IaskedLuca to leave. I practicallydemandedto bealone.
Because, typically, whenever I have a bad day… or, in this case,days… I crave only my own company. But sitting here in the shadow of all my boxes, with the stark solitude crushing in on me from all sides… I’ve never felt less like being by myself in my wholedamnlife.
* * *
After I dragmyself out of my morose mental state and into a hot shower, I sleep for so long, I begin to wonder whether I should check with the Surgeon General to find out what length of unconsciousness constitutes anactualcoma.
When I wake, delirious and disoriented, I sit straight up on my half-deflated air mattress with absolutely no concept of how long I’ve been out; it could be five hours or five days, I genuinely couldn’t tell you. Scrambling off the mattress with all the elegance of a drunk girl climbing out of an inflatable inner tube, I lose my balance completely on the dismount and sail face-first toward the floor. My forehead smacks into the unforgiving hardwood with enough force to make my eyeswater.
Ouch.
Normally, there’d be a plush white rug underfoot, to cushion such a tumble. Alas, a cheery girl named Denise drove away with it strapped to the roof of her Miata three days ago, never to be seenagain.
Blinking back tears, I rub my stinging forehead with one hand while the other gropes blindly for my small battery-operated alarm clock — one of my few earthly possessions not yet packed away in cardboard. I can already feel the beginnings of a goose-egg forming. I’ll probably look like a lumpy unicorn in Phoebe’s weddingphotos.
Perfect.
When I locate the alarm clock, I gape at the pale green luminescent numbers. It’s 7:30AM. I’ve lost almost an entire day to slumber. Not that I’m necessarily surprised — I was exhausted after Luca dropped me off yesterday. Physically, mentally,emotionally.
My cheeks heat as fragments of last night’s dreams flicker through my head. My subconscious dredged up more than one steamy fantasy involving maple syrup, my tongue, and a pack of abs so chiseled, they make Joe Manganiello look out ofshape.
Shit, did I sayfantasy?
I meantnightmare.
Definitely, one hundred percent, a total, complete, horrifying,nightmare.
Crap on a cheesestrudel.
It probably didn’t help that, after my shower yesterday, I pulled on the first warm piece of clothing I could find when I crawled into bed to crash — which just so happened to be Luca’s borrowed sweatshirt. I woke in the fetal position with it wrapped around my limbs like a warmembrace.
Ducking my chin down to the collar, I inhale deeply.Damn.It still smells like him. I can almost convince myself he’s here with me as I curl my knees up to my chest and I tuck them inside the massive garment. Fully cocooned, I play with a loose thread on the left cuff and tell myself my pajama selection was due entirely to my reluctance to dig through boxes in search of suitable sleeping attire. Not because I wanted to keep his memory close. Certainly not because just the thought of Luca makes me feel undeniably safe, like nothing bad can happen while he’s standing by my side, ready to singlehandedly fight back mydemons.
Because that would be utterlyridiculous.
Right?
My excuses sound feeble, even to myownears.
A huge yawn cracks my face in two. Truth be told, I probably could’ve slept another few hours, despite the risk of entering a full-on vegetative state. I can’t help wondering why I awakened soquickly—
“Lila!”
Bang!Bang!Bang!
“Come on, Lila,openup!”
Oh,right.
That’swhy.
Someone’s banging on my door with such little patience in his voice, for a moment I’m worried it might be Gordon Ramsey, come to scold me for taking too long on my risotto dish. I scramble upright and race out of my bedroom, down the hallway to the foyer, dodging boxes as I go. When I reach the front door, I hover behind it,listeninghard.
It can’t possiblybehim…
He wouldn’t have the nerve to showuphere…
Not after all the crap hepulled…