Something Just Like This || [ON HOLD]

9 April 2017 | 👙

"MOM!" MY COUSIN Cynthia shouts, startling me awake. Her daughter's wails travel throughout the house, competing with my cousin's strong voice. "Are you upstairs?"

Rolling onto my stomach, I bury my head into my down pillow in an attempt to block out their conversation. When I reach an arm behind me to bring my comforter closer, my hand crashes into a solid surface. Twisting back around, I sit up to find my textbook and notes sprawled across my navy comforter. I must have put my head down for a moment and dozed off while reviewing.

In the hallway, someone flips the light switch on, the yellow glow seeping through the crack beneath my door, followed by the sound of my aunt's gentle voice.

"I'm upstairs," she replies. "Can you take Brooke back to the basement please? Your uncle's trying to sleep, and your cousin's studying."

Brooke's piercing cries grow louder as Cynthia stomps up the staircase in her usual rhythm, ignoring her mother's requests. "I can't get her to stop crying. I've tried everything."

"Honey, I'll meet you downstairs in a second," my aunt promises. "But you need to take Brooke to your suite. Now."

"Mom, please just make it stop," Cynthia whines, which only makes the little rascal she birthed let out a piercing scream.

"Your uncle is sleeping, Cynthia. Take Brooke downstairs or I won't help you."

"God, Mom," Cynthia grumbles, and I can picture her rolling her glossed up brown eyes. "They chose to move in with us."

"Before your daughter was born. And you know we wouldn't be able to afford this house if it were just us two."

"Whatever," Cynthia scoffs, voice subduing with her child's cries as she storms back downstairs.

Even though Brooke's tantrum is no louder than a whisper by the time Cynthia's taken her back to her room, I decide a break from the full house will do me some good. Pushing aside my textbook, I grab my pillow and phone along with a blanket from my closet before heading downstairs. In the dark foyer, I reach a hand into the large black dress coat hanging in our closet, snatching the keys to my father's Toyota before slipping out into the garage.

The garage is a stark contrast the warm house, and the chilly night air nips at every inch of my exposed skin, eliciting goosebumps across my forearms and neck. Draping the fleece blanket across my shoulders, I hurry to the black vehicle and climb inside.

It only takes a moment for me to fold the seats back the way I like them, and soon I'm curled up under the blanket, headphones in and the sound of Chris Martin's voice lulling me to sleep.