Chapter 3
THREE
TORI
It’s after six when I finally make it back to the apartment. My head throbs, my feet ache, and all I want in life is a whiskey sour and a bubble bath deep enough to drown in.
My key sticks a little in the lock, but eventually gives way, and the familiar smell of cinnamon and vanilla greets me as I push the door open with my hip and step inside.
The lights are off in the main room, late-afternoon shadows stretching across the hardwood like fingers. I toe off my pumps by the door, already halfway fantasizing about slipping into pajamas I haven’t worn to impress anyone in years.
I head toward the closet to drop my shoes where they belong—only to find Skye’s boots tossed haphazardly into the existing pile, her denim jacket draped over the pile like a flag of rebellion.
I sigh. Not in frustration—more in a fond, resigned sort of way.
Skye is a mess, and I love her.
Still, I shake out her jacket, smooth the arms, and hang it beside mine. Old habits die hard.
I do the same with my blazer, then pause, hand lingering on the hanger. The urge to organize the rest of the shoe rack itches in the back of my mind. Maybe rearrange the entry shelf, fold the scarves, color-code the umbrellas.
But I stop myself.
Skye doesn’t need fixing. She never asked for that. And just because I prefer shoes lined up by season and heel height doesn’t mean her chaotic pile is wrong.
We’d talked about it before I moved in—had a whole conversation where we set expectations and boundaries and made promises about communication and space and mutual respect.
She swore she’d changed after living with Alis and Sunny for half a year. Told me with complete sincerity that she was now “a whole-ass adult woman capable of washing a damn dish.” Her exact words.
I didn’t quite believe her. But I wanted to.
And maybe that was enough.
I glance around the living room. The throw blanket is slouched across the back of the couch, half on, half off, like it couldn’t commit to one or the other.
A half-empty coffee mug sits on the side table, steam long gone.
But there are no clothes on the floor, no forgotten smoothie cups growing science experiments on the counter.
The house feels lived in. Imperfect, but intentional.
It’s nice. Being in a space where I’m not constantly bracing for someone’s disappointment.
Where I don’t feel like I have to clean the kitchen just to justify my existence.
Where I don’t have to quietly resent the invisible scorekeeping of a man who believed being married was the same thing as being owed.
I step into the kitchen, loosening my hair from its low chignon and groaning when the elastic pulls out a few strands. There’s a note on the counter, written in Skye’s ‘serial killer’ scrawl (get her to explain) on the back of a grocery receipt:
Ran to the store. Out of dish soap. Don’t you dare cook anything without me. Be back asap. —S
I laugh, the tension in my chest loosening just a little. Of course she left a note. Of course it’s bossy. And of course she wants me to wait to cook dinner with her like the domestic goddesses we are not.
She’s a disaster. But she’s my disaster.
And she cares. Not performatively. Not for credit. Not with some expectation of sex or praise or repayment. She just… shows up.
And damn, does that give me life.
I reach into the cabinet and pull down a tumbler. Two fingers of whiskey, a splash of sour mix, and a twist of orange, if I’m feeling fancy. I’m not tonight.
I drop in a half-melted ice cube and take a long, slow sip, letting the heat bloom across my tongue before trailing down to my chest.
I pad barefoot into the bathroom, switch on the light, and start the water in the tub. My body is screaming in places I forgot had nerve endings.
Who knew two months of unemployment and binge-watching true crime documentaries wouldn’t keep me in pumps-for-hours shape?
As the tub fills, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I look… different.
Not bad, exactly. Just tired. A little softer in the face, a little more hollow around the eyes. I look like someone starting over. Someone trying to believe that starting over is still allowed at thirty-two.
I stare at myself a beat too long, then shake it off and go to light the candle on the back of the toilet—Skye’s “Pumpkin Ember” from her lifetime supply—and slide out of my clothes.
By the time I sink into the water, the day finally starts to unravel.
I think about Dr. Johnson. About his warmth and kindness. About how I didn’t realize just how starved I was for that kind of basic decency until it was handed to me so freely.
I think about Leo and his glare and the way he said you’re the one who ditched her husband like it was a fact and not his own assumption. Like it was something shameful instead of something necessary.
My stomach clenches again remembering it.
I don’t know why his opinion bothers me so much. I don’t owe him anything. And yet… it hits different when the judgment comes from someone who’s barely spoken to you.
