Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“No, really,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t mind work, you know that.”
“I know,” she agreed, and I wasn’t imagining the way her tone went down just an octave, going a bit sad. I just pretended to ignore it. “I’m just worried about you on the roads, is all.”
“That’s why I spent weeks researching which SUV to buy when I moved here,” I reminded her. “To make sure I was safe on the snowy roads. And I did put the winter tires on in November,” I added.
I was nothing if not fastidious about the small details of things.
I wasn’t sure Vega’s car had ever seen an oil change or tune-up until I took it and got it done for a small birthday surprise the year before.
“But you’re going to call me when you get there and when you are leaving for home regardless,” she said, standing there holding a half gallon of each, oat milk—for her—and almond milk—for me.
“Always,” I agreed, nodding.
We were good at that.
Checking in with each other.
It didn’t matter that we lived in a really safe area. So safe, in fact, that I hadn’t even locked the door when I’d come in, something that made me immediately stop putting berries in a bowl to clean with some baking soda and water and go to the door to slide the locks. We were two women on our own, after all, so we always called, texted, checked in. Vega, when I was going to or leaving work or even running errands. Me, when Vega was on a date with some random guy she found on an app.
“What are you planning to do all day tomorrow if you’re off?” I asked.
She waved toward the TV before folding the canvas bags back up. “Game. Eat. Sleep. Be lazy. You know me,” she said with a wink.
Vega liked to think of herself as a rampant underachiever. And she was, in some ways. But she was also the most fiercely capable woman I’d ever met. You know… when she wanted to be. Which wasn’t very often, but when the mood struck, it was something to behold.
“Go on,” she said, swatting my hands away when I tried to take over the berry soaking again. “Go get changed. Take your bath. I will finish this.”
I wanted to object.
It wasn’t something I really had control over, that compulsive need to do it myself, to make sure it was done right.
So I had to remind myself that Vega could handle it.
“Thanks,” I said, giving her a smile and trying not to think about how she had to let the fruit soak for the right amount of time for the pesticides, herbicides, dirt, and possible bugs to be truly cleaned off, and how if she didn’t, we’d be consuming all of that, and what that might mean for our health in the future, and…
In for five, hold for four, out for six.
My little breathing reminder, the thing that helped keep my anxieties at bay.
In for five, hold for four, out for six.
After I did it five times, I could feel the anxiety slipping away, could hear some quiet in my mind once again.
The fruit would be fine.
And I really did want my bath.
It was just one of many little routines I had. Ones that Vega knew about. And hardly ever mentioned, even if I knew she thought they were over the top.
Vega was someone who could brush her teeth, dry shampoo her hair, get dressed, and head out the door five minutes before she was due at work, figuring she could always shower when she got home.
I couldn’t imagine being that carefree.
And, in turn, she couldn’t imagine being as anal as I was.
But she was kind enough never to mention it.
The rest of the night was full of my little routines.
Bathe, wash my hair, clean the tub, have a light dinner, wash dishes, wipe down the counters. Then read a little while before my bedtime routines. Wash my face, put on serums, brush teeth, wipe down the sink and counters. Set out my clothes for the next day. Double-check my alarm, the coffee pot, the locks on the doors, the robot vacuum that would start doing his job the second Vega and I both went to our rooms for the night. Then, finally, climb into bed.
Where my thoughts would start to spiral.
Mostly with things I needed to do the next day.
Like strip the bed. It was on day three on those sheets, blankets, and duvet cover. I’d have to toss them in before breakfast, then put them in the dryer before I left for work.
The idea of sleeping on four-day-old bedding made my skin feel itchy.
But, I reminded myself, it was much better than needing to strip, wash, dry, and make the bed every single day, like I used to have to do when I first moved in.