I glance around the living room, eyes scanning everything that was left behind by her drunken night.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I only have one option.
I find her mop and bucket tucked in a corner of the closet, along with a stack of old towels. I grab the throw blanket I used to help clean up her mess earlier, wring it out as best I can, and get to work.
The smell hits me again, but I grit my teeth and focus.
I scrub, rinse, repeat, and curse under my breath at how much she managed to spill.
Her snore makes me glance over, and I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes me. She’s completely at peace now, oblivious to all of this, and for some reason, it breaks me a little inside.
Who takes care of her? Who makes sure she’s alright when she’s like this? My stomach growls again, sharper this time, reminding me that I’m running on nothing but adrenaline.
Once the room is acceptable, I track down her washing machine. There’s bedding in there, half-soaked. I run a wash cycle, adding detergent, the rhythmic thrum of the machine a small comfort.
My mind ticks ahead—once I’ve made dinner, I’ll toss the rest and blankets in too.
I make my way back to the kitchen, opening the fridge to inspect what’s inside. There are a few cookies, a jug of juice, but nothing substantial except for some vegetables. The freezer, however, has pork chops.
I pull the pork chops out, defrost them quickly under cold water, and start seasoning. Salt, pepper, a little garlic powder, maybe some paprika to give it something extra.
I heat up a cast-iron skillet, letting it smoke faintly before placing the chops in, the sizzle filling the kitchen. I turn them carefully, letting the edges crisp while keeping the centers juicy.
I make extra, thinking she’ll need something when she wakes up, and mentally note to pick up more food for her tomorrow.
The scent fills the apartment, warm and inviting. I start rummaging through her cabinets for plates.
I almost yelp when she suddenly sits up, blinking sleepily. “Norah,” I call, heart skipping. “Where are you going?”
She sways slightly, voice thick. “Bed.”
“Ah, shit,” I mutter, rinsing my hands quickly and following her. She’s already shuffling forward, and I step around her to find the bedroom.
The bed’s stripped bare except for a comforter tossed across the mattress. She collapses onto it, letting out a soft, satisfied sigh.
“Norah,” I say again, voice softening. “Baby?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
“Mmh,” she hums in response, eyes half-closed.
I glance at bed. “Where are your clean sheets?”
No reply. Her hands are tucked under the comforter, pulling it closer to her face.
I kneel, sliding my hands under the mattress, lifting the frame, searching. Claire used to put her clean sheets in containers under her bed.
There’s nothing down there.
I turn to check her closet. I come across a few random things—her clothes, a stack of books—and then my hand brushes something unexpected: Jude’s leather jacket.
I pause, brow furrowing, before putting it aside and continuing.
Finally, I find the folded sheets tucked on the highest shelf in her closet. I pull them out and spread the clean sheets across the bed, pulling the corners tight on one side.
I gently lift her from the comforter, sliding her onto the other side so that I can finish, making sure the fitted sheet stays in place.
Her head rests on the pillow, hair spilling across the surface, the curve of her cheek catching the soft light.
I wet some tissue and use it to clean her face, lips, and the faint residue of vomit I missed earlier. She mumbles something incoherent and shifts slightly, thighs brushing the sheet.
