The Fragile Line: Part One (The Fine Line #2) by Alicia Kobishop Page A

some sleep.  God, I just wanted to sleep. 
    I tried again, to close my eyes, but the thoughts behind them kept poking at me.  Tormenting me.  Forcing my lids back open.  Finally, I grabbed my tablet, got out of bed, and walked to the main living area of my apartment. 
    The place was little, but all I really needed.  The kitchen consisted of a tiny, enclosed space, so small that if I extended both arms, I could touch the cabinets on both sides.  A barely-there dining area outside of the kitchen shared space with the living room. 
    The décor consisted of mismatched furniture, mostly from what I had obtained at Goodwill and other thrift stores.  Leaving home and moving across town right after high school graduation three years ago had gotten me away from a situation that had thoroughly devastated me, and I had no regrets about it, but I’d be lying if I said paying the bills every month was easy. 
    Waitressing—the only job I had ever known—had its ups and downs.  I loved the flexible schedule that it allowed but hated the inconsistent paychecks.  I started at Ricci’s in high school, and after everything went down with Ryan, I jumped at the opportunity to get away from it all when I saw a “For Rent” sign at the apartment building behind the restaurant. 
    Soon after moving in, though, I realized that Ricci’s wasn’t going to cut it for making rent and bill payments every month, so I got a job at Luciano’s, a more upscale, downtown Italian restaurant.  That’s where I’ve worked ever since.
    I peeked into the kitchen space and briefly considered tackling the mountain of dishes in the sink before quickly deciding against it.  Dishes are my nemesis.  They are best avoided.  Especially now that my dishwasher was broken. 
    Instead, I took my tablet to the couch and browsed YouTube, finally landing on The Tonight Show page.  Jimmy Fallon always had a way of taking my mind away from reality.  After several Hashtag clips, Thank You Note clips, Lip Sync clips, and interviews with famous people, my apartment buzzer finally sounded, startling me from my mindless YouTube escape zone.
    I set my tablet on the coffee table, and my nerves instantly took hold.  What was I going to say to him?  What if he asks why I wanted him to come over?   I don’t even have an answer for that.  My feet dropped to the soft carpeting, and I sighed.  No matter what, there was no way today could get any worse, so I had nothing to lose.  I went to the door and pressed the intercom button. “Come on up.”
    He knocked on my door a few moments later.  I unfastened the chain lock and opened it.  “Hey.”
    “Pink!” he grinned.  That’s when I remembered why I wanted him here.  Because with that one word, he made me feel normal.  Made me feel like it was okay to smile.   
    “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, as he whisked past me, the faint smell of soap, deodorant, and bread following him.  He sat down on the couch, making himself at home like he had been here a thousand times before, and set the brown bag he brought in with him onto the coffee table. 
    “You got Ricci’s?” I closed the door and took a seat next to him.
    “Yeah.  I haven’t been there since we went, and I was hungry so…here,” he reached into the bag and pulled out a to-go container. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”
    I meant to say something.  Anything.  But nothing came out.  People don’t do things for me.  They just don’t.  I’ve made a point to not be in a place where people do things for me.  I didn’t want anyone to have any expectations of me and vice versa.  I had forgotten how nice it was to have support when you need it.  It felt incredible, like a reunion with a long-lost friend.  
    Was there really such things as true friends?  Or just people who pretend to care so they can get what they want?  The latter seems more likely.  Gifts are only for getting something in return.  In my moment of weakness, I