53
Ridge
The remote slips out of my hand and lands somewhere between the cushions of my overstuffed sofa. I dig around for it, find it, and aim it at the television, changing the channel a few times until I find a sitcom.
For half a second, I consider cleaning up, but decide against it. I’m on vacation, and vacations are for chilling, which is what I am doing right now. It’s been almost two years since I took any time off, and now that I am, I’m feeling exhausted. It’s like the second I stopped moving, every muscle in my body decided it was done. I’m not going to give myself a hard time about it. There’s no one here to impress. Tomorrow is another day. I’ll deal with it then.
Empty takeout containers are stacked on the coffee table. Some are from the burger place down the road. Two from the steakhouse on the corner, where I ordered the bone-in ribeye both times. There’s a flat brown paper bag from that Thai place across town with the extra hot green curry.
No pizza.
I haven’t ordered pizza, and I don’t plan on ordering it any time soon. The thought of pizza makes me think of her. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to touch pepperoni again, and if that makes me a pussy, then so be it.
I click through the channels again. There’s a movie I’ve already seen. I think I might have seen them all. At least, it feels that way. I leave it on something with explosions and let the noise wash over me.
There’s a knock at the door. I ignore it. It’ll be Flint. Or Magma. Or both of them showing up together like a tag team.
Assholes.
They think I need babysitting or something. I don’t. I’m fine.
They’ve been coming around since the day I started my vacation, calling and texting and turning up at random hours like I’m some kind of project they’re working on.
I don’t need anyone fussing over me. I need them to go away already and to give me some peace.
The knock comes again, louder this time. With a growl, I grab the throw pillow next to me and pull it over my head. Whoever it is can take the hint and leave. I’m sleeping…or will be soon.
I take the pillow off my face when the knocking stops. The front door opens. I stay very still and hope that whoever it is will look around, decide I’m not here, and leave. I should have locked my door. I’m an idiot.
“Oh, my god.” It’s Carla’s voice. “What is that smell?”
I sit up a little, and Carla stands in my entryway with her purse hooked over one arm and her face screwed up like she’s just walked into a crime scene.
“Go away,” I tell her, and pull the pillow back down. “Did you hear me telling you that you could come in? No, you didn’t.”
“Ridge.” She walks into my house. “Get up.”
“I’m on vacation. I’m resting. You should leave.”
“Ummmmm… Get up,” she tells me, like she didn’t just hear a word I said.
“Carla, I swear?—”
“Look at this place.”
I prop myself up on my elbow.
“Leave it.”
But she’s already moving through the living room, dropping her purse on a chair and yanking the drapes open. Late afternoon sun hits me square in the eyes, and I groan.
“Close those. I’m watching a movie.” I gesture toward the television.
“I will not.” She moves to the next window and pulls those open too. “It’s dark as a cave in here.” Then she starts opening windows. “And stuffy.”
“Stop. I want to be left in peace.”
“Right.” She turns around and props her hands on her hips, looking me over from head to toe like she’s appraising livestock. “You are disgusting.”
