Becky Reese jumped as a door downstairs slammed. Her father was home.
Almost immediately, she heard raised voices. Her parents had started arguing. She could never make out what they were fighting about, but it seemed like almost every day now.
She tucked her dark red hair behind her ears and sighed, trying to concentrate on the tablet computer in front of her. The news was not good. The media company she'd been doing corporate art for the last six months had just declared bankruptcy. That was the last steady paying job she had, gone up in smoke. They wouldn't be paying her for work she'd already done.
She sighed and tapped the email client with her thumb, closing it. She sat back in the confines of her cramped attic room, twirling the table stylus between her thumb and forefinger.
That about summed up this year. At twenty-five, she'd already had to move home with her parents because she couldn't afford a place of her own. Her parents had agreed to let her pay reduced rent and part of the bills, although grudgingly. Her father, in particular, hadn't seemed too eager about it.
They had given her the attic room and mostly left her alone. Becky paid the "rent" on time and helped with what expenses she could. But it was frustrating. Trying to make a living with her art had proven a losing proposition, and what was left over was barely enough to cover her student loans and credit card debt.
All she did was work. It had been months since she'd been on anything like a date - not that she felt much like dating. Guys, with a few exceptions, were mostly idiots, and she didn't have the patience to deal with them even if she'd had an apartment of her own to come back to. Even anonymous sex seemed like too much of a chore to bother with.
The one big advantage to working from home, such as she did, was the attic had plenty of privacy. The only window faced the street, and was too high up to see in from below. To get to her room, one had to go through two doors and a set of stairs. If she wanted to lounge around in her underwear, or even naked, she was free to do so. Plenty of time to grab a robe if she heard someone stomping up the stairs. Her parents preferred to text her anyway, since they were more tech-savvy than most.
Becky was working naked right now, as was her privilege. Though her parents had cleared out much of the attic to make room for her, the attic still carried an array of old antiques and possessions going back generations.
She'd set up an old antique standing mirror at a right angle from her desk. She turned and looked at herself now: five-foot-four, pale, freckled, long red hair. Breasts small but nicely shaped, stomach trim and muscular from morning crunches and intermittent poverty. She wore only a pair of pink slippers to keep her feet warm.
She sighed and stretched, admiring herself, feeling a bit narcissistic, but refusing to feel bad about it. Working naked wasn't just a privilege. It was a necessity in this house, when her parents blasted the heat all winter and refused to turn on the air conditioning in the summer.
Another door slammed downstairs. Becky looked at the framed picture on the old antique desk and sighed. Her, her father, and her mother, all smiling at a trip to New Orleans five years ago. Her dad, stocky and bearded, a pepper-haired mountain of a man, smiling ear-to-ear with an arm around each of them. They'd all been so happy. It seemed like an eternity ago.
Becky swiveled in her chair, lost in thought. As she turned in place, she caught sight of her battered journal, sitting on the nightstand by the bed, the little gel pen she always used resting on top.
The sight made her sigh with melancholy. For the longest time, her journal had been an important part of her daily routine, something that grounded her and kept her happy. She had written in it through good times and bad, and it had helped keep her sane during the more difficult stretches of college.
But lately, she had been making only short, perfunctory entries, or even neglecting the journal entirely. There didn't seem to be much to say beyond chronicling work and sleep. Even her dreams had become drab. There just didn't seem to be much to say.
Becky hadn't made a journal entry in days. She supposed she probably should, to talk about her negative feelings if nothing else - but motivation was thin on the ground.
The truth was, she needed some kind of change - but her employer going bankrupt wasn't what she'd had in mind.
Her stomach rumbled. It was time to venture downstairs for some food. The thought filled her with a cold pang of dread, but there wasn't any way to avoid it. No one would deliver a pizza up here. She'd tried. And she couldn't afford it anyway.
She considered putting on a robe and leaving it at that, but decided at the last minute to pull on sweatpants and a loose-fitting sweater. Her dad already gave her enough grief about living at home. She didn't need a remark about her wardrobe, too.
***
"Becky."
Becky shrieked and stood bolt upright from where she'd been bent over, head buried in the refrigerator. She turned to see her father, Vernon Reese, standing in the kitchen entryway, a steaming mug in his hand. He'd changed from his business attire to a button-up white shirt and slacks. He was so broad-shouldered, he seemed to fill up the entire room, even though he was barely standing in it.
"Shit, Dad! You scared the living piss out of me." How did a man that big move so quietly?
"Don't use vulgar language, Rebecca. Did you drink the last of the milk?"
He asked in a bland, disinterested manner, but Becky still felt a rush of guilt. She'd used the last of the milk for the cereal she'd had for lunch. She'd been in a rush to finish the latest round of infographics for the company she'd been working for - which, apparently, would not be paying her for her time. So glad she'd rushed.
"I did, Dad, I'm sorry. I can go get-"
He drew in a breath, and Becky knew she was in for a speech. Her dad was a quiet, loving man, but he also enjoyed a good lecture when he was miffed.
"Becky, you know I like to have milk in my coffee when I come home from work. Black coffee upsets my stomach. I don't ask much in return for you living here, Becky, but I do ask-"
"Dad, I can go get more milk."
"I do ask that you respect my wishes. If you're going to use all the milk, please replace what you use."
"Dad. I can go. Get. More. Milk."
He raised two bushy eyebrows. "Becky, there's no call to be impertinent. I've said my piece."
She suppressed a sigh of frustration. "Can I borrow the car?"
He shrugged. "Ask your mother."
***
Becky found Marilyn Reese in the study, stuffing envelopes for some new political activism she was into. Becky didn't even ask anymore. Every couple of months her mother would embrace some righteous new cause, only to find a way to abandon it a handful of weeks later.
"Mom?"
Marilyn stopped what she was doing and swiveled in her chair, turning to face her daughter. A smile creased her face. Her mother had just turned a radiant fifty, her own red hair turning gracefully silver, her frame athletic and sleek, like a queen lioness. Marilyn Reese ran daily and had finished a 10K every year for the last twenty years. All the same, Becky thought she looked a little peaked and worn. Like something was getting her down. Maybe all that fighting with Dad.
"Hi, sweetie. What can I do for you?"
"I accidentally drank all the milk, and Dad's kinda pissed. Can I use the car to go to the market and get more?"
