Paloma Perez.
I just got out of the shower and my hair is still warm from the blow dryer as I stare at the clock like a desperate ex. It’s past twelve. I’ve peeked out the window more times than I want to admit, half-expecting to see headlights or the shadow of a bike pulling up. Nothing yet.
I pace back to my vanity and double-check everything. The bed is neat, the sheets are smooth. I folded a clean towel for him and left it in the closet. There’s a brand-new toothbrush by the sink—should I have bought clothes too? I don’t know his size. Large, maybe? Do guys like him shave every day? Should I have gotten a kit or something? Deodorant? A pack of shirts?
Paloma. Paloma. Get a hold of yourself.
The rich, buttery smell of Eva’s cooking finds its way into my room. Oh crap. Did I forget
