18 ✓

NINETEEN

"So, are we going to get off the couch today?"

Meeting Abby's sympathetic - slightly patronizing - glance, I responded with a quiet, "Maybe," and shrugged my shoulders.

Was I being pathetic by wallowing in my own self-misery? Yes. Did I have a right to be? I thought so. Had I left Abby's apartment since my arrival five days ago? No - and I wasn't planning on doing so any time soon.

Once I got into the car and was driven away from my parent's house, I asked Abby and Jake to take me to my apartment. Thankfully, for once, no one else followed us there, allowing me to move out the rest of my things as quickly as possible. Something had to have possessed my body because I was quite a machine that day. I'm sure if there was a record for moving boxes out of a small apartment, I would have broken it. To my surprise, I was even coherent enough to unpack some things into its own special box; one that was filled with old memories and was to be tossed out by my landlord.

"Dyl, we're going to have to figure out this apartment thing soon."

She was right. I needed to get my shit together. Not only did I need to find my own apartment, but I needed to be able to fund that apartment, which would require a job. Abby had mentioned an opening at her restaurant and was desperate for me to take the position. However, that required me to get off the couch. And that was not something I was willing to do just yet.

As a knock at the front door caught Abby's attention, my eyes focused back on whatever sappy romance movie was playing on the television. At least I had gotten past yelling "liar" every time the main male character said something slightly romantic to the female. That was progress.

The front door swung open, followed by the sound of Abby's voice. "Uh, hello. Who are-"

"Diane Lewis, attorney at law," the familiar voice announced. The sound of heels against the old wooden floors drew closer as I turned my head. "Oh, thank goodness. You're alive." Diane's voice dripped with sarcasm as she stood in front of me. "I would have never guessed since you haven't bothered to pick up your phone or answer any of my emails."

Abby stood behind the woman, her eyes widening as she appeared to be connecting the dots. She mouthed a clear, Fancy Pants, the nickname she had given Diane in my direction.

"I'm sorry, Diane," I mumbled quietly. "Not that I'm unhappy to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"Well, there is a certain painting that I still owe you payment for." Diane rummaged through her bag, pulling out a piece of paper. "When Charlie showed up with his outfit all ruffled up with the painting and cheque still in hand, I knew something was wrong."

"Oh," I nodded in response, not wanting to acknowledge the drama surrounding why Charlie may have gone into work that way. "Wait. How did you find me?"

"Please, dear. You don't get to where I am without having a few PI's on speed dial."

Abby raised a brow. "PI's?"

"Private investigators," Diane said, turning her attention to my friend, "And I'll take a cup of tea. Camomile if you have it."

"Oh I didn't-" Abby pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded her head. "Coming right up."

Diane riffled through her purse as she walked over to where I sat. Pulling out a white handkerchief, she laid it on the couch cushion before sitting down. "So this is where you've been hiding away?" She asked, looking around the space. "It's... charming."

I nodded, slightly amused by her attempt to hide her distaste of the apartment. "Short term. Till I figure some stuff out."

"Now, what is this?"