The space is empty.
He actually left.
Scoffing in disbelief, I tell Gen I’ll call her back and hang up. My heartbeat thuds in my ears as I climb the stairs two at a time.
His phone is gone. His wallet too. My chest tightens. In his rush to get away from me, he left the bathroom light on.
I flick it off, and turn to leave. But something in the dark catches a faint gleam. My hand hesitates on the switch. I turn the light back on.
The laundry basket sits in the corner.
Patrick’s dress blues are thrown inside, wrinkled in a way he never leaves them.
What actually catches my attention is the small glint on the shirt.
The pin.
The promotion pin.
I reach in, unfasten it from the fabric, and lift it.
“Ew.” The sound slips out before I can stop it.
My hair must’ve gotten caught on it somehow,
Except… there’s a lot of it.
I pull at the strands wrapped around the metal, but they cling stubbornly. A gag rises in my throat. God, it’s hair, my hair, yet touching it feels so disgusting?
I try again, fingertips trembling. This time I heave so bad, I drop the pin completely, letting it clatter onto the sink.
Hair still stuck. A coil of blonde, only… Dread prickles up my spine.
I stare at the laundry basket again, picture the shirt crumpled inside it. Slowly, carefully, opening the lid I lift it out and bring it to my nose.
Patrick’s cologne hits first, the same one he’s been using for years.
But beneath it… Faint, almost hidden… Something floral.
Not my shampoo. Not my perfume. Not anything I’ve ever worn.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
This time it’s not just heaving. I barely make it to the toilet before the nausea hits for real.
I grip the seat with one hand, the other holds my hair back as my body rejects everything inside it. My eyes burn, my throat aches, and when it’s over, I slump back on my heels, shaking.
Pregnancy nausea has nothing on this.
When I finally manage to breathe again, I wipe my mouth with trembling fingers and lean back against the cold tile.
No. No. No.
There has to be another explanation.
A woman probably brushed against him and got her hair on the pin. That happens, right? People bump into each other in bars, on the street, anywhere. Hair sheds. It sticks. It tangles.
And the scent. He hugged his mom and sister yesterday. Neither of them is blonde, but perfume transfers.
