“No judgment. Like I said, we’ve all been there.”
She gives me a grateful nod. “Thanks, Jessa.”
An awkward silence follows. Before either of us remember that we barely know each other and get super weirded out by what’s happening, I say, “You mentioned last night that you moved here from England recently, right?”
She nods, her ponytail bouncing prettily. “Three weeks ago, to be exact. I lived in a cheap motel for the first ten days before I found this place.”
“It’s a good building. I think you’ll be happy here.”
She looks skeptical for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s not what I’m used to.”
“Then it’s just a matter of getting used to it,” I tell her. “Give yourself a couple more weeks.”
“You’re right,” she says. “And maybe I’ll try acclimating sober this time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with going out and indulging once in a while,” I point out. “But self-medicating with alcohol is never the answer. In my experience, at least.”
“Wise words.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m a whole lot better with giving advice than taking it.”
Freya grins mischievously. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
I smile and blush, turning my face away from her. “A depressing one. But maybe I’ll save it for another day.”
She looks curious, but she doesn’t push me to share with her. “How about some breakfast?” she asks instead.
“That sounds nice,” I say. “I’m just gonna go back to my apartment for a bit. I think I need to change and shower. I’ll be back in like twenty minutes.”
“Perfect,” Freya says. As I head to the door, she eyes my clothes with interest. “That’s a beautiful dress, by the way. Where’d you get it from?”
I finger the silky fabric of the blue slip. I should burn this thing to a crisp, then burn the crisps. But for some reason, I’m finding myself reluctant to do that. “Um… it was a gift.”
“Well, whoever gave it to you has great taste,” she says.
I grin and head out the door, feeling guilty for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on. I should have changed the moment I got back home, but Freya had shown up before I could do anything.
I get into my apartment and make sure the door is locked before I head into my bedroom. I remove the blue slip and lay it down on the bed.
It really is pretty. It makes me wonder about the woman who bought it. The woman Anton married. Was she as beautiful as her taste suggests? Was she as classy? As discerning?
“I don’t care,” I say out loud. It doesn’t sound convincing, so I try again, emphasizing a different part of the sentence. “I don’t care.” Nope, still not good. “I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.”
The last one is good enough.
I shower and change, then head back down to Freya’s apartment. When I knock on the door, she trills out, “Come in, it’s open!” in that melodic accent of hers.
Frowning, I let myself in. “Are you sure you wanna keep your door open like that? Anyone can just walk in.”
She gives me an amused look. “Paranoid much?”
“Kinda,” I admit, without telling her why.
She laughs and walks around her kitchen counter with two loaded plates in hand. “I’ve got bread rolls, sausages, and cheesy eggs. Fair warning, though: I’m not the best cook, so eat at your own risk.”
I take a plate from her and stare at the one lone beanbag on the carpet.
“Carpet or beanbag?” she asks me.