Her jaw droppingly cheap, rent-controlled lease.

It was a split-second reaction, but before I knew it, I was telling him that actually, my beloved aunt had just set sail on the cruise of a lifetime, and would be gone the next few months. While I, her dutiful niece, was taking care of the place for her.

I know, I know. Bad Callie. But can you really blame me? I was living in a shoebox in Bushwick with only a fake partition wall keeping me from my roommate’s enthusiastic nightly threesomes.

And that girl had stamina.

Besides, it was kind of true. Celia was on the adventure of a lifetime… just not this lifetime.

I thought someone would figure it out soon enough, but until then, I’d enjoy the comfort of a large one-bedroom with a soaking tub and additional study nook. Except… They still haven’t busted me yet. I extended Aunt Celia’s cruise, and then threw in a trip to Europe, and South America, and back to Italy for more pasta and gelato. And if my neighbors noticed something hinky, well, they’ve never said a word. After all, I helped Mrs. Danbury paint her foyer, and watched the Kowalski kids during a snowstorm, and help Madam Joliet down the hall with her makeup when she has a hot date for bingo night.

And it’s not like I’m not paying more than rent for my little white lie…

As I unlock my door, a high-pitched shriek greets me the second I walk inside. “Who’s a crusty old whore?”

And there’s the real price of my comfort: Perched in a golden cage, a parrot cocks his head, pinning me with one beady black eye. “Hideous busybody,” he blurts with a loud squawk. “Shame! Shame!”

“Yeah yeah,” I sigh. “Hello to you, too.”

Besides the antique wooden pieces and pinstriped loveseats in cream and gray and the rest of Aunt Celia’s tasteful if slightly stuffy furnishings, I’ve inherited her blue and gold Macaw parrot, Marlon Brando. His verbal repertoire runs the gamut from inappropriate yet amusing to, quick, run and grab the brain bleach awful. Unsurprising, given my aunt’s tendency toward casual narcissism and, uh, sexually controversial comments.

I’ve seriously considered rehoming Brando, but I can never bring myself to pull the trigger. Since I lucked out with the apartment, it’s only fair that I care for everything I found in it.

Even if one of those items is a bitchy, feathered troll masquerading as a pet.

After making sure Brando has bird seed and fresh water, I check my voicemail.

“Hi Callie, it’s Mom,”—she says this every time, like she’s convinced my move to New York means I’m going to forget her voice—“Just wanted to call and remind you that Hannah’s birthday party is coming up in three weeks, so make sure it’s on your calendar.”

Hannah is one of seven nieces and nephews which are spread out between my three older sisters. Though sometimes I swear that number is closer to twenty-seven because every time I turn around, there’s another birthday to celebrate. Or maybe it just feels that way because my mom is constantly reminding me.