Chapter 3
THREE
ryder
Waking up in someone else’s house isn’t new—but waking up in one that smells like lavender and chaos?
Definitely a first.
I’m standing in the middle of a living room, barefoot, shirtless, and hella confused.
It’s still dark outside, or maybe it’s early. I can’t really tell because the windows sitting across from me have a wall of mist pressing up against the glass. The air is heavy with something... familiar. This isn’t a place I recognize, but there’s this feeling I can’t quite put my finger on.
The room is cozy and cluttered. A couple of soft throw blankets are draped over the back of a dark green velvet couch, and there’s a stack of paperbacks on the coffee table, next to a candle.
A record player is sitting in the corner with a stack of vinyl leaning next to it.
And there are books. Everywhere.
Stacked on the shelves, piled under the coffee table, crammed into wicker baskets by the fireplace.
I walk past a framed cover of a novel hung as art on the wall.
Heartstruck: by Noia Wilde
Stunned, all I can do is blink.
Noia. That name stirs something to life inside me—deep and electric—making my spine stiffen.
I spot another copy of the same book lying on an armchair, spine cracked and covered in Post-Its. Plucking it up, I flip through it.
Scribbled in pencil every few pages are notes and rewrites.
Author notes?
More books are stacked underneath, each with a different title, but all written by the same author.
Noia Wilde
Tension itching between my shoulder blades, I sit on the couch. As I skim, flipping through the pages, the words start to become awfully familiar.
Wait. These are my stories, my military brothers’ stories—or at least some version of them.
What the fuck.
A chirrup cuts through my spiraling train of thoughts, and I glance up to see a fat calico cat strolling into the room like he owns the place. With one torn ear, his squished, smug face looks like it’s seen better days. Rubbing against my leg with a low purr, he gives me a judgmental look.
I stare, judging right back. “Bet you’re a little menace, aren’t you...?” I take a look at his name tag. “Goonie.”
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 is not what’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 at the 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’t this.
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.
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.