Who doesn’t even know what they don’t know.
Still. I’m not backpedaling. I’m not explaining. Let him think what he wants. He’ll either come around or he won’t. My years of trying to fix people have come and gone.
I soak until my fingers prune and the candle flickers low.
Then, from the other room, I hear the unmistakable clatter of grocery bags and the sound of Skye singing off-key.
“Guess who got Thaiiiiiiii foooooood!” she warbles.
I smile. Really smile. Not the kind I forced at the university today.
The kind of smile that feels like home.
I towel off and throw on an oversized sleep shirt—Skye’s, actually. One of her old band tees she refuses to part with. The sleeves hang past my elbows, and the collar’s been cut so wide it drapes off my shoulder.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and laugh. I look like someone’s girlfriend. And for once, maybe that’s not a miserable thought.
Pfft. As if. This is my self-love era.
No, but seriously. I’ve had more orgasms in the last two months than I have had in the last ten years.
I should have known my housewarming gift from Skye would include an assortment of new toys for me to try out.
And try them out, I most definitely have.
Chase never wanted me to have anything for self-gratification, claiming that if I used a toy to get myself off that meant he wasn’t enough for me.
He had all sorts of reasons for this twisted logic, the majority of those reasons some form of Scriptural manipulation, wrapped in fancy Jesus paper and tied with a bow of shame.
But no matter the reason, the core truth remained the same: my self satisfaction fed his insecurities.
It’s truly infuriating how many ways I willingly made myself small for that man.
Never. Again.
When I get to the kitchen, Skye is barefoot, crouched over a paper bag and inspecting a suspiciously large takeout order.
“What did you do?” I ask, arching an eyebrow as I lean against the counter.
She looks up, grinning like a raccoon who just found a box of donuts.
“I panicked and ordered one of everything.”
“Literally one of everything?”
“I had a coupon,” she says, pitch so high I wouldn’t believe her if she swore on her dead mother.
“You’re lying.”
Skye shrugs, not even attempting to keep up the charade. “I’m absolutely lying. But the point stands—we have drunken noodles, red curry, green curry, spring rolls, and what I think are crab rangoon, but I’m not entirely convinced.”
“I thought you were just going for dish soap?”
“I did get dish soap. And then I got sidetracked by the call of coconut milk and MSG. Blame capitalism.”
I laugh and grab napkins and chopsticks while she opens containers like a magician revealing tricks. Steam wafts through the air, the scent of lemongrass and chili hitting me in the face like a warm slap.
God, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I’m fairly certain I forgot to eat lunch today.
We sit cross-legged on the couch, food balanced in our laps, the coffee table a mess of plastic lids and sauce packets. The apartment smells like curry and soy sauce and something vaguely sweet that might be coming from the candle I forgot to blow out in the bathroom.
“So?” Skye asks, mouth full of noodles.
“How was day one?”
I take a bite of red curry, the heat catching me by surprise and making my eyes water just a little.
“It was... fine. Dr. Johnson is a sweetheart. Very Mr. Rogers meets Einstein. There’s a binder with all the instructions I could ever need.
And the HR lady gave me a tour that somehow didn’t feel like a punishment. ”
“See? Already thriving.”
“Let’s not go that far. I nearly cried filling out a W-4.”
She winces. “Yeah, that'll do it. Nothing like federal tax paperwork to remind you that you're single and slightly unhinged.”
“Exactly.”
We fall into a comfortable rhythm of chewing and casual commentary, the kind of quiet companionship I didn’t realize I’d been missing until I had it.
For a moment, it feels like I’m part of something again. Safe. Unwatched. Not weighed down by someone else’s disappointment.
Then she glances over, a spark of mischief in her eye. “So… did you see Leo?”
I pause with a forkful of rice halfway to my mouth and roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And… he hates me.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“What? Not possible. Leo loves everybody.”
“He called me Trina.”
She nearly spits out her drink. “Shut up.”
“Dead serious. I corrected him, and then he said, ‘You’re the one who ditched her husband,’ like that is the sum of my life’s work. Congratulations, here is your trophy. We will carve this onto your gravestone when you die.”
Her mouth drops open in full horror. “No.”
“Oh yes. He’s lucky I was standing behind my desk, otherwise I probably would have kneed him in the dick.”
“Ugh, what an ass.” She stabs a spring roll like it insulted her personally.