Page 6 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

It’s honestly impressive.

It’s also why I assumed he wouldn’t be home when I texted that I was grabbing dinner and calling it early from work. I push the apartment door open with my shoulder and step inside.

Warm air greets me immediately.

So does the faint scent of my vanilla candle, which is weird because I definitely blew it out this morning before leaving for my shift.

“Honey?” I call, wondering if Nathan had a change of plans.

My voice echoes lightly down the short hallway.

No answer.

I kick the door closed behind me and drop my tote bag onto the small entry table while trying not to spill dinner all over the floor.

“Okay,” I say to the empty apartment. “It’s just us.”

The place is small but bright, the kind of Boston apartment that only exists because the building used to be something else entirely and the landlord decided that turning old offices into studios was a brilliant business strategy.

The living room is a mix of IKEA furniture and art supplies that I pretend are temporary but have been slowly taking over the space for months.

Sketchbooks sit in a loose pile beside the couch. Colored pencils spill out of a ceramic mug. A half-finished illustration of a dragon wearing reading glasses rests on the coffee table.

My mother would have opinions about the mess.

She has opinions about most things.

I kick off my shoes and stretch my toes against the hardwood floor while the feeling slowly returns to them.

Child Life Specialists do not technically run marathons during their shifts, but we do spend a lot of time moving between rooms and crouching beside hospital beds while explaining complicated medical procedures using puppets and very creative storytelling.

Today included a five-year-old who believed the MRI machine was secretly a time portal and a ten-year-old who tried to bribe me with a cookie to delay his surgery. Honestly, I respected the hustle.

“Food delivery has arrived,” I announce to the empty apartment while heading toward the kitchen.

The smell of Thai food fills the room as soon as I set the bags on the counter and start unpacking containers while mentally calculating how quickly I can shower before the noodles get cold.

I reach into the drawer and grab two forks out of habit, then pause halfway through the motion and laugh quietly to myself. Right.

Nathan’s not home, which means the mango sticky rice now belongs entirely to me.

I set the extra fork back in the drawer and lean against the counter for a second while rolling my shoulders, because hospitals have a way of settling into your muscles long after you leave.

Then I notice something small.

The hallway light is on, and that makes me frown because I distinctly remember switching it off before I left this morning. “Huh.”

It’s not exactly suspicious, but it is strange enough that I glance down the hallway while picking up one of the takeout containers.

The bedroom door is open. I remember closing it after grabbing my sweater from the chair this morning, and I even remember thinking I should probably clean the room at some point before guests see it.

“Did the cleaning fairy stop by?” I call lightly.

No answer.

I walk a few steps forward while balancing the container in one hand. The bedroom light is on.

I know I didn’t leave it on. I slow down as I approach the doorway, because something about the room feels wrong even before my brain fully registers what I’m looking at.