I breathe in the sea- and fish-laced air and sit down on a bench facing the fog-drenched bay. Pulling my phone from my briefcase, I squint at the dead screen. I take it apart, messing with the battery, putting it back together. Nothing works.

I give up. What does it matter? Who am I going to call? My parents? Ha!

They are the last people I want to explain my most recent failure to. I slump down in the bench, rubbing my head.

I don’t know how long I sit there, surrounded by thick mist, tourists, and locals running along the piers. I sit there until the chilly wind from the bay seeps in, my hands go numb, and my feet are freezing in my sensible low heels.

Eventually I pick myself up and trudge back to the train that will take me across the bay into Emeryville.

Walking home, I stop in the shopping center near my apartment for Thai takeout and a bottle of wine. Might as well spend money I don’t have on comfort food and booze.

It’s dark by the time I get home. Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone in my building. And there’s no rap thumping through the walls, so that’s something.

I open my door and step on a small square of paper that someone must have shoved under the door.

I set my briefcase and the bag of food on the counter.

You must be at work. I tried to call but your phone keeps going to voicemail. Call me?

-Eloise

My sister. My sister the actress, who’s already had a successful series on Netflix even though she’s two years younger than me, and she has some fancy director boyfriend she met on set and they’re both in love and beautiful. Oh, and she’s taking a break from acting because she got accepted to Stanford.

So glad I didn’t come home early and run into her on accident.

I crumple up her note and throw it in the trash.

Grabbing a fork, I open the takeout container and shovel in a forkful of yellow curry, but my stomach revolts.

I can’t eat yet. I put the food in the fridge and then stare at the wine bottle for a second. The top is a screw off.

Going into the living room, I sit on the edge of the couch. Twisting the cap off the wine, I take a swig directly from the bottle. Then another. And another.

Deep breath. I screw the lid back on and hold it against my chest before flopping backward onto the couch.

I gaze up at my ceiling.

The couch is old and used and a spring digs into my butt. But it’s all I could afford.

I sit up to drink more before plopping back again.