Tidy up my place, charge my phone, and call Kayla.
Twenty minutes later, the driver pulls the car to a stop, and I settle the fare and walk out.
There’s not a soul in sight.
Not even in the distance.
I check the road one more time, glance up, and eventually enter the building.
My trip up is uneventful.
I unlock the door to my apartment, and the familiar view of my living room enters my line of sight.
It’s like I’ve been gone for a month.
I still like the layout, the Christmas tree, and the velvet pillows on the couch. Although coming from his place, my space looks surreal.
I shed my clothes and heels in the bedroom and slide on some normal clothes––sweatpants and a T-shirt––before heading to the kitchen when something catches my eye.
Two things, actually.
The kitchen towel sits on the counter next to the oven, and I never put it there.
What?
Did I do that last night when I was trying to find something to wear?
No. I wasn’t even in the kitchen.I’d spent most of my time in the closet, looking for clothes.
Then why is the kitchen towel over there?
I pick it up and slide it into the top drawer. That’s where it sits most of the time. I only take it out when I’m cooking.
That hasn’t happened in days.
A strange feeling barrels through me.
So, instead of setting the machine for a cup of coffee, I walk around the kitchen inspecting everything.
All the other stuff seems to be where I left it.
I open the drawers and the cupboards.
Then I check the oven.
Nothing out of the ordinary catches my attention.
I’m getting paranoid for nothing.I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for the misplaced kitchen towel.
Maybe I pulled it out and left it on the counter when I was still shaken up from what had happened in the street.
Who knows?
Sometimes, I need to check the door a couple of times because I can’t snap out of my head and focus on the task at hand.
Still...
I leave the kitchen and walk around my place. I check the bedroom next. The bed is made, and the pillows are where I put them.