Page 20 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Trailing down the hall, I open the door to my room. It’s been set up as a guest room, as bland as can be. A large, beige bed. A beige rug under my feet. Famous hockey players’ photos on two of the walls. A large window that looks out on another apartment building. I open the walk-in closet to find a surprising amount of space in here, too.
Stacked against the walls are my boxes, stacked two or three high. The room will do just fine, but if this were actually my space, I would make some very different design choices. I sip my latte and have a bite of my bagel as I plan my unpacking.
I start putting things where I judge they should go. First a new purple silk comforter and pearly silk sheets on the bed. Throw pillows, a soft plush gray rug in the ensuite bathroom.
My desk gets placed precisely in front of the living room window where the light is best for working. My flamingo lamp, a vintage find from last year that cost me a week's worth of tips, stands proud beside my desk. My bar cart, inherited from my grandmother and restored with love and several YouTube tutorials, gleams in the corner of the living room like a promise of future coping mechanisms.
I’m standing on my tiptoes trying to reach the top shelf in one of the hallway cabinets when I feel him behind me.
Close. Too close.
“Let me get it,” he says, voice low and much too near my ear.
I flinch as his arm reaches past me, the warmth of his chest brushing my back. He’s not even touching me, not really, but I feel the heat of him everywhere. His hand wraps around the box I was struggling with. His fingers are long, steady, casually powerful. I have literally the worst thought imaginable.
I wonder what those hands would feel like on my hips.
I step away fast. Too fast. The box tips slightly. I lose my balance on the balls of my feet. I stumble backward and crash into him.
Hunter catches me without hesitation. One arm around my waist, the other gripping my wrist. His body is solid behind mine. Hard muscle. Bare forearms. He smells like soap and skin and something faintly woodsy, and I want to die.
My breath comes out sharp. His hand doesn’t move.
Neither does mine.
We stay like that for a second too long. Maybe two.
Then he lets go.
“You good?” he says, already stepping back like he didn’t just short-circuit every nerve ending in my body.
“Fine,” I lie, because the truth is not an option.
I smooth my shirt, grab the box from where it landed and bolt for the bedroom like I’m not thinking about the size of his hands or the way his breath hit the back of my neck.
God, I hate him.
I really, really hate him.
Lastly, I unpack my clothes and shoes into the closet. Because I moved so recently, I knew just how to pack and unpack with a precise economy of movement. Dresses, skirts, pants, and tops are already on their hangers. Shoes are packed in the order of which they should be lined up. I’m done with my closet in under twenty minutes.
I take a breath, trying to ground myself in the familiar ritual of organizing my space. Creating order from chaos has always been my way of maintaining control when everything else feels uncertain. Italmostworks.
The movers were efficient and careful with my belongings, which is more than I can say for Hunter, who's now wandering around the condo like he's conducting some kind of inspection. He touches things without asking, opens cabinets that don't belong to him, and generally makes his presence known in ways that set my teeth on edge.
It's surreal being here. Rehearsing a proposal I never got, setting up house with a man I barely tolerate, faking a love story I never asked to be part of. The longer I stand next to him, the more the lines blur between performance and punishment. I'm not here to fall in love. I'm here to protect a man who's never protected me, and every time I'll have to smile for the cameras, it's going to feel like selling a piece of myself I can't afford to lose.
That's when Hunter opens a kitchen cabinet and starts laughing. Actually laughing, like something is genuinely hilarious.
"Did you actually label the spice bins?"
I don't look up from carrying my coffee maker into the kitchen, a French press that's one of my most prized possessions. "Touch anything and I'll stab you with the label maker."
He almost smiles. For a second, he looks less like the intimidating enforcer and more like a regular guy who finds my organizational habits amusing rather than annoying. "You're terrifying."
"Good. I like when I’m in charge."
He wanders into the living room and lifts one of my mid-century table lamps, examining it like it's some kind of alien artifact. His hands look enormous around the delicate crystal base. "Is this supposed to be art?"
