“Same to you,” I say. She’s halfway down the hall before I shut the door. The chain sticks again. I make a note in my head, but I’ll never fix it.
I lean my back against the door, press it closed like that does anything for the mess in my head. One hand comes up, rubs my eyes hard enough to see stars. No point going back to sleep now.
I push off the door, and pad barefoot to the kitchen nook. Tossing the food on the tiny round table, I pick at a grain of rice that fell out. My hair feels greasy, my skin tacky in weird places. I strip on the way to the bathroom; shirt on the couch, bra on the floor, pants half-off by the sink.
The water hits my shoulders, too hot at first. Good. I stand there until the mirror fogs up so thick I can’t see the cheap tiles or my own face or the stuff I can’t stop thinking about.
The men from last night, the shadows across the courtyard, third floor, corner unit that’s supposed to be empty.
And… Green Eyes?
Maybe it wasn’t. Probably wasn’t.
I grab the body wash and scrub too hard, like I can peel the thought off my skin. Arms, chest, throat, raw and pink.
Oh, stop being stupid. This is so stupid.
I squeeze the shampoo too hard, glob it all over my palm, more than I need. The cold slap of it snaps my brain back where it belongs.
Rinse. Wash him out. Try.
When I’m done, I wrap the scratchy towel around me and shuffle out. The place feels too bright for this early; pale sunlight through those big east-facing windows, bouncing off my tiny, yellow-tiled kitchen. The couch is a mess of cat hair. My purse sits on the table with those bank papers stuffed deep inside. Like hiding them there does anything.
I step into the bedroom nook behind the half wall. Drop the towel. Fresh underwear first, then a bra that pinches wrong. Crisp work pants that dig into my stomach when I sit wrong. I tug on a white button-up blouse, damp skin sticking to the fabric, and fumble the buttons closed up to my bra line. The reflection in the TV screen catches it—damp hair, tired eyes, a body that feels like it belongs to someone else lately.
I pause to tug the curtain closed. It’s thin, cheap, the kind I grabbed off a clearance rack because I was broke and tired of waking up for the sun. I pinch the fabric between my fingers. Easy to see through. Easy for him to see through—if he’s even real. If he’s looking.
The thought punches something low in my belly that I’m not ready to name. I pull the curtain tighter, but don’t tie it off. Leave a sliver, a gap.
What’s wrong with me?
I could shower again. Hot water, slippery skin, pretend nobody’s watching. Pretend maybe somebody is.
God, I’m out of my mind.
I stand there a second too long, then snap out of it. Unplug my phone from the socket by the kitchen counter. It’s fully charged, for once. The screen lights up my half-damp face. It’s later than I thought. Way too late to pretend I’ll crawl back into bed.
One missed message.
GramCracker: Did you get home safe? Call me when you wake up.
I thumb back.
Yeah, safe. Love you.
I hit send before I can overthink the lie.
I toss the phone into my bag. It hits the crumpled bank papers with a little slap that makes my stomach flip. Before I can zip it, the phone buzzes again.
Dave.
Dave Thornton: Hey, Mary. Meet me at the old laundromat on Twain, 7 AM. Need to talk.
I look at the time again.
The old laundromat. Who the hell meets their boss at a dead coin wash at this time of day? I stare at the text, thumb hovering. Part of me wants to tell him to shove it. But I don’t. Of course I don’t.
Me: Okay.
