There was this book I read once that said the key to having a good day was all about your frame of mind. That if you started your mornings off with positive thoughts, like really honed in on the things that made you happy, in return, it would set the tone for your entire day. It had nothing to do with luck or anything like that, but that good things would happen, literally, because you wanted them to. That was it.

So, I gave this positive mindset thing a shot, and it was going good too — right until the moment I was drop kicked in the middle of my forehead by the sunlight that had slithered into my blinds. And then, to add insult to injury, the loud sounds of trucks and police sirens made their debut; clearly conspirators in some kind of cosmic plan to ruin my day before it even started.

You would think, though, that as long as I had been lying here awake, I would’ve known better than to think that this day would be any different than all the others.

Nothing to do with luck my ass.

My arm slid from underneath my pillow and dropped a few inches to the floor, landing directly on top of my phone. I lifted it to eye level, parting them just enough to see the time. They flung wide open, though, once they spotted a text that must’ve come through the one time I managed to doze off.

The number was one I didn’t recognize, but the lies and desperation oozing from the message were typical of a sender that had been more than successful at dodging my blocked list.

I swiped the message away and toggled to the Simstagram app, bringing up his profile. The newest entry was just like the last—a photo of him posed on a car he didn’t own with money he didn’t have—and that stupid grin on his face, purposely constructed to show off the gold plated grill I helped him pay for, did nothing to demonstrate the broken heart he so poetically described in his text.

I hate him.

I tossed my phone to the side and used the last drop of energy I had to push myself off the mattress and over to the kitchen. It was hard but if I could just get at least one cup of coffee in me, I would be functional enough to make it to work where I could re-up and be good for another couple of hours.

When I finally made it across the room though and was greeted by the empty container that once held the goods I so desperately needed, I was once again reminded of the bad luck that always seems to plague me.

Fuck.

I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised, though, I mean, I had been hitting the caffeine a little harder than usual since I got here, but that’s not important right now. Okay. New plan. If I hop in the shower now, I could grab a cup from Starbucks or something and still make it to work on time— Well, sort of on time, but then again… with only seventeen dollars to my name and a gas tank nearly on E, I probably shouldn’t.

Ugh…

Oh, wait! There’s another option!

I slipped on my flip-flops and with a sudden burst of optimistic energy, scurried out the door, across the hall to my neighbor, Jesminder’s apartment. After a few knocks, she opened and invited me in, as she always did.

“Hey girl.” She stood across from me with her hands on her hips, examining me like she always did. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to work right now?”

“I am… but… I’m out of coffee so I was wondering—”

“You know I got you.” She threw her hand up and made her way into the kitchen.

Okay, I guess my luck wasn’t all bad. I did have new friends that were actually good to me; always looking out for me and stuff. I was still getting used to that.

She reached into the cabinet above the stove and grabbed a few packets of coffee, sugar, and other ‘hot beverage’ things. “You get any sleep last night?” She handed me the small care package.

“A few hours… Maybe 3.” I rubbed my face as if it would wipe away the exhaustion that was clearly more apparent than I realized. “Is it obvious?”

“Mhm hmm.” She nodded. “So how much of the time that you weren’t sleeping, did you spend simsta-stalking your ex?”

How did she even— And what does she mean stalking? I am not stalking him. Ain’t nobody stalking nobody.

He’s dead to me.

DEAD.

Before I could defend myself with an excuse I hadn’t even thought of yet, her daughter, Kaelyn, came speeding around the corner, screaming my name, well, a two-year-old’s version of my name.

“Tami-luh!” She wrapped her arms around my legs, squeezing me as tight as she could.

I sat the coffee goods on the table and picked her up, using her little body to shield me from the lecture I knew her mom had waiting for me.

Saved by the baby.

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