Not wanting to disturb her quite yet, I turn away and head back downstairs.
I take a seat on the couch and flip on the TV—she’s got way too many streaming subscriptions, by the way—and choose something mind numbing.
Goonie hops up beside me, kneading the cushion as he gives me his best resting murder face impression, then hops into my lap.
His purring soothes my nerves, and within minutes, I’m out like a light.
When I wake up,sunlight is pouring through the windows, and Goonie is sitting on my chest staring down at me.
Gently shoving him off, I stretch and shuffle to the bathroom. After I take the longest piss of my life, I go to wash my hands and see the mirror above the sink has a Post-It stuck to it.
You got this, babe—Sasha
Back in the kitchen, I dig through the freezer until I find a pack of bacon. I toss it into the microwave to defrost and search for a pan.
Goonie yowls dramatically, making me jump.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, opening random cupboards until I find a tub labeled:GOONIE’S SHIT.
Popping it open, I scoop some food into his bowl, which he proceeds to devour like he hasn’t been fed in days.
The microwave beeps and I get to work.
As I turn the bacon over in the pan, there’s a creak from the floorboards above, followed by a soft thud.
Cocking my head, I listen close, just as Goonie lifts his head and bolts up the stairs.
I narrow my eyes... and wait.
FOUR
noia
I wakeup to the smell of bacon—which is weird because I’m pretty sure I haven’t bought bacon in I don’t know how long. All I’ve been living off of the past few days is wine, Pop-Tarts, and existential dread.
It’s been a week since Sasha dropped me off and I haven’t ventured out of the house the entire time.
I’m a wreck.
Not only do I smell bacon, but someone is singing. The sound, low and deep, isn’t bad, it’s just a little off-key.
I bolt upright, and immediately regret it. My robe is slumping off one shoulder, and my head is throbbing like a goddamn drum line is marching through it. And my mouth? It tastes like cheap wine, jalapeño flavored Cheetos and regret.
So. Much. Regret.
Goonie yowls at me from my bedroom doorway, making me cringe. It feels like my head is going to explode.
Fuck. Me. Running.
“Yeah, yeah. I smell it too,” I mutter.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I nearly trip over an empty bottle of merlot.
Barefoot, sans the one sock still clinging for dear life to the top half of my left foot, I yank it off and toss it on the floor.
Trudging down the stairs and into the kitchen, I turn the corner and freeze.
There is amanin my kitchen.
