I shake it out, letting it fall naturally across my shoulders, and sit on the edge of the bed. I wonder how I’ll ever get through the day without everyone learning about this.
I tiptoe toward the bathroom again, just to check the mirror, just to make sure I look at least semi-human, and catch a glimpse of myself—tired, flushed, a little red-eyed, but alive.
Alive and embarrassingly aware of the ridiculousness of it all.
I let out a breath, trying to center myself. This night, this messy, absurd night, is over. I’ve survived. Ryker survived.
And somehow, despite everything, I feel a strange sense of gratitude, tinged with the headiness of alcohol and embarrassment, toward him.
I shuffle down the stairs and pause when the smell hits me. Something like bleach. Strong and sharp, cutting through the lingering scent of last night’s mayhem.
My stomach twists at the memory, and I press a hand to my forehead, groaning softly. What the hell happened yesterday?
A plate sits on the table, steam curling gently around perfectly cooked pork chops and vegetables, the colors bright and inviting despite the smell that makes me wrinkle my nose.
A folded note rests beside it, handwritten:Eat while hot.No signature, but I already know. My pulse picks up a little.
Ryker isn’t here. I glance around the house, searching for a shadow, a shoe, anything, but he’s gone.
The truck that should be parked out front is gone, too. Somehow, that makes the scene more surreal, the absurdity of it hitting me like a punch.
I stare out the window, blinking, wondering if my brain is finally short-circuiting. I must be going insane. There’s no other explanation.
I drop down onto the sofa and grab the plate. Heat radiates from it, mingling with the smell of pork, garlic, and herbs.
My stomach grumbles, and for the first time since waking up, I feel normal. Relief coils through me as I take a bite.
It’s perfect, well-seasoned and filling. I eat slowly, savoring it, glad that the nausea from last night is gone. My hands tremble slightly, the leftover tipsiness making me clumsy as I bring another forkful to my mouth.
I curl up on the couch, finishing the plate, and stare at the empty house. I take a deep breath, trying to piece together fragments of memory, but I can’t remember much. Somehow, the world has reset itself, and I can move again without gagging every five minutes.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally manage to find my keys buried in the couch cushions. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and grab my coat, messy hair pinned up in a loose clip, shoes laced enough to walk.
I step outside, bracing against the chill, snow crunching beneath my boots, and head down to the flower shop.
I’m lucky. The shop is closed, the bell silent, shutters down except for a sticky note pressed to the handle. It’s from the butcher’s son.I came by & you were closed. All good?
I grab the note and pocket it.
My chest lifts slightly, relief spreading through me. Ryker did this—he must have closed up my shop before taking me home.
My gaze falls on the counter, and I spot the wine bottle from last night.
I grab it and toss it in the trash, the clink of glass against metal making me wince. I make a mental note to throw out the rest of the mess later, when I have a bit more energy.
I hunt for my phone, realizing I left it on the counter. My stomach twists again. I pick it up and find it dead, black screen reflecting my messy hair and flushed face.
I stick it into the charger and frown, watching the tiny battery icon flicker reluctantly to life. I sigh and run a hand over my face.
First order of business, survive the day. Second, don’t think about Ryker too much. Third, maybe survive seeing Hank and the butcher’s family without dying of embarrassment for missing their delivery.
I take a deep breath and pull my sleeves up, moving to the workspace. The flowers sit in buckets, a riot of colors and textures. Lilies, daisies, tulips, roses, the petals still slick with condensation from the fridge.
I tie my hair back properly, wipe my hands on a rag, and start arranging them, feeling the familiar rhythm of work settle my mind. The scent of fresh greenery, the rustle of leaves, and the tactile pleasure of petals under my fingers ground me.
I select a vase, trim the stems, remove the thorns, and start arranging the flowers for the butcher’s son. I pick colors carefully—bright yellows and soft whites with splashes of orange—something cheerful, hopeful.
The arrangement takes shape under my fingers, and I step back to inspect it, satisfied with the balance and flow.
