Page 61 of Little Sunshine

Memories of the day before—of the previous few days—slammed into me, and I instantly missed that hazy space I’d been floating in. Not quite awake but also not asleep. I wanted to live there, relaxed and pain-free.

Instead, I’d been catapulted into consciousness by an aching body and panic about a job I no longer had.

I flopped back and hid my head under a pillow, willing my heart rate to slow and my brain to shut up, but it didn’t work.

I was awake.

And starving.

Unlike the bed’s comfort, the room’s luxury, and the bizarre feeling of getting enough sleep, I was used to the hunger pain.

I could ignore it.

So long as I didn’t think about cake.

I couldn’t, however, ignore the nagging in my head that I was being lazy. I didn’t even know what time it was, but I knew I needed to get up and do…

Something.

I stood carefully, but again, it wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated. I was sore. Swollen. I probably looked like hell. But there was no lightheadedness. No nausea. No tunnel vision.

For the first time in a long time, I woke up feeling… rested.

Along with the sore, swollen, and beaten.

I got attacked and somehow feel better than I do on a normal morning.

After using the bathroom and freshening up, I grabbed my clothes from where I’d left them on the bathroom floor. My skin itched at the thought of putting them back on. Like I was about to don a bathing suit made entirely of human hair.

It wasn’t because of the awful memories attached to the outfit. If I threw out clothes every time I had a bad day, my limited wardrobe would be gone in a week.

It was just that the clothes were filthy. I still smelled faintly of a sweet pastry from my shower the night before. I didn’t want to replace that pleasing scent with brick wall and tiny-dicked douchebag. I also didn’t want to leave a dirt trail in Ash’s house.

I planned to clean it, not trash it.

Doing my laundry was a smart place to start.

After putting on my shoes—because being in pajamas while barefoot felt too comfortable—I gathered the load and made my way out into the hallway. It took me a second to remember which way we’d come since I’d been basically sleepwalking, but I had it.

Or so I thought.

Because rather than a stairwell that led into the kitchen, I turned the corner at the end of the hall to find a loft that overlooked the entryway and front door. Open and inviting, the sitting room had yet another TV, comfortable chairs, and a dark wooden bar. The far wall was all windows, letting loads of sunlight into the cool space. I continued walking to peek around the corner, seeing yet another hall.

Forget how many TVs there are…

How many rooms are in this place?

Backtracking, I went down the U-shaped stairs, feeling more out of place than a pig in a ballroom.

Not that the house was decorated like a fussy ballroom. There was no chandelier. No ugly artwork. No garish gold details at every turn that tried to jam wealth down my throat.

It was cool and masculine and classy in a natural way without trying too hard.

But like Ash’s bedroom, it was comfortable, too. Made to be lived in rather than looked at.

My cleaning plan is going to be harder than I thought.

As curious as I was about the rest of the house, self-preservation took priority.

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