12. Chapter 12 #3
After my run-in with Laura, all I wanted to do was get home and see for myself that Daria was all right.
I might even have to tell her what happened and warn her to be on guard.
I don’t think Laura would be brave enough to pull the same stunt she did before the judge slapped her with a restraining order, but the woman is unpredictable.
As soon as I step into my apartment, all thoughts of warning my new roommate flee my mind.
I scan the kitchen, suppressing a full body cringe.
The counter is in complete disarray. A jar of peanut butter and it’s pitifully cared for counterpart, jelly, lay open next to a half loaf of bread that’s spilling out of its bag.
And are those…jelly smears?! The sink is full of dirty dishes, and there’s clothes— so many clothes —hanging on some torture device-lookalike contraption next to the dining table.
I whirl toward the living room only to see no less than six brightly colored pillows scattered across my basic gray tweed couch. And is that…an afghan hanging over the back? What, is she a grandma in disguise or something?
I run my hands through my hair, over and over, as I march toward Daria’s room. The only thing I can think of doing is ask her what the heck she was thinking. The mess is one thing, but spreading her girly stuff all over my apartment?
Unacceptable.
I need things to be orderly and neat. Always. Cleanliness and organization are paramount if I’m to successfully function as an adult. I don’t mind a few of her belongings added here or there, but I can’t have her girly grandma stuff infiltrating every area of my life.
I knock on her door, harder than I intended, and wait.
Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I try to give the anal drill sergeant living inside of me a stern reminder that Daria doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.
Maybe she and Jamie were content to live with jelly smeared across the countertops and their stuff scattered throughout the shared living spaces.
Maybe she had something she needed to do and intends to come back out here and clean it all up.
Either way, I’m not going to yell at her. I’m simply going to ask her to clean up her junk.
Or else.
After knocking a second time with no answer, I start to lose hope that she’s even here. I slowly open the door and peek my head inside. “Daria?”
No sign of her. And she’s not in the bathroom or anywhere else either. Which leads me to believe she’s at work. My blood nearly ices over, thinking about her leaving the apartment like this, then heading out to work like it was no big deal.
Breathe. Just breathe ...
Okay, maybe she was just in a hurry this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the mess. Still doesn’t excuse the afghan and throw pillows being added to the décor without my consent, but whatever. Ground rules obviously need to be set.
I grab the bag I dropped at the door in my stupor and take it to my room. There’s no way I can leave the food on the counter out like this. Whether I made the mess or not, I won’t be able to relax knowing all this jelly is just…sitting there…coagulating and drawing flies.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work, putting everything back in its place. As soon as the dishes are done, I eye the clothing contraption. It appears to be a drying rack of some sort. Now that I’m closer, it’s easy to see that most of the items hanging off it are strappy and lacy and made of silk.
Unmentionables.
I groan and scrub both hands down my face.
Why would she think it’s okay to just leave her underwear hanging out in the open for everyone to gawk at?
Mainly, me ? It’s offensive, that’s what it is.
And distracting. I can’t help that my eyes keep tracking to the black lacy things sprawled out for the world to see. I’m only a man, for Pete’s sake.
I have the urge to scoop the entire thing up and drop it on her bed, but that would mean that I’d have to touch her underwear, and that just feels like it would be crossing a line. A line I refuse to get anywhere near. Guess my only choice is to leave them like that until she gets back.
So I do the only thing I can do. I yank the crocheted blanket off the back of the couch and toss it over the lacy underthings. Then I snatch up the colorful pillows and hurl them into her room as hard as I can. Then I slam the door for good measure.
I’m heaving by the time I’m done, buzzing with frantic energy that begs to be worked out. I do my best to take deep, even breaths while reminding myself that no harm has been done. The apartment is back to the way it’s supposed to be. For now.
If I would’ve known that this was how she’d leave it, though, I’d never have asked her to move in. My orderly life isn’t something that’s up for negotiation, not even for someone I want to help. But I can’t take the offer back now, especially when she doesn’t have anywhere else to go.
I quickly change into shorts and a T-shirt, then take my usual trek down the street to the gym. If I can’t force the woman from my apartment—or my mind—the least I can do is work off all the pent-up frustration she heaps on me at every turn.