First Draft Romance

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The commute home feels hazy. By the time I stumble through the door, I can barely remember how I got there. My brain is all muddled. All I can focus on is the thrumming feeling in my chest, held there from the moment when Roz's gaze was first fixated on me. It all plays on repeat: how it felt to see her lips quirk up in the corner like that, and how breathless I was when she cast me that good-bye wink.

Like, who even winks nowadays? Seriously. What?

As soon as I've shut the door behind me, though, I can tell something is off. It takes a moment to pinpoint what isn't quite right, but then it clicks.

There's the scent of nag champa incense in the air. Through the closed bedroom door, I can hear the shower running. The window blinds are shut. I blanch.

Gina's home.

Fuuuck.

I'd been lucky enough to not have run into Gina the past week or so since the break-up. I'd come back to see a few pillows rearranged on the couch, put in the fashionable way Gina prefers them (form) instead of the comfortable way I like to have them organized for when I write there (function). And her clothes would disappear occasionally, or I'd notice the laundry detergent had changed positions.

But it hasn't been too bad. I've been focused on other things, like my book, and my job. Last Friday, I got my first paycheck from Roz, via a Zelle payment. It brought my net worth from just under thirty dollars to just under a thousand and fifty dollars. It sent a little thrill up my spine—so this is what it's like to make an almost liveable wage. Exciting. I'd nearly cried in relief.

I'm debating what I should do. Should I just walk out, do a couple of laps around the block, and wait for her to leave? What if she doesn't leave? What if this is the day she decides that she's done letting me get back on my feet and has come to drop the "get the fuck out" hammer on my head? Is this it? Is it over? Completely through? Am I done?

Before I can make a decision, the bedroom door opens, and out walks Gina, wrapped in a towel, her sopping wet hair stuck to her shoulders. She jumps back with a yelp when she sees me, clutching the towel closer to her chest.

"Marcie!" she hisses, her eyes wide. "What are you doing here?"

I try to speak slowly, even though I'm filled with the sudden urge to shout it. "Hi, Gina. I still kinda live here, don't I?"

"Well, yeah, but—" She splutters, still clutching her towel defensively against her chest. "I just—you—we—"

"Should I ... leave?" I ask, tentative. "I'm not 'back on my feet' yet, as you so kindly put it, but I can for sure get out of your hair. Unless you're staying the night."

"I...." She looks at the kitchen, then back to me, clearly at a loss for words.

"I can get out of your way," I promise. "I mean, I can sleep on the couch? If that works?" I don't want to have to crash with Kirby and Daniel before it's absolutely necessary. I honestly thought that I might have more time than this.

She spends a few more seconds gaping like a fish before she appears to gather her thoughts enough to answer. "I'll get out of your hair," she says stiffly. "Don't worry."

Something in my chest twinges. I think it might be guilt. I cast a long look at the couch and its cushions, reorganized in the way Gina likes. Even though the kitchen was far from dirty, I can tell she's just wiped down all the counters, because she always leaves the wet wipes container open next to the stovetop whenever she cleans. It used to bug the shit out of me. Now, I just feel kinda bad.