ONE
Jenna
BEFORE
Iwas sleeping well.
Which, in my life, should have been my first warning sign.
Something ruins it before my alarm has the chance to: right on cue, a loud groan crashes through the quiet, followed by aggressive, floorboard-abusing stomping, suggesting either a home invasion or, more likely, Matthew.
“I don’t have any boxers again.”
The moment he speaks, or shall I say grunts, my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Everything inside me tightens, heart racing like I’ve just realized I missed a court date for my most important client.
Except it’s not my boss standing over me.
It’s my boyfriend.
And instead of panic, guilt floods in. Damn it.
I knew I forgot something. The laundry.Again. Our stupid, damp laundry is still sitting in the machine, probably developing its own ecosystem by now. I meant to deal with it yesterday, butthat day dissolved into e-mails and deadlines and a case that left my brain feeling like overcooked pasta.
“Great,” Matthew mutters. “Now I have to go to work without underwear.Thanks.”
I push myself up on my elbows just in time to watch himyankon his jeans with unnecessary force, like it’s all the denim’s fault. He shoots me a look. One that suggests I didn’t just forget his clothes, but that I actively sabotaged his entire existence.
And here’s the thing.
He has two hands.
Functional ones.
Hands that were, as far as I remember, not broken yesterday when he got home from work and spent the entire evening on the couch watching TV while I tried to remember what sunlight looked like. The thought slips into my mind, quiet, but annoyingly persistent.
I don’t say it out loud. Of course, I don’t. I almost never do because if I do, we’d argue for hours, and I don’t have the nerve right now. Not anymore.
Instead, the guilt settles heavier in my stomach, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe properly. My gaze drifts—traitorously—to the pile of clothes slumped beside my bed, then to the abandoned coffee cup on my nightstand. There’s a dark ring that dried stubbornly under it.
Evidence of my mess. Of not quite keeping up with a life that seems to require more from me than I have to give. The knot in my stomach tightens even faster.
I wonder when exactly everything started to feel this hard.
“Well, bye. This is going to be agreatday at work without underwear,” I hear him mutter as he stomps past me and out the door. “Don’t forget dinner tonight. I’d get myself checked out if I forgot as much as you do. Next up, probably your head.”
I hear the door slam shut, and I flinch.
If I forgot as much as you do.
Yes, I forget a lot.
My keys. My phone.
I need an AirTag on everything.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe something’s wrong with me. Then, my alarm goes off, an annoying beep that sends shivers down my spine. Oh yeah, work. Now I have to hurry. For some reason, this is already the second time I’ve hit the snooze button.
I jolt awake and realize my blouse and pencil skirt aren’t ironed. My heart pounds like a train as I rush to get ready. Shit. Even micro-fighting with him turns my brain into mush.
