When I snort out his name, he gives me a loud, indignant meow.
“Right. That tracks.”
Tossing the book down on the table, I stand up from the couch. My head feels a little foggy, which is weird. I take pride in keeping a clear head, and right now that isnotwhat’s happening.
I take another look around. The space is warm, lived in, and full of personality. I wander into the kitchen. Although the deep green cabinets, white farmhouse sink, and copper pots and pans hanging above the stove aren’t my taste, the kitchen is still rather nice.
On the fridge, there’s a magnet shaped like a typewriter that says:Writers do it between the lines.
I shake my head.
A corkboard hangs beside the pantry door riddled with scraps of paper—quotes, deadlines, and a grocery list pinned to it.
Wine
Cat food
Wine
Goddamn printer ink
Tums
Cat food
Unopened mail and what looks to be a planner with the words‘KILL HIM OFF???’written in angry red pen, are sitting on a kitchen island covered in crumbs.
Off to the right, a hallway leads to a small guest bedroom with a queen sized bed and a fluffy light blue duvet.
The attached bathroom is spotless and bare, except for a box of tissues sitting on top of the tank, and shampoo bottles in the walk-in shower that smell like spicy vanilla and sex.
The door next to the bathroom opens into a closet, but aside from a couple of plastic bins filled with men’s clothing, it’s empty.
Leaving the bedroom, I walk back down the hall, pausing atthe foot of the stairs as the cat saunters up the steps past me like he means business, so I follow.
The second floor has two bedrooms and a bathroom.
When I come to the second door, I glance inside and see a rumpled queen sized bed against one wall, with a big desk tucked in front of the window on the other.
Slumped over the desk, dead asleep with her head buried in her arms, hair a messy halo of blonde curls, is a woman that I can only assume is the one who wrote me into existence.
Noia Wilde
Lips parted, she’s snoring softly. Ink smudges her fingertips, and her laptop, still open beside her, is glowing like a beacon.
Dumbfounded, all I can do is stare.
I don’t know what the fuck I expected, but it wasn’tthis.
She’s beautiful in a chaotic, soft-around-the-edges kind of way.
Wearing a robe that’s hanging off one shoulder, her skin is pale and I can see a light scattering of freckles across her nose, highlighted in the glow of her desk lamp. One foot is bare, while the other has a sock hanging half on, half off.
I should be furious. And in a way, I kind of feel violated. It’s not like I had a choice in being here.
Instead, I just feel… unsettled. Like something inside of me has been tilted on its axis.
“Christ,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
