I'm a different person all the time. It's like I don't know who the fuck I am, who I'm supposed to be. In Esme's office, I feel like the frail little baby bird that can't fend for itself. I "Hmm," Esme frowns. "Tell me, Isabella. Why did you choose to rent out your old home instead of moving in yourself?"
My nails dig into the back of my hand. I'm cursing Rosalie for making me get my nails done. I can't feel any sharp edges, no pain.
"I can't live there," I say.
"Could you tell me a little why?" She tries.
"Because I just can't. It's too much, and I had to hire someone to come get rid of all the stuff that was in it. I just can't go in there without having a massive panic attack afterward. I always end up drinking heavily, taking drugs when I get back from collecting rent." My voice grows quiet.
"They pay in cash?"
I nod.
"Why don't you let them deposit it into your account? Seems like that would solve quite a bit of issues for you, honey." She says in that motherly way that makes my heartache. No one ever calls me honey and means it — but Esme does.
"Because I don't enjoy checking that bank account. I can't look at it. I don't use it." My hands rub together and I stick them in between my thighs, suddenly cold even though I'm sweaty.
"You could open a new account especially for that. I can certainly help you if that would take some weight off your shoulders." Her smile is so warm I feel tears well up in my eyes. I sigh, remembering that only an hour ago, I was minutes away from ripping my panties off and throwing them to Masen's face. It's like I feel worthless, powerless, and hopeless. As if I'm a fucking charity case.