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Chapter One
PAIGE
One of these houses is mine. I’m just not exactly surewhichone.
A sigh pushes out, weighty and exhausted, from deep in my chest. The sun set hours ago, back when I was still on the highway. Trying to read the tiny print on each of these mailboxes isn’t easy after staring out the windshield for the past two days. My eyes practically crackle, begging me to close them.
Sleep. Just go to sleep.
“That one! I…I think.”
I pull up alongside the curb, letting the heavy engine rumble on as I flip through photos on my phone. Martin sent me a picture two weeks ago, a selfie of him with a large tan house behind him that looks like the one I’ve stopped in front of. Unfortunately, the homes on either side of it are mirror reflections.
Normally, Martin’s preference for uniformity doesn’t bother be. Tonight, though, I wish he had picked a weird bungalow with daisies painted on the siding and a turquoise front door. Just so I know, without a hint of a doubt, that I am parking in front ofmyhouse.
And I am definitely parking because I need to pick one of these clone homes before I drive myself mad puttering around this neighborhood all night.
As I shut down the engine, the whole car settles as if she’s ready to sleep for the night.
“Enjoy your rest, Penelope,” I mutter to the steering wheel.
I need a bed bad. A pounding started in my temples way before I even crossed the Louisiana/Mississippi border. The headache comes courtesy of long hours in the car paired with my hair being pulled up into a high, messy bun. I’d let the heavy mass down if I wasn’t terrified of its condition. Two days’ worth of greasiness has built up. I doubt removing my hairband would even do anything. The hair would likely continue sitting on top of my head, permanently reshaped.
My priorities have changed: before a bed, I need a shower. The vision of scrubbing a thick lather of shampoo into my scalp plays in my brain like a porno. I can imagine the transformation of the knotted mess into its normal smooth cascade.
“Butter on bread,”my mom always says when she affectionately tugs on a strand.
Not sure I approve of being compared to a boring slice of white bread, but I take comfort in the fact that she’s simply referring to my complexion and hair color rather than my personality.
When I push the car door open, the heavy New Orleans air embraces me. It is almost as warm and wet as an actual shower but nowhere near as refreshing. The humidity sits on my skin, weighing me down as I trudge up the front walk of a house that I hope is mine.
The easy solution would’ve been to just call Martin on Friday night when I decided to change my travel plans. That way my fiancé would be waiting out on the porch, ready to wave me down.
Instead, I chose the surprise method. I’d like to convince myself that this is a romantic gesture.
I just couldn’t stay away from you for two more weeks!
In reality, my silence arises from shame. Whenever I let my thumb hover over his number, I couldn’t even imagine how the conversation would go.
“Hey, honey! Guess what? I lost my job!” I whisper under my breath and pause with my foot on the bottom step leading up to the elevated porch.
Well, I guess Icouldsay that.
Now that I’m here, potentially a few steps away from Martin, the words don’t seem so inadequate. Depressing? Yeah sure. But I can clearly envision his face, how his blond brows will dip in the middle as he scowls. Notatme butwithme. I can taste the glass of red wine he’ll pour me as he rages over the unfair treatment.
That’s when I realize why the need for surprise. I don’t actually want totalkabout how I got fired from my dream job. All I want is to see my anger reflected in the face of my partner. To feel connected to him in a way I haven’t in a while.
With the moving plans, and Martin preparing to start his residency down here, and me trying to finish up all my large projects before going remote, we’ve barely talked. I can’t even remember the last time I looked him in the eyes during a conversation. We usually just shout to each other from opposite rooms.
And sex? Well…it’s been some time.
As I knock on the mystery door I hope is mine, I make a resolution. Whether I find Martin in this clone house or the one next door or the next street over, when I finally locate my fiancé, the first thing I’m going to do is stare deep into his eyes. I’ll hold his gaze until our connection is firmly reestablished. Then—after a shower—I’m going to jump his bones.
Light spills into the dark night from around the edges of the curtains. At least that means whoever lives here, hopefully Martin, is still awake. After the polite taps of my knock ring out, the steady pad of footsteps sound behind the door. I brace myself, ready to stare my fiancé down.
Only, Martin doesn’t open the door.
A small slim woman dressed in a robe stands before me. She is adorably petite. I could practically fit her in my pocket. Her bare feet peek out from under the floor-length robe, and her long brown hair lays in a damp mass over her shoulders.
