Chapter 3
I reach blindly for my alarm clock on the nightstand and turn it off.
The pounding in my head makes opening my eyes feel like an arduous task.
Not the good kind of pounding either, not the whiskey haze or the kind of hangover that comes with a few blurry laughs you almost don’t regret, but the other kind from pure mental exhaustion.
My muscles feel like they’ve been run over by a truck. I force my eyes open and shut them again, momentarily blinded by the morning light even though it’s not that bright.
The events of the previous day are hazy in my head, all except for the news of that fight with Jack. It keeps replaying in my head like a damn highlight reel. Even before I could get some sleep last night, it was with Jack’s smug face in my mind.
That’s him. He’s the one responsible.
And he looks like a gentleman, who would’ve thought he’s capable of something that cruel?
I’m sure this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this.
Those and others flowed into my head, memories of the whispers and murmurs that trailed me in the hospital where Jack ended up after I put him in his place.
Their speculations were so unsettling I couldn’t stand another minute there, only to come home and be faced with the media houses replaying it again and again.
Even in the hospital, the bastard posed a threat to my sanity.
If he was conscious, he would probably be smiling down at me like he was proud of breaking me, like I was the loser again.
Jack Monroe better stay in his lane when he gets out of that hospital, or I swear to God, I’ll send him to his grave the next time.
I roll over and reach out to the nightstand. My fingers connect with the lamp, the half-empty glass, a mess of receipts and scraps but not my object of interest. I rest my weight on one arm and crane my neck to search for it, but the pack of cigarettes seems to have disappeared.
I groan and sit up fully, rubbing my face hard to rid it of any sleep. I check for the bottle of water I usually keep there too but it’s not there either. As I’m trying to collect my thoughts, I hear a loud singing that makes me grind my teeth in frustration.
“It is too fucking early,” I complain.
The high notes echoing through my house sound like something from a fucking musical, and I hate musicals. Her voice pierces straight through my foggy brain, making the headache worse.
This girl has to go. I can’t take this.
She thinks I was supposed to be moving out, and I haven’t mentioned that I’m still on a fucking lease myself, and Nelly Kane is full of shit.
A scam artist landlord. I can’t believe this bullshit, but maybe this is a sign that I need to move.
If I just lost everything, there’s no reason for me to stay.
This apartment is supposed to be my safe haven, and her presence has already desecrated it. But I still have to salvage what’s left of it because it’s the only one I’ve got for now, until I get the press off my back.
I swing my legs off the bed and wince at the full ache in my joints.
I don’t bother throwing on a shirt to make her comfortable.
It’s my house, so if she wants to be comfortable, she can find another place.
My feet hit the floor, and I sense the cold seep in.
I shove my feet into flip-flops and march down the hall.
Mornings are mine. It’s the time of the day when I reflect, when I sit with my thoughts before the buzz of everything else. And now she’s here.
She’s in my kitchen with her back turned, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.
Whistling now, swinging that long auburn hair that’s tied up in a sloppy ponytail.
The oversized Hello Kitty T-shirt slips off one shoulder and she keeps tugging it back up.
She looks too comfortable. Like she’s a permanent fixture in my life. Something about that makes me nervous.
My eyes drag over her, against my will. They linger on her long flawless legs and toenails painted red. I revert my attention back to her head. That’s why I came out here anyway, to put an end to this.
She whirls around, spatula in hand and flashes a blinding grin at me. “Morning, roomie!”
The chirp in her tone makes me wince. She points the spatula on the options on the kitchen counter. “Coffee first or water?”
I freeze for a minute feeling my chest tighten. Then I grind my teeth until my jaw aches. She’s still staring at me expectantly, waiting for my response. She’s not bothered by my half-nakedness, and that pisses me off.
“Neither. You’re leaving and finding a new place.”
Her grin stays in place, and she shrugs, clearly unbothered by my insistence. If anything, her smile grows bigger. She drops the spatula down on a plate and plants a hand on her hip.
“So we’re back to that, huh? Well, tough luck. Lease says otherwise. Until the landlord responds, I’m here legally. And since there’s a no-refund clause, I should be the one angry, not you.”
