I miss all of it. I miss the familiarity, and I miss the comfortable sounds of the house and the streets surrounding it. I miss safe.
After Luke leaves, I know I can’t stay all day in bed. I have no idea what time Shade gets up, but if he’s like any other kid, then probably early.
I throw back the covers and get dressed in a pair of black leggings, a black tank, and a black cropped sweater from my duffel bag. I’m disgusted with myself for not even bothering with a shower. And generally, I love colors, but I just don’t feel like it right now. Black suits me far better.
When I get downstairs, I decide to poke around the house a little. Not to snoop but to just get myself familiar with the place. I just about die when I shove open the first door and find a laundry room overflowing with clothes. And not clean ones either.
I might not be able to cook, but I do know how to operate a washer and dryer. I fill up the washer with a load, both Luke and Shade’s clothing, and exit after I hear the water running into the machine. The kitchen doesn’t look any more promising than last night. Those terrible pots in the sink are still waiting for me to scrub and clean them. There are empty pizza boxes on the counter, and the cupboards are just as empty. There are two boxes of cereal, but no milk. I do find a container of cream in the fridge which I open and sniff. It smells okay. If I mix it with some water, maybe I can make a wretched version of skim milk. Shade probably won’t know the difference. The cereal, on the other hand, is all sugary garbage. Definitely unhealthy.
I let out a frustrated sound when I realize, after a thorough search of the house, that Luke didn’t leave me a card to get any groceries. He didn’t leave keys to the car, and he didn’t even give me his number. If there’s an emergency with Shade, I have no idea what I’ll do. I make a note to phone Sam when she’s up since she has Luke’s number, but she won’t be up for a few more hours. Or maybe Shade might have his own phone. If he does, Luke’s number would be in there for sure.
After making an attempt to scrub the pots, which includes scratching at them with a butter knife, I give up on them and leave them to soak again. I head back to the laundry room and switch out the clothes. I do notice a few dress shirts hanging on hangers in the corner. They’ve already been washed and are obviously awaiting an iron. I think. They smell clean, but they’re also slightly wrinkly.
I spot an ironing board with a white iron in the corner of the room, so I grab them. I’ve never ironed anything before, but I have seen my mom do it. She’s fussy, and she actually hates sending anything to the cleaners if she doesn’t have to. She’d much rather launder her own clothes.
The ironing board pops up, no problem. I set the iron to the steam setting since I think that should get out the wrinkles. It heats quickly, and I pull down one of the shirts. I feel weird about ironing it and even touching it because I know it’s Luke’s. I try really hard not to think about him, but I know he’d look amazing in the shirt. I also know he’d look even better out of it. He has the look of a guy who is never going to get a true dadbod. Ever. Unless by dadbod, it counts to have rock hard, eight pack, streamlined muscles, and natural athleticism that would make both personal trainers and even professional athletes jealous.
Nope. Absolutely not going there. Those thoughts are trouble, they make my body feel as hot and steamy as the iron I’m working with, and they are unproductive to my job. Guys are just trouble anyway. My parents were right to send me to an all-girls boarding school. They spared me the trouble of men until I was eighteen.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I shove those sorry thoughts in a sack and iron furiously. I’m not very good at it, and I end up making creases with the iron that weren’t there before. I barely keep from cursing. I hate that I’m not good at this stuff—domestic stuff. It makes me feel spoiled and useless.
Is anyone good at ironing? It seems to be a lost art. And whatever. I’m sure there are millions of people out there who had a regular upbringing and also can’t cook.
I’m done with the first shirt and starting on the second when I hear footsteps racing around above me. It’s very obvious Shade’s awake. Either that or a herd of angry opossums just broke into the house. Considering we’re in the middle of the city, that’s highly unlikely. Are opossums even angry animals? I don’t think so. But I know they hiss at their own butts and like to play dead, and I also know their body temperatures are so low, they almost never get rabies. They eat tons of ticks every year, and they actually provide the anti-venom for some snake bites because it doesn’t harm them. At least I think so. I remember doing a report on opossums when I was younger. They’re pretty freaking amazing.