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I wipe at my eyes, clearing the water from my lashes and stare at the soggy hundred-dollar bill on the tub ledge, where my body wash should be.
“What the hell?”
I pick it up, the real currency not disintegrating under my wet grip.
Did he…
Did he really take my body wash?
A new sort of warmth starts at my hips and works its way up to my chest.
This shouldn’t make me feel…
I shouldn’t like that he did that.
But my body does.
My heart rate speeds up and a different type of dampness gathers between my thighs.
Stop it!
I clench my eyes shut.
Just stop it, Payton!
Reaching up, I drop the bill over the top of the curtain and it falls to the bathmat on the other side.
The stranger that climbed in through my second-story patio door, sat on my couch, watched my favorite movie and ate my popcorn––the man who went through my mail and learned my name, and apparently walked through my whole apartment while I slept; also, the same man who woke me up from a nightmare with his hand on my bare skin, shushing me, which should’ve terrified me, instead calming me–– stole my body wash. Or rather, he paid one hundred dollars in exchange for taking my half-used miniature bottle of body wash. A bottle I splurged on because I loved the dusky rose scent, but could only afford the smallest size.
I bite my lip.
I can buy the bigger bottle now.
My lips pull into a smile.
I should probably call the police.
My smile falters.
Filling my palm, I lather up my hands with the store-brand face wash I use. If it cleans my face, it should clean my body.
Scrubbing, then rinsing, I turn off the water and pointedly ignore the part of my brain that tells me to report thecrime.
Gingerly, I set the money on my bathroom counter before I quickly swipe some concealer under my eyes.
I pretend my hands aren’t shaking as I put my hair in a quick braid, and roughly scrub a towel over my bangs so they’ll air dry somewhat straight.
Convincing myself this is just another day, I race around my room throwing on clothes, trying not to think about the fact that he was probably in this room too. He had to be. If he went through the stuff in my shower, there’s no way he didn’t go into my bedroom.
What did he look at?
What did he touch?
But I don’t see anything out of order. And I don’t find any more money in place of missing items, so I don’t think he took anything else.
Tension prickles the back of my neck as I hurry out of my apartment and down the stairs to the first floor. Rushing out of my building, I find the Uber I requested waiting for me.
Only when my butt hits the seat, and I’ve pulled the car door shut, do I glance around the street.
