gotta teach him the universe won't coddle him like I did. I've babied him so much in the past because we lost our parents at such young ages, and I didn't want him to lack that love. But at some point, a man's gotta learn responsibility and know that there are consequences for every action.
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I walk back to my desk and reboot my laptop. It wheezes to life, its fan screeching like a tortured gerbil. I click into my inbox, bracing for the usual sermons of rejections.
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'We've moved forward with other candidates...'
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'Unfortunately, your experience doesn't align...'
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'Thank you for your interest. Blah, blah, blah'
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Which, by the way, is corporate language for 'lol. Never, bitch.'
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I sigh. Not in disappointment, because I'm used to it, and I've built an immunity to that particular sting. It's more... um...exhausted defiance with a sprinkle of impotent hurt.
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Like each no is a brick I'll eventually hurl through the window of every HR motherfucker who underestimated me. Yeah.
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