1
The Downer
Poppy
It’smyfirstdayin a new town, and I’m naked.
I blink my eyes firmly shut before batting them back open and glancing around, hoping this is a dream. But I’m on the same rickety deck behind my half of the duplex I just moved into. The air conditioning unit I came outside to check is still coughing and wheezing as if it were limping to the end of a marathon with minimal training. It’s rattling, and the entire unit is shaking—which, subsequently, is causing my entire bathroom to vibrate, hence the naked check-up.
In other news, the birds are chirping. The sun is blinding. I can faintly hear the trickle of the creek that runs along the lot line of the backyard.
So no, I’m not dreaming.
I’m nightmaring in real life.
I should clarify that the only bright spot in my current circumstances—and I’m only seeing it because I’m mentally squinting really, really hard and cocking my head to one side to make it out—is that I’m not actually naked. Well, notfullynaked.
I’m in a towel.
A skimpy, threadbare towel that’s barely covering my unmentionable regions and might be a bit see-through.
Like I said, I’m really working to see the silver lining here—or in the case of my towel, the lack of any lining whatsoever.
I blow out a breath, trying to quell the sweat that’s beading on every inch of my body. My shower was basically pointless at this point, and I wanted to look my best before I saw Holland off. It’s not even eight a.m. and already the day is a scorcher. I thought I was leaving these sorts of heat indexes behind when I moved away from Florida, but apparently Cashmere Cove, Wisconsin didn’t get the memo.
That, or the little peninsula town I now call home is immune to the climate norms of this part of the country.
Anyway, that’s not the point. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I’m naked.
And afraid.
I roll my eyes. Sometimes my inner monologue is ridiculous. I’m notafraidafraid—at least not yet. But this situation has the potential to spiral into full-fledged terrifying in a fast hurry, so I need to think.
Good thing problem-solving mode is my thing. I can figure this out.
Let’s assess the facts.
One. The back door to my duplex seems to have locked automatically when it snapped shut behind me.
Two. I’m in my mostly private backyard. There’s a wooden wall that goes up to my chin separating my half of the deck from my neighbor’s.
Three. My sister is inside the duplex.
Four. I’ve got about thirty minutes before Holland gets here, which means I’ve got thirty minutes to get ready and make myself into something that he’ll miss while he’s out on tour.
The sassy side of my brain says I should stay like this, walk around to the front of the duplex, and wait for him on the porch in the towel. Should do the trick right quick.
The focused part of my brain just punched the sassy part of my brain in the face.
Holland and I donothave that type of a relationship—not yet, anyway. We’ve only been dating for two months.
A queasy feeling wells up in my stomach at the thought of my circumstances. And I’m not talking about my half-naked-and-locked-out predicament.
No. Every time I remember that I moved across the country to the hometown of a guy who I’ve been dating for less time than it takes Starbucks to cycle through a seasonal drink menu, I feel a little sick.
I blink again and go through my mental spiel. I didn’t movejustfor Holland. Sure, the fact that this is his home base and I’ll have the chance to see him when he’s off tour is a bonus. His roots here are a major perk. They’re the reason I was able to land my dream job.
That’s my main motivation—the job I was offered and gladly accepted.
