Tessa nods and slips off the bed, adjusting her Winnie the Pooh sleep shorts so they are no longer bunched between her ass cheeks when she rises.
“What time does yours start?” I ask as I finally toss the comforter back onto the bed. Grabbing the end of the comforter again, I shake it out until it covers the bed—my half-assed attempt to make the bed for her.
“Nine thirty,” she responds. “If you’re making me go early, can we at least stop at Dutch Bros to grab some extra-large coffees? I’ll pay.”
A smile forms on my lips at the word coffee, and Dutch Bros Coffee is a definite need this morning, and I would never say no to free. “Yes, we can do that,” I reply as Tess disappears into her closet.
“Cool. Now get out so I can get dressed,” she orders.
I don’t bother replying. Instead, I spin on my heel and walk out, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.
Before heading to my room to get dressed, I detour into the kitchen. I grab Max’s bowl from the floor and set it on the counter, then open the pantry and pull out a can of Nutrish—Chicken and Veggies, his favorite.
The second the can cracks open, Max trots in like clockwork, tail swishing, eyes locked on his prize. I empty the food into his bowl and use the lid to break it up, the scent already making his nose twitch and drool dribble from his lips. I set the bowl on the floor, and he dives in without hesitation. Smiling, I give his head a quick pat and finally head to my room to get ready.
Another difference between Tessa and me is that she is organized. Everything has a place, and god forbid her clothes not be hung up. Meanwhile, my room is chaotic. My laundry is hardly ever hung up. My clean laundry perpetually sits on my lounge chair, while my dirty laundry overflows the basket. I absolutely hate doing laundry, but my procrastination always bites me in the ass when I go to find a pair of clean leggings, only to find there aren’t any. Fortunately, I did laundry recently, and several pairs of leggings sit upon the mountain of clothes.
I grab a pair of black leggings off the top of the pile, digging carefully through the rest until I spot my red cold-shoulder top and tug it free. Both go onto the bed with a lazy toss. Then it’s back into the chaos—my hand diving into the mountain of laundry in search of a clean pair of panties and whatever socks I can scavenge, matching or not.
A few minutes of rummaging later (after nearly knocking the whole pile to the floor), I manage to pull out a pair of plain black panties and, miraculously, a matched set of socks. The miracle is slightly less impressive when I remember I bought half a dozen pairs of the same Walmart dollar-bin socks—blue, with little cats and coffee cups.
I toss the underwear onto the bed and peel off my pajamas, slipping them off along with yesterday’s panties. Then I reach for my favorite bra, still draped casually over the back of my desk chair. It’s black, soft, wire-free, with delicate lace stitching across the cups. Comfortable and cute—what more could I want?
I clip it in place, adjust the straps, and slide the panties on. Then come the leggings, which I shimmy into with practiced ease, followed by the top. I pull it over my head, smoothing it out, and sit on the edge of the bed to tug on the socks.
Once those are on, I reach for my combat boots and drag them closer with my toes. I lace them up fast—muscle memory by now—then get to my feet and head toward my vanity dresser.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my reflection today, and… yikes.
I look like shit.
The bags under my eyes look even worse against my fair skin and emerald eyes—darker, more pronounced, like little bruises from another restless night. My hair’s doing whatever it wants, wild and slightly frizzy, and the haze of not enough sleep clings to my face like fog. No surprise there. My circadian rhythm is trash. I stay up too late, wake up too early, and keep pretending I’m built for it.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
But hey—I’m dressed. That’s half the battle, right?
I sigh and glance at my reflection one last time. “Definitely going to need Tessa’s concealer,” I mutter to myself.
Grabbing my brush off the dresser, I pull it through the tangles of my dark brown hair until it looks less like a bird’s nest and more like intentional chaos. Once satisfied, I set the brush down, scoop my phone off the nightstand, and head for the hallway.
“Hey, Tess?” I call out, knocking lightly on her bedroom door.
“Come in!” she replies.
I push the door open to find her sitting on the edge of her bed, tying the laces of her pastel floral Vans. She’s dressed in her usual sunshine-in-human-form vibe—white frayed shorts and a baby blue blouse dotted with tiny purple flowers. Her hair is twisted into a bun, held in place with a clean paintbrush stabbed right through the center.
“What’s up?” she asks, finishing one shoe and lifting her other foot to start on the next.
“Can I borrow your concealer?” I ask, already anticipating her answer.
Tessa glances up with a soft smile, her turquoise eyes bright behind the black frames of her glasses. Her lips are tinted a slightly darker shade of pink. She never goes full glam, never covers up the constellation of light freckles scattered across her cheeks. Just mascara, a dab of concealer here and there, and that signature lip tint she swears is magic. Tessa’s always been about enhancing what’s already there—natural beauty with a little edge.
“Of course.” She rises to her feet, smooths her blouse, then glides across the room to where she keeps her makeup—a little wicker basket on top of her dresser. “Want me to help you put iton? I can also braid your hair if you want; it looks a little frizzy today,” she says as she plucks the small bottle of concealer from the basket.
A smile forms on my lips as she walks over to me. “I’d love that.”
Tessa doesn’t bother hiding her excitement and immediately shoves me down into her desk chair. “How much time do we have before we absolutely have to leave?” She sets the concealer down on the desk and drags her fingers through my hair, snagging on a few stubborn knots that have me wincing.
