“Chill, Caly,” I mumble, wrinkling my nose at the smell. “It’s coming.”
I dump the wet food into her bowl, the slop hitting the dish with a wetplopthat makes me grimace. She doesn’t wait. Assoon as I set it down by her water dish, she dives in with all the grace of a raccoon in a trash can. I can’t help but laugh softly as she inhales her food.
Another loud, angry growl rips through my stomach, cutting through the quiet and reminding me (loud and clear) that I still haven’t eaten. I sigh, turn away from Calypso, and curse under my breath.
Everysinglebowl I fucking own is piled in the basin, teetering dangerously like a Jenga tower of bad decisions and laziness.
I stare at it for a second, weighing my options. I could do the responsible thing and finally wash all of them… or I could do the bare minimum and pretend I’ll handle the rest tomorrow.
Bare minimum wins in the end. Shocker.
I grab the least offensive-looking bowl and a spoon from the mountain of ceramic shame, then snatch my Scrub Daddy (that has seen better days) and the bottle of Honey Berry Hula-scented Gain dish soap from the corner of the sink. The scent is the only cheerful thing about this situation. I scrub until the dried-on cereal from a few days ago finally surrenders and rinse the bowl clean, followed by the spoon.
Once satisfied, I set them down next to the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was waiting on the counter, then tear the last few sheets off the paper towel roll. I dry everything halfheartedly (bowl, spoon, and hands) before balling the damp towel and tossing it toward the overflowing trash can like I’m shooting a free throw.
It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor, rolling a few feet away from the can. Of course it does.
I shrug. Whatever. I’ll take the trash out in the morning. Maybe. Probably not. We’ll see.
I pour a generous amount of cereal into the bowl, and the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar immediately triggersanother rumble in my gut. I pop a few pieces into my mouth straight from the bowl, then pivot toward the fridge to grab the milk.
Just as I’m reaching for the handle, my phone rings.
I pause, letting the fridge door fall shut with a soft thud; the condiments in the door rattle when it closes. I slide my phone out of my back pocket and glance at the screen.Unknown Callerflashes on the screen. I hesitate for a second, thumb hovering over the red button, but curiosity gets the better of me.
I press the green one instead, then balance my phone between my ear and shoulder as I reopen the fridge to get the milk.
“Hello?” I say, drawing the word out slightly, already bracing for a spam call—or worse, someone asking about my car’s extended warranty.
Static.
I set the milk down on the counter, confused by the silence, and pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. The call’s still connected, the seconds ticking upward. I press the phone back to my ear, my brows furrowing.
“Hello?” I repeat sharply, impatience bleeding into my voice.
Still nothing. Just silence—an uncomfortable, almost intentional kind.
I wait another beat, tension creeping into my shoulders. “Who is this?” I ask, speaking louder this time, already annoyed at myself for bothering to engage. I start to lower the phone from my ear, ready to end the call and move on, when I hear it.
Heavy breathing, slow and deliberate, fills the silence.
My skin prickles, goosebumps forming on my arms as unease twists through my gut. Anger quickly overtakes the initial flash of anxiety.
“Piss off, whoever this is. This isn’t funny,” I snap, irritation slicing my words.
The breathing continues, unchanging, and my irritation deepens into disgust.
I jab my finger hard against the screen, ending the call before tossing the phone roughly onto the counter. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head to dismiss the lingering chill at the base of my spine. But that’s what I get for answering unknown calls.
I grab the milk again and pour it hastily into my cereal bowl, some splashing over the edge onto the counter.Great. Just what I needed.With another irritated sigh, I shove the milk back into the fridge, kicking the door shut with my heel. I swipe the bowl off the counter, milk dripping down one side as I head toward the living room.
I glance back at my phone one last time before leaving the kitchen, half-expecting it to light up again. It stays dark and silent. Good. Hopefully, whoever the hell that was got the hint.
I set my bowl down on the cluttered coffee table and fish around for the Roku remote, finally spotting it partially hidden beneath an old notebook, another stack of mail, and a half-eaten bag of Salsa Verde Doritos. Dropping onto the loveseat, I tuck my legs under me and set the remote in my lap as I reclaim the bowl, spooning a generous bite of cereal into my mouth. Cinnamon and sugar explode across my tongue, briefly calming my jittery nerves. I take another bite, then turn on the television and click Netflix.
I scroll idly through the app, barely registering the titles flicking past, before I spotSupernaturaland select it without hesitation. It’s my comfort show. I always feel better when watching my boys.
“What season tonight, Calypso?” I ask absently, glancing toward the kitchen as Calypso wanders into the living room. She jumps gracefully onto the back of the couch and stretches out behind me before kneading my hair.
