Page 69 of The Key Holder

A few days after the best sex of my life—and seriously, it really was—Dylan and I were settling into a new rhythm as a couple. My early morning workouts had shifted to late morning ones because staying tangled in the sheets with Dylan was an irresistible indulgence. It was an adjustment, but the undeniable upside was more snuggle time, and as a bonus, the rising heat of the late morning sun meant my workouts were now hotter and, consequently, harder.

I had been chasing new ways to push my body to its limits my whole life, so the change was worth it. Plus, I loved the feeling of working up a sweat.

Each day, by the time I returned to the cabin, I was a glorious mess—hair plastered to my forehead, sweat dripping down my bare torso, smelling undeniably ripe. I knew better than to bring my shoes and socks inside, so I’d leave them on the porch. On the way through the kitchen, Dylan, ever the pragmatist, would just grin, lean in for a quick, teensy kiss that barely grazed my lips, and then point me firmly towards the shower.

“Sex sweat good, run sweat bad.”

“If you say so.” I always made sure to pull off my shorts and jock before heading upstairs so he could groan at the sight of my ass.

“Nice try, but I like the results, but not the aroma.”

There was just one small, increasingly irritating, problem: my organic almonds. Every morning before my workout, I'd come downstairs to find the bag open on the counter, a few missing. Dylan swore it wasn't him.

“Are you sleep-eating?" I asked him one morning, gesturing to the half-eaten bag.

"I told you, it's not me," he replied, stifling a yawn. "Maybe it's rats?"

"God, I hope not," I muttered, shuddering at the thought.

“Well, something’s obviously eating them,” Dylan said.

A few days later, after I'd deliberately shoved the almonds deep into a cabinet, I found them pulled out and spilled onto the kitchen floor, the bag gnawed open. This was getting ridiculous.

“We can go get some glass containers with lids that snap closed,” Dylan suggested.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Suit yourself.” Dylan waved his hand, as if dismissing me.

Later that night, around two in the morning, I decided to play detective.

“Where you going?” Dylan mumbled as I extricated myself from big spoon duties.

“The kitchen.”

“Bit late for a snack.”

“I’m checking on the almonds.”

Dylan groaned and threw the covers over his face as he turned away. I snuck down the stairs as quietly as I could, phone in hand, ready to confront my almond thief. After flipping on the kitchen light, I had my answer.

Squirrels.

Two of them. Perched brazenly on my counter, their bushy little tails puffed into the air in triumph. They froze, unsure what to do. One of them had an almond stuffed in his mouth and the other was looking at me.

I let out a yell, lunging forward, waving my arms like one of those inflatable tube men at a car dealer. The squirrels shrieked, scattering across the counter, knocking over a coffee mug as they scrambled for cover. They darted around me and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

“Damn it,” I muttered, embarrassed that my heart was pounding. I should’ve thought to open the door to shoo them out. Clearly, rodent wrangling was not my specialty. I tiptoed into the darkened hall, trying to listen for squirrel noises, but they had disappeared.

The mystery was solved, but the problem remained. And they were settling in.

Over the next few days, I found almonds in my running shoes, behind the toilet in Dylan’s old bathroom, and in the couch cushions.

“It’s a miracle they aren’t shitting all over the place,” Dylan observed.

“I don’t even want to think about that right now.”

But a few nights later, the tell-tale scratching above our heads made it clear their main residence was the attic.