It’s a short ten-minute walk to my apartment, but my feet carry me farther, drawn toward the beach, until I find myself standing in front of theRum and Room.
I hesitate.
The thought of knocking onhisdoor tempts me, just to see if he’s still there and if those hazel eyes would look at me the same way they did last night. But exhaustion drags at my bones, a heavy, inescapable weight. I’m drained, my mind too cluttered, my body too sluggish.
Instead, I turn away, stepping off the walkway, heading home. Maybe after a shower and a nap, I’ll find my way back.
By the time I reach my apartment, everything feels hazy. I climb the stairs on autopilot, fumbling with my keys. When I push open the door, Taylor’s head pops up from the couch.
Her friend’s does too.
They were lying down. Now, they’re blinking at me, glassy-eyed and slow, like they weren’t expecting me back so soon. The apartment reeks. Thick, pungent smoke clings to the air, laced with sweat and something sour.
On my flat screen, the old 1980s movieTrue Romanceplays on mute.
I step inside and recoil.
It’s a disaster.
Dishes overflow in the sink, stacked in unstable towers of filth. The kitchen table is covered in half-eaten food and greasy, discarded takeout containers. My bakery bins are all open, their lids missing, some spilled onto the floor. Crumbs and smears of frosting stain the carpet. The anger comes fast, hot and sharp.
“No smoking inside,” I say, or at least try to. My voice comes out weak, sluggish, worn down by exhaustion.
Taylor giggles.
I spin in a slow circle, taking it all in, my hands curling into fists. “What the fuck, Taylor?”
She groans. “What’s the matter?”
I snap my gaze to her. “My apartment is a mess. That’s what’s the matter.”
I drop my purse and kneel, grabbing at the bins, trying to salvage what’s left of my baked goods. “Get up and help me clean this. Now.”
Taylor groans again, rolling onto her side. “But I’msoootired. I’ll clean later. I promise.”
The rage flares brighter. I tighten my grip on the bin in my hands. I don’t believe her. Not for a second. “Taylor, I have to shower and sleep and be at work by four in the morning.Again.” I shove the tins next to the sink and crank the faucet on full blast, the water splashing violently against the dishes.
“We’re not bothering you. Go shower and sleep,” she mumbles, slumped against the couch like a boneless puppet.
“I can’t with my place looking like this.” I leave the water running and stomp to the windows, yanking them all open. Brisk air rushes in, pushing out the suffocating stench of smoke, sweat, and stale food. “And I definitely can’t with it smelling this horrible.”
Then I take a good look at her. She’s wearing my clothes. I stiffen, my nostrils flaring. “Are those my fucking clothes?”
Taylor looks down at herself, her foggy brain catching up just a second too late. Then she bursts out laughing so hard she collapses back onto the couch.
She’s so fucking high, it’s not funny. “No more smoking in here!” I shout, spinning back toward the sink.
“There’s nothing left to smoke.”
Like that’s supposed to make me feelbetter.
I squeeze some soap onto a sponge and start scrubbing madly. Dishes, forks, knives, spoons, cups, mugs, containers. I think they used every piece of dinnerware I own. I peel caked brownie off the floor and wash frosting from the walls. I run a mop over the floor three times and vacuum the living room rug to the sounds of rocks or whatever substance being sucked up inside. The clothes I recognize as mine, I snap up off the floor and toss into my hamper. Whatever is Taylor’s or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is, I throw in a plastic bag.
“Who even are you? What is your name?” I demand, dragging the vacuum wand around his massive, dumb body.
He stands up and holds out his hand to shake. It’s full of popcorn crumbs. “I’m Henry.” His voice is distinctly Southern.
I don’t shake his hand. Instead, I trail the vacuum hose over it, sucking up the mess.
