Fuck my life.
poppy
. . .
Ikick my shoes off in the entryway and toss my keys into the little bowl on the table—only to miss it completely and hear them clatter onto the floor behind it. Typical.
The good news: my first day at my new job was a success. I didn’t get frustrated and lose my cool. I didn’t get locked out of the system I was literally hired to help secure, and they had a Big Apple Bagel bar in the staff break room. Full spread. Blueberry, asiago, everything, plain, cinnamon raisin—the works. One of the IT guys showed me the secret stash of flavored cream cheese he keeps hidden in the back fridge.
Not bad!
“I’m home!” I call out, expecting the usual silence or maybe the sound of Turner clicking together LEGO pieces or Cash shouting at his Play Station like a giant child.
Instead, I get...
“Hi.”
A voice. Afemalevoice.
I freeze in the middle of peeling off my jacket, blink twice, and slowly turn on my heels toward the living room.
There, perched on the edge of our stupidly expensive leather couch, is a young woman.
A young woman I don’t know.
Averybeautiful young woman I don’t know.
She’s holding her phone and watching me, all dewy-skinned and delicate, like she’s the kind of person who applies sunscreen and drinks nine billion gallons of water per day and walks twice as many steps.
Her long legs are tucked beneath her, her long brown ponytail is shiny and thick, and her sweatshirt and bike shorts are casual in that effortless way that says,flirty. Cute. Young.
“Oh,” I say dumbly. “Hi.”
She smiles. “Hey! You must be Poppy.”
Okay. Alarming.
I glance around like Turner or Cash might be hiding behind the kitchen island, waiting to yellSurprise! One of your roommates brought home a hot stranger!
Who is she?
Why is she here?
Why is she wearing Turner’s hoodie?
My stomach immediately begins to churn with something I’m none-too familiar with: jealousy? Dread?
“I’m waiting for Turner,” she explains. “He’s in the bathroom.”
“Ahh.” It comes out a little too high-pitched, like someone stepped on a rubber duck.
She beams at me like this is a perfectly normal situation—just a random Monday afternoon hangout with a mystery girl in my living room wearing not-my-boyfriend’s clothes.
“Hope you don’t mind me hanging out here while I wait. He’s been in there forever—don’t know what he’s doing.” She snorts. “When I got here he was building that castle he’s been working on for like, ages.”
I nod, wanting to walk away from this conversation but not wanting to be rude.
It’s not rude to walk away, I scold myself. SHE IS NOT YOUR GUEST. SHE IS HIS.
