Yes, it’s my own dirty water, but that doesn’t mean I want my laundry marinating in it.
Tucking my phone into my pocket, I dig my clothes out of the washer and ring them out as best I can. I’ve learned from experience that leaving my clothes in the machine for too long means that even if I dry them over and over, they’ll smell like something died.
Smelling good is something I pride myself on. TheAbercrombie 8perfume I’ve been wearing for years has never done me wrong, but I doubt I’d want to pair it with Eau de Old Laundry. I can’t afford to waste a drop. The jerks discontinued it, like every company does when someone finally finds something they like.
Aunt Keisha doesn’t wear anything from Abercrombie, but she has made many empty threats toward Bath & Body Works.
I set the clothes down on the floor, and they make a sound comparable to a wet mop giving up on life.
Out of all the things this building has, a designated laundry room isn’t one of them.
The laundromat is always open, but I don’t want to chance running into Alisha. I don’t have the energy for that right now.
Why is this my day?
Paige: Do you need me to head home now?
Shit, I’m horrible with texting.
A small pang of guilt hits me at the thought of Paige canceling on her family to come and save me. There’s no way I could ever let her do that.
Skye: Nah. I’ve got it figured out. Enjoy the fam. Tell Grandma Birdie hi for me.
Reaching out to people for help isn’t something I usually do. Moments like this remind me why. Stepping out of my comfort zone only to find the person I’m turning to is already occupied, or worse, willing to drop everything to help me. I don’t want to burden anyone with my problems. They’re mine to carry.
The urge to crawl under a rock is almost unbearable.
Making a snap decision, I grab the one shirt from the pile of sopping wet clothes that I want to save and toss it over a chair in hopes it’ll eventually dry. The rest of the pile earns a glare from me as I kick it to the side, ignoring the squishing sound I hear when my house shoes make contact.
I attach my magnetic wallet to the back of my phone and grab my keys from the hockey puck bowl I made in pottery class my senior year of high school. That was the extent of my creativity back then. And still is.
My day is now ten times worse since I’ve concluded that my only option is something I hate more than an open net shot.
I’m going shopping.
Boston Center Mall was much livelier back in the day, when kids roamed the stores for something to do. It was the place to be, even if you showed up without spending money. You could simply wander around with a soft pretzel in one hand, an Orange Julius in the other, and your best friends beside you, people-watching for hours.
Those were the days.
But unfortunately, I’m living in a time where people avoid malls because they can buy everything online.
Four hours and two protein-packed coffees later, I’m dropping six bags of jeans and black button-up shirts onto the floor of my condo. Oh, and one bag of shoes.
Did I need clothes? Yes.
Did I need shoes? Yes, but only because I was already suffering from having to buy the clothes.
I flop down onto my couch, and my eyes gaze directly through my floor-to-ceiling windows with a glowing view of Boston. The harbor reflects the golds and blues of the city, and from up here, everything looks quieter. Like nothing urgent is happening in the world.
My condo is too clean. Not staged-clean but controlled. The open kitchen still smells faintly of coffee. The quartz countertops are bare, except for the few bananas that I know will go bad while I’m in Milan. The living room is all sharp lines and neutral colors, a glass coffee table, and a couch that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.
I sit and take it all in. As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I wonder how much I’d despise it if someone sat here and enjoyed this life with me.
It could be nice. Sharing meals and talking about our days.
Being in each other’s personal space.
I shift in my seat.
