She giggles. “Okay, but that’s Maverick for you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Next time I’m in Tennessee, I’m going to strangle you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Catalina, you know I don’t date. I don’t even make eye contact with men unless they’re paying me and sitting very still.”
She laughs. “Oh, I kn?—”
I hang up, cutting her off.
She deserves that much.
My phone chimes, another text coming in.
Maverick
Hey, quick question. If you had to pick a weapon in the apocalypse, what would it be? Mine’s a shovel. Multi-use.
Maverick
Also, I’ve had six espressos. Send help.
I let out a slow, soul-deep sigh and type back.
Amelia
I’m going to use a pitchfork, specifically to stab you.
He responds immediately.
Maverick
Kinky. Let’s circle back to that later.
I pushmy key into the lock, jimmying it until it opens. I walk into my apartment, and instantly my body feels drained, as today’s work catches up to me. My fingers are stiff from holding a machine all day, my lower back aches, and my neck hurts from constantly craning it.
The second I shut the door, I exhale.
Home.
I’m hit with the faint scent of oakmoss and amber, probably from a fading incense I lit earlier in the day. My space is softly lit by glowing neon signs—one above my kitchen that reads ‘Don’t Text Him’ in bright red.
My apartment is a clash of personality and comfort. A black-and-white checkered rug’s sprawled across the living room floor, half-covered by a sage-colored velvet couch draped in mismatched, checkered pillows, and a bright smiley face plush nestled in between them.
There are plants on every surface, my precious crystals, trinkets of whale sharks I’ve been collecting, and a small disco ball spins lazily near the window, reflecting soft flecks of light across the walls.
Curled up in my rattan chair is Rex, my hairless Sphynx, wearing his green dinosaur hoodie with tiny plush spikes down the back. He slowly lifts his head and blinks at me, as if I’ve ruined his night just by breathing.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I breathe out, dropping my purse on the kitchen stool. “You slept for fourteen hours in a heated blanket while I was elbow-deep in someone’s sternum for seven of them.”
He meows loudly.
I flop into the hanging chair beside him, letting the woven seat creak beneath me. My limbs ache in the best way, earned exhaustion. My hair’s a mess, my eyeliner’s smudged, and I’m just about to doomscroll on TikTok until I rot when my phone buzzes in my lap.
