“You’re pissing me off with the silent treatment. So, by all means, continue on in your one-sided fight. But I’m not leaving you alone until you talk.”

Another round of no response, and I step into the room and flip on the light. That earns a reaction, his glare snapping up. We sit in it, and I just want him to say something. But then he scoffs and refocuses on his phone.

“Chase—”

“Weren’t you fucking leaving?” he spits, not looking up. “I’d say weren’t you going home, but…” He lets a shrug finish for him, knowing the rest already landed.

It’s my fault. I wanted him to talk. I never specified I wanted to like what he said.

I shake my head, turning for the door. “Let me know when you want to apologize for that.”

“Shut the light off.”

“My pleasure,” I reply.

My fingers land on the switch, flipping it down. Then I catch it again on the way up, popping the overhead back on.

He never specified to leave it off.

With that glorious moment of bonding over, I step out on the balcony. I drop my notebook on the table and slouch into the metal chair, guitar coming with me. No one’s complained yet about me playing out here, so I doubt they’ll start tonight.

But it all seems off, and I end up staring at the sky, fingering chords on the fret even though I’m not strumming.

I have a place to live. A dorm room at school in Texas with a Cali-boy surfer for a roommate. I also have places to stay when not at school, Chase’s parents’ one. A home, though? I haven’t had one of those in a long time.

Not in the permanent residence definition or the one you feel in your heart and bones.

Chase simply used my truth as a weapon.

Still stings, though.

I pull out my phone, my other hand never leaving the guitar’s neck while I check for this month’s deposit. The money sits in my account, pulsing and festering. It’s an infection I keep contained because cutting it out would only negatively impact the other parts of my life. I’m using the money to get where I need to be as fast as possible. A calculated way to set myself up so nothing will stop me from being on a stage, playing my songs and singing my words.

The second that path clears, I’m going to blow up his entire life.

For kicks, I read his bullshit memo: Invoice 1229. I blink at it a few times before I laugh. Un-fucking-real. The motherfucker used my mom’s birthday.