I like being alone.
It’s one of my favorite things—especially after having dealt with all the annoying people out in the world (and, day to day, I have to deal with a lot of them).
But tonight, alone feels wrong.
Hence the pet adoption.
A dog would get me out and walking. A cat would curl up on my lap as I sit on my nonexistent couch and watch a brain-rotting show about polygamists.
Both would soothe all sides of me, buffing away the sharp edges that poke at me, tell me to pay attention, fill in the dents and notches so that I’m complete.
But I don’t think that would stop the persistent itchiness that exists just beneath my skin.
Becausethatprickly feeling is telling me to take a short trip down the hall, knock on a certain billionaire’s door, and say,“How about a three-peat?”
He’d be down.
Unless he’s already moved on and?—
“Ugh,” I groan, that thought hitting hard enough to hurt. “Enough.”
I’ve lost my freaking mind. If he moved on to another woman that’s a good thing. I told him once and it was twice, that’s bad enough. Better that he scratch his itches with another woman. Then I won’t get attached and do something stupid.
And is that why you’re still wearing his sweatshirt?
God, why does the logical bitch inside me have to be so fuckinglogical?
Because I know that evenI—logical side or not—don’t believe the lie I’ve been trying to tell myself—that it’s comfortable, and that’s the only reason I’ve worn the hoodie every night.
Comfort isn’t why I haven’t washed it.
Comfort isn’t why I inhale deeply every time I pull it over my head.
But my stubborn side doesn’t want to give in to the logical bitch, so I move down the hall, rolling my suitcase alongside me, not stopping until it’s on that new carpet and I’m unzipping it. I put my toiletries away then start in on my clothes—hanging my work outfits that can be reworn, putting the rest in the dry cleaning section I’ve designated in my hamper, splitting the other dirties into darks and lights.
I turn to leave, reality TV and wine imminent.
But I stop on the threshold.
Then my stubbornness ramps again, and I pull off Jace’s sweatshirt, shoving it into the dark hamper compartment.
I’ll wash it and leave it at his door.
Then this will be done.
Nodding to myself, I snag my pillows and comforter off the bed, carry the load into the front room where my only TV in the apartment is hooked up and working (because I had it mounted to the wall before Floodgate 3000). Then I set about making a little nest for myself.
It requires a second trip with blankets before it’s comfortable enough for proper trash TV viewing.
And then I’m on snack prep—opening a bottle of wine, cutting some hunks of cheese and bread, putting them together with some honeycomb from the farmer’s market near Chrissy’s house and the leftover slices of my caramel apple.
Not the fanciest charcuterie board.
But a delicious one.
I settle it on my blanket and pillow nest, thinking that the no pet thing isn’t the worst right now—considering that I don’t have to guard my snacks against pilfering pooches—and I’m going back for the glass of wine when there’s a knock at the door.
My gaze goes to my snacks longingly.
