I don’t have a lot of options left. And whatever I’m doing right now?
It’s not working.
Chapter 7
Ella
It’s been a long week. The kind that leaves your bones tired in a way sleep doesn’t quite fix.
Everything that could have gone sideways did, in small, exhausting ways that added up. Nothing catastrophic. Just… life reminding me that it doesn’t care about your plans.
My mom always says,“When things start to unravel, that’s when you find out who you are. Not when it’s easy. When it’s not.”
It’s laundry day. For most people, that means a little detergent, a little folding, and a lot of ignoring. For me? It means confronting the deeply chaotic, slightly schizophrenic reality of my closet. One minute, I’m holding a chic, cropped Zara blazer that says "future CEO," and the next, I’m staring at a hot pink hoodie Ashton got me that has"Cake it ’til you make it"scrawled across the front.
Honestly, whatismy aesthetic? Cozy bakery witch? Unemployed Disney princess?
I toss a pair of yoga pants into my basket—pants that haven’t seen a yoga mat in two years—and sigh. Somewhere buried under the chaos is a tank top with a plunging neckline I wore on that one date that ended with the guy crying.
With a grunt, I slam the overstuffed basket against my hip and head down the hallway. Then I’m in the elevator taking my clothes down to the basement level laundry room, where it always smells like fabric softener.
I technically have my own washer and dryer, but it’s basically a European shoebox setup, so I bring the big loads down here.
I step off the elevator and glance around. It’s nicer than most people’s houses down here. An espresso machine has been set up, and the gym has a red-light therapy lounge, so I never really feel like I’m trapped in the basement. I grimace down at my basket once I set it on the floor next to the washer.
After a few minutes, I’ve started the wash. Fifteen minutes later, I dump the wet laundry into the dryer, sit on the edge of the dryer, scrolling on my phone, thethump-thump-thumpof wet cotton tumbling around offering a kind of dull meditation. Time passes slowly but steadily. An hour later, I’m folding the final piece, one of my less tragic bras, when the door crashes open behind me.
Bang.
I jump. In walks Nathan.
I’ve never seen him down here before. Not once.
But here he is, sweaty, earbuds in, wearing black joggers and a clingy tee that’s already sticking to his chest in all the wrong—or right—ways.
He doesn’t even notice me.
He’s got a laundry basket under one arm, and this intense, focused expression like separating whites and darks is a life-or-death mission.
I freeze, crouched beside my basket.
He starts loading up a machine, pulling out clothes like a man on autopilot. Then, without warning, he whips off his shirt and tosses it into the washer like he’s auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad.
He leans forward to press the buttons, and just as the machine kicks into gear, he pauses. Maybe it’s my breathing, or maybe I’ve let out a tiny squeak. Whatever. Clearly, something tells him he’s not alone.
He turns.
I rise from my crouch.
Our eyes meet.
He pulls one earbud out. “Oh, hey… Have you been there long?”
I blink. “Um… no. I mean, yes. But not in a weird way.”
Nice, Ella. Real smooth.
Then, like a divine gift from the embarrassment gods, my phone rings.
