Page 49 of Gunnar

Besides, Alexandria, I remind myself as I open the kitchen door. You’re hardly an expert on male interest.

I’ve misread things before.

Men notice girls like me.

We’re interesting. Good to talk to. We sit at the end of the bar arguing about politics while everyone else flirts.

They laugh. They lean in. They tell you you’re different.

And when it’s time to leave, they take your friend home instead.

When I open the front door, cold air rushes in.

I walk down the crumbling steps and make it ten yards before I stop.

It’s freaking cold.

I want my autonomy back, yes. But not so badly I’m going to freeze my ass off.

I’m restless though, eager to burn off some nervous energy.

I head back inside and look around.

Maybe I’ll clean up a little.

I open the cupboard under the sink. No cloths—just a pile of torn-up shirts. I pick one up and give it a cautious sniff.

Good enough.

I find some detergent and start on the counters.

The place isn’t as bad as I expected. Someone’s been keeping on top of it.

I glance at the stove. Clean. Sink too. Floor swept recently.

Gunnar, I guess.

By the time I’m done, the rag has turned grey. I rinse it out and look around for the next problem.

Clothes.

That’s what.

I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that all I have is the gym kit I’m wearing and the filthy uniform stuffed into my backpack.

I glance toward the hallway.

How do they even wash their clothes out here without electricity?

I peer into the utility room.

Shelves line the walls, stacked with what looks like half the contents of a hardware store.

But nothing for laundry.

Maybe the mountain men of this establishment don’t believe in it.

Nobody smells bad though.