I stare at her feeling my muscles gearing up for a fight. “Bloody hell!” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
My voice drops to a whisper, as a string of profanities follow. I wish I could wave a wand and find out this right here, is just a figment of my imagination or probably a nightmare and I’ll wake up alone again, in blessed silence.
The smell of pancakes wafts across my nostrils, a solid proof that this is real.
She slides a plate across the counter, chocolate chip pancakes stacked high, butter melting into the top. “Eat,” she says in an authoritative tone. “Maybe we’ll survive the week if I keep feeding you.”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl.
She beams at me in an ‘I told you so’ way. I glare at her and at the plate, hating that I actually want them. Sugar isn’t good for me but once in a while is fine I guess.
She leans against the counter, head tilted as I look down at the food.
“See?” she says softly, grin slipping into something mischievous. “Food fixes almost everything. Start with that.”
It smells exactly like the ones my mother used to make before everything went awry, right before she started going on those regular business trips, leaving me with her husband.
I push the memories to the back of my mind, still staring down at the plate, war raging inside me. Every instinct screams at me to dump them in the trash, make a point and show her I’m immune to her charms but my hand reaches for the fork anyway.
I curse myself, curse the weakness, but I shove a bite in my mouth anyway. I savor the chocolate as it melts on my tongue. Damn, it’s good.
Her smirk widens like she won. “You’re not as scary when you eat,” she teases, amusement swirling in her orbs.
Something in my chest tightens and I slam the fork down on the counter hard. I push myself away from the counter and without a word, I head for the door.
A good workout session at the gym is just what I need to get out of this foul mood and in my right senses.
The gym on the ground level is almost always empty just how I like it.
I don’t need people staring and making side comments while I work out.
Sarah said I shouldn’t leave the apartment, so I’m just stuck in this building until she says otherwise.
I thank God for this quiet gym because if that woman up there is going to invade my space, at least I have downstairs to disappear to.
As I slam the bar up and down, my head won’t shut up. I still see her face, her stupid grin and that pretty parrot mouth of hers. I don’t even know her name but I’m sure she’s heard of mine. But if that’s the case, she’s putting up a good act.
The image of her pancakes pops into my head next, slowly replaced by my mother’s pancakes sitting pretty on the dining table on a beautiful Saturday morning.
Fucking triggers like Mrs. Hendrix says. I need to find my triggers. Since when did pancakes become a trigger?
I grit my teeth and push harder, veins straining, arms burning. Sweat drips down my face, stinging my eyes. When I drop the bar with a heavy clang, I see that woman’s head tilt as she said, ‘food fixes almost everything’.
She must be high on some cheap drug to be living with that ideology. Food can’t fix shit, at least the broken pieces of me.
I slam through another set, punishing myself. My chest heaves, as another horrible memory fills my mind. I see Jack’s battered face on those hospital white sheets, those reels all over the internet, my coach’s face when he said I should “take a step back.”
As if that wasn’t enough, now I’m stuck with a stranger-flipping-pancakes in my kitchen. I want silence. I want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask for?
I walk back upstairs when I’m done, shirt soaked, muscles jelly, brain still looping. I tell myself I’ll shower, nap and forget all my worries but the second I step inside, the smell of a different meal fills my nostrils.
My feet lead me in the direction of the kitchen.
I check and she’s not in there this time.
I listen for any sound in the house but it’s too quiet so I’m positive that she has gone out.
Just then, I notice a plate half covered with foil on the kitchen counter.
It looked like she saved it just for me.
I should leave it there but instead, I stand there, feeling my mouth water at the thought of whatever else she might have whipped up. I stare at the plate like it’s mocking me.
My chest tightens again, that same pressure from earlier and all I can think is that I’m screwed because she isn’t fucking leaving, and she’s feeding me left and right. I’ve never had anyone feed me like this.
I peek inside the foil.
Goddamn it.
She made fucking stroganoff, and I can’t resist.
I eat the entire thing in peace. She’s not here to watch me this time.