That day started like every other crappy day.
Some Karen (lowercase k, not to be confused with My Karen) had screamed at me because their almond milk latte had too much almond milk.
My feet hurt. My brain hurt. My soul hurt.
I came home, dumped my bag, washed my hands, and started dinner. Spaghetti. I’d found a recipe on TikTok that spiced it up a little with garlic and red pepper flakes, which meant I was absolutely going to get a complaint from Tracy because she “doesn’t like spicy food” and considers black pepper a risk.
I was stirring sauce, zoning out, when she walked in.
Tracy was dressed in what she thought was a classy navy sheath dress. I was ninety percent sure I’d seen it on the clearance rack at Ross, but she wore it like it was Chanel. Her hair was in that same precision bob. She had lipstick on, which meant she’d either filmed something for Instagram or was planning a dramatic speech.
She sat down on a barstool at the kitchen island, folded her hands, and watched me.
That was my first warning.
Tracy only watched in silence when she was about to unleash something vile.
“We need to have a serious talk about your living situation,” she said.
My hand tightened on the wooden spoon.