Page 4 of Roughing It

Chapter2

Eden

Isleep through my alarm. Because ofcourseI do.

I both regret and thank past-me for giving Flor a key because I wake up to her standing over me, her nose about two inches from mine. I let out a small yelp, and she grimaces, pulling back.

“You can have ten minutes to get dressed. And for the love of god,” she adds, moving back so I can swing my legs over the couch, “brush your damn teeth.”

I ignore her because there’s no way she doesn’t wake up in the morning with ass-mouth just like the rest of us plebs. She might look like she’s ready for a runway show in her formfitting Gucci top, but she still sucks her husband’s dick and gets carpet burns on her knees just like the rest of us.

The thought makes me laugh, and I’m not surprised that she follows me down the hall and into my bedroom. “What’s so funny?”

“Just thinking about you with morning dick breath,” I tell her.

She laughs and gives me a shove toward the bed, where I’d laid out my travel clothes the night before. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I shrug. “It makes me feel better when I remember you’re not perfect.” I catch her gaze in the mirror above my dresser, and like always, the look in her eyes is sad.

“I hate when you think—”

“I know,” I interrupt. We’ve had enough nights where too much wine made me overly honest, so she knows exactly how insecure I am about myself. And I appreciate her support of me, but I don’t need a pep talk right now.

What I need is to get dressed, brush my hair, and… yeah, okay, I need to brush my teeth. Closing the bathroom door, I quickly strip out of my pajamas and throw them in the hamper. I can hear her rooting through my stuff—I hear the laugh when she peeks in my dildo drawer—and then I catch the sound of her in my closet, pulling clothes from their hangers.

“Flor,no. I’m already packed,” I call through the door as I hop on one foot to get the other into the leg of my jeans.

“Just making a couple of suggestions. You never know when you’ll need a cocktail dress, babe!”

“I don’t need a cocktail dress for the mountains,” I call back, knowing full well she’s going to ignore me.

She laughs. “Please. You might need a cocktail dress anywhere. I refuse to let you go unprepared.”

I shake my head and ignore her as I run the tap, then shove my toothbrush into my mouth and hope the sonic vibrations can dislodge whatever’s making it taste so disgusting. It takes me only a second after that to fix my hair. I don’t have time for a shower, so I coat it in dry shampoo, then quickly twist it into my usual braid.

It’s always thicker and coarser during the humid, rainy season, and I try to tame the little baby hairs along my hairline, but there’s no point. Every now and again, when I stare at myself, I do wonder about where it all came from.

The little DNA outline from the test could only give me so much.

Half of my genetics come from people scattered across northern Europe, the other half listed as “South Asian” without any way to pinpoint the exact location. When I tried to get more information, the woman on the phone just politely explained that the test couldn’t get more specific than that—especially regarding my paternal line.

But, she had said with a smile in her voice as though she was solving my problem, why don’t I try reaching out to some of my relatives?

Like sure, Melanie, my fourth cousin twice removed, who lives in London, wants to have a chat with the random woman on the internet who claims to have her same great-grandmother.

Ah, the joys of adoption.

I double-check my medicine cabinet to make sure I’ve grabbed all my travel supplies, then head back into my room to find a pile of my most expensive clothes on my bed. Flor’s standing there staring at them like she’s trying to solve the issue of world peace.

“No,” I tell her. I walk over and wrap my hand around her wrist. “I don’t need any of this.”

“What if you meet someone and get asked to a fancy dinner?” she whines.

This is fairly common. Flor has taken it upon herself to find me a man, especially after John, but it’s getting exhausting because she knows the worst people in the world. The rich elite in her social circle don’t exactly look at me like I’m a catch. With me, they’re slumming it. And I’m just not interested in being someone’s little toy or, god forbid, theirShe’s All That-style project.

But if I know Flor, I know she won’t relent until I give a little. “How about this? I’ll let you buy me something at the lodge boutique if my dream man happens to be there this weekend.”

She brightens. No better way to put her off one idea than by the promise of shopping. “Oh yes, they have the cutest-looking little shop there. You’re going todie.”

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