When I step out of the shower, the world is blurry, and I haven't even used my vape pen yet. No, wait. It's the steam from the hot water that's making it blurry. I wipe the condensation from the mirror, and finish my morning skincare routine. I scrub the dead skin off my body with a dry brush, then apply moisturizer. I hate getting dressed with lotion on. Luckily, I'm still on vacation, and I have nowhere to be until tonight.
So, when I cross my bedroom and enter the hallway, I'm butt naked, my hair tied in a single braid to prevent the ends from splitting when it dries. My mom taught me many things, but how to care for my hair may be the only advice that stuck.
My apartment is on the third floor of a remodeled townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. Kendall and River were the last to use it, but that was years ago. My sister's pointe shoes still decorate the hall—scuffed, frayed, and preserved in glass like a wedding bouquet. I'm sure if I opened the shadow boxes, the odor would be horrific.
Though the loft is technically mine, I haven't changed much. I redesigned the walk-in closet to suit my wardrobe needs, brought my sewing machine and mannequin from my dorm at FIDM, and added raunchy magnets to the kitchen fridge.
The newest addition to the space is the burly man seated on the sofa in the living room, laptop open and resting on the coffee table. Haas sips from his protein shaker, glancing up as I enter the kitchen area. His eyes widen at the sight of my nudity, but he recovers.
Quite honestly, I don't remember how I got home. I'd hoped the bodyguard was a bad dream. Finding Haas here is disappointing, but I'll be damned if I let the man think he's bested me, so I don't say a word. I bend over, rifling through the fridge for smoothie ingredients. The shelves are emptier than normal. Maybe I chugged more seltzers after I got home.
When I straighten, I glance behind me to see if Haas is sneaking a peak at my bare ass, but he has returned to his laptop. If I'm hearing correctly, he's watching a world news broadcast—coverage on the Middle East.
I dump almond milk, ice, bananas, peanut butter, and hemp seed into a blender. While it's mixing, I search the junk drawer for my spare vape pen. I must've left my primary at my parents' house. I shove aside chip clips and old batteries, my frustration growing.
Without work to distract me or marijuana to dull my senses, the world is too abrasive. My mind is too loud.
Whore, whore, whore.
Die, die, die.
Just watch the fireworks, Josephine.
I cringe. The air conditioner bursts to life, blowing cool air on my flesh. The hairs on my arms rise. The bones in my feet throb against the wood floor. My neck creaks when I turn my head.
Cars blare their horns on the street. Pigeons ruffle their feathers on the windowsill. Thanks to Haas's video stream, I learn that flesh-eating chemicals are being dumped on children in Lebanon. The blades in the blender whir, but they're not powerful enough to drown out the various sounds.
Overstimulation.
I can't function like this.
I abandon the blender, returning to my room. I breeze into the closet, and open my belt drawer. It's where I stash marijuana for special occasions, but the jar is missing. I slam the drawer shut, which isn't satisfying because the hinges are soft-close, specifically designed to dampen noise. I glide into the ensuite, searching the vanity for a bottle of Xanax.
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