Page 44 of Red Zone
13
LYLA
“USE PROTECTION!” I yell from the porch as Madison jogs toward Jaxon’s truck, phone in hand and the world’s most smug expression on her face.
She lifts a middle finger in response and blows me a kiss, not even bothering to turn around.
I shake my head and laugh, but it’s a thin sound. Hollow around the edges.
The second the door shuts behind me, the silence is loud.
I head straight for the bathroom and start what’s supposed to be my everything shower—body scrub, hair mask, full reset. But the second I step under the water, something in my chest tightens. I scrub harder than usual. Wash my hair twice. Then three times. I shave, even though I don’t need to, just to keep moving.
The steam fogs up the mirror and coats the walls, but I don’t step out. I just stand there under the spray, forehead pressed to the tile, trying to force the thoughts out of my head.
What if I can’t keep this together?
What if this is a mistake?
What if I ruin everything?
By the time I get out, the bathroom feels like a sauna. My towel clings to my skin. My hands are trembling, but I ignore it.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I towel off just enough to stop dripping, then braid my wet hair fast and messy, and step into my room.
That’s when it starts.
The desk is cluttered. I didn’t notice it before, but now it’s all I can see. I move to straighten the piles—assignments, notebooks, pens—except one pen is missing a cap, and now I can’t think about anything else.
I drop to the floor and start pulling open drawers.
Where’s the damn cap?
By the time I find it, my chest is tight. Like I’ve run five miles uphill. My muscles buzz with tension. I don’t sit down. I clean.
Fast. Frantic.
Dresser. Closet. Nightstand.
Every drawer gets reorganized. Shoes lined up perfectly. Water glasses removed and put in the sink. The smell of bleach stings my nose, but I keep going.
The coffee table has rings on it.
The throw pillows are off-center.
The rug has a wrinkle.
Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.
By the time I wipe down the entire kitchen counter—for the second time—my braid has soaked through the back of my T-shirt. My hands shake as I line up three mugs on the drying rack.
Perfect.
Almost.
