She sat down heavily on the couch. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping the oversized flannel around her legs. You should have left me on the curb," she muttered, her eyes drifting shut. "It's where I belong anyway. " Before Owen could respond, she fell over onto the pillow. Within seconds, her breathing leveled out into the deep, heavy rhythm of alcohol-induced sleep.
Owen stood in the quiet apartment. He walked over, pulled the fleece blanket over her shoulders, and turned off the living room light. He walked to the second bedroom. He pushed the door open gently. Maya was sprawled across her twin bed.
A stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm. Her chest rose and fell evenly. The cough was gone. Owen sat on the floor next to her bed, leaning his back against the wall. He pulled his knees up, resting his arms on them.
He was exhausted. His bones achd. He had a billionaire sleeping on his couch, a negative balance pending in his checking account, and he had to be at work at 8 y. He closed his eyes, listening to his daughter breathe, and waited for the morning to come. Consciousness returned to Evelyn Mercer like a physical blow.
It started behind her eyes, a sharp, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Then came the taste. Her mouth tasted like copper, stale gin, and regret. She tried to swallow, but her throat was sandpaper. She opened her eyes and was immediately assaulted by the glaring, unfiltered morning light streaming through a set of cheap plastic blinds.
She squeezed her eyes shut, groaning. The surface beneath her was lumpy. The air smelled of burnt toast and generic laundry detergent. This was not her penthouse. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of her hangover.
Evelyn sat up too fast. The room spun wildly. She grabbed the edge of the cushions, grounding herself. She looked down. She wasn't wearing her emerald dress.
She was buried inside a massive, faded gray flannel shirt. Memory hit her in fractured, agonizing shards. The ballroom, the shattered martini glass, Richard's smug face, the freezing loading dock, a cab ride, a man with tired eyes and a cheap suit. Owen, she looked around. The living room was minuscule.
The walls were painted a dull, lifeless beige, chipped around the baseboards. A tower of unopened mail and final notice bills sat on a scuffed coffee table. Next to the bills was a brightly colored plastic triceratops. "You snore! " Evelyn jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. She whipped her head toward the sound.
A little girl was standing in the hallway archway. She looked about 6 years old, wearing mismatched pajamas, one leg pink, the other covered in cartoon frogs. Her hair was a tangled mess of dark curls. She was holding a bowl of dry generic brand cereal, chewing loudly. Evelyn stared at her.
She didn't do children. She barely knew how to interact with her peers, let alone a creature that hadn't grasped basic corporate strategy. "I do not snore," Evelyn said, her voice raspy and defensive. The girl shrugged, popping another handful of cereal into her mouth. "Dad said you were sick.