The apartment on Grant was everything we wanted. A porch facing the water, a rent we could split between four.
But five of us wanted it. The landlord didn’t care. Said flip a coin, winner takes it.
Leo pulled out a quarter and held it up. ‘Let fate decide,’ he said. His thumb rested on the edge.
He flipped. The coin spun high, caught the streetlamp, seemed to hang.
I don’t remember who called heads. I remember the moment after, when the coin hit the pavement and we all bent to see.
I lost. That night I packed my things into a borrowed cart and walked to my uncle’s spare room.
Years later, I heard Leo moved out after six months. The rest scattered too.
I sometimes think about that coin. That half-second before it landed. That was the real decision—the fall itself, not the side it landed on.
The piggy bank on my shelf still has a rubber stopper missing, and I eat my lunch at 3 AM, alone, wondering if he ever forgave me for wanting it as much as he did.