Free Sticky by Julia Swift Page A

feeling optimistic by the time I wrestle the fistful of mail from my box and climb the steps home. That is, until I shove open my door, dump the mail onto the table, and notice the letter on top of the pile.
    It’s addressed to Freddie, which in and of itself isn’t all that unusual. He’s used my address before, when he’s been between apartments, or the one time when he decided he wanted to try living in this weird co-op building that required its residents to share literally everything, from personal income to diets. Thankfully he moved out of that place pretty quick, but he still thought it prudent to put my address as his so if anything too private turned up, his ten roommates wouldn’t all feel free to read it.
    Aside from the one time his Playboy accidentally showed up here and I told him he needed to cancel that shit or at least not admit to his sister that he subscribed to that crap, there’s never been anything really embarrassing or weird that’s come through.
    This, however . . . I stare at the envelope, which is torn in one corner, the weather-beaten letter inside already half-exposed to the world anyway. But mostly I stare at the return address. At the big bold logo of the Bayonne Casino, the newest establishment in town.
    The only establishment, due to that newness, where my brother wouldn’t already have his photograph hung in a prominent place with a “Do Not Admit” sign beside it, after he racked up both debts and a reputation for drunken bar-fights alike at all the rest of the regular spots.
    It can’t be about him , I tell myself.It has to be some kind of general ad. One of those spam letter things that new business mail to everyone in a twenty-mile radius when they open up.
    That’s all.
    But the letter peeks out from the torn corner, tantalizing, and I can’t help seeing the first few words of it.
    Dear Mr. Casey,
    In reference to your debts accrued . . .
    Bayonne has only been open for six months. As far as I know, Freddie hasn’t been anywhere near a casino in four years. If he’s got debts at this place, that means he’s off the wagon.
    Worse, it means that maybe the only reason he ever got himself to stay on the wagon has been because none of the casinos in this city will accept his business. It’s easy not to drink when the bars refuse to serve you.
    The envelope quivers in my fingers. I take a deep breath, grimace, and then tear the envelope the rest of the way open.
    I have to know. I have to say something, if this is what it looks like.
    The letter inside reads like something straight out of my worst nightmare. $200,000 in back debts, with an interest rate that makes his previous fuck-ups look like a kindergartener run amok at the craps table.
    I drop the envelope on the counter and stumble sideways onto the couch, too tired to keep looking at it, too beaten by the weight of this realization to stand up anymore. All I can think about is how hard this all was five years ago. The drinking, the money loss, the struggle, the debt we’ve only just now barely clawed ourselves to the top of, or if not the top, at least a place where I can see an end to this tunnel.
    And now we’re back at the bottom of the hole again, indebted to yet another multi-billion-dollar corporation that gives not one single fuck about anyone like my brother. Or anyone like me, yoked to someone who can’t help fucking up at every given opportunity.
    I bury my face in my hands. I don’t cry. I learned a long time ago that crying won’t do jack shit, even if it does feel good for a moment.
    Finally, after a long, long pause of counting my breaths, in and out, slow as can be, I pick up my phone.
    Freddie still hasn’t replied to my last text about movie night. All thoughts of worrying about what was bothering him the other day have fled my mind now, because the answer to that is obvious. It’s sitting right there on my kitchen counter, in an envelope that makes me want to scream with rage.
    Come over.