Page 59 of The Rust in Her Hair

Thankfully, the hallway is the same one from yesterday. The photos are still there: the green-haired woman, the wedding, the three men on the dock. Something in me unknots at the sight of them. I don't know why, but I half-expected to open that door and find myself somewhere else entirely, like I had been abducted by aliens or something.

But this is the same house. The same hall. I'm still here.

A television murmurs from the living room with a man's voice, low and even, narrating. Something about the migration patterns of some bird, the words rolling out in that soothing documentary cadence.

I follow it down the hall and step into the living room.

Owen sits on the couch, a book open in his hands, the TV on in front of him. He looks rested. Showered and dressed. Nothing like the wrecked man from last night.

I hate that I caused so much trouble for him.

"Good morning," I say and he looks up.

A smile breaks across his face, and he sets the book down on his knee.

"Good morning." He stands, tucking the book onto the arm of the couch.

He's wearing a dark blue polo tucked neatly into dark denim jeans, the same put-together way he dresses for the library. It makes me smile. The man is home on his own couch and still buttoned up like he might get called into a meeting.

I doubt he owns a pair of sweatpants.

"Is anyone else here?" I ask, glancing toward the quiet kitchen.

"Just us. It's Monday," he says with a smile. "You slept through most of Sunday. Nico's at work."

Monday?

Damn.

My hand comes up to my mouth. "I can’t believe I slept that long," I say with a small laugh. "I guess I was tired."

Owen huffs a soft laugh, watching me with a warmth that makes my face heat. Like he finds my reaction a little bit funny or endearing.

"Well, you needed it," he says simply.

I nod, not sure what to say.

"Your clothes are in the wash," Owen points toward the back of the house. "I saw that you had some money with them, so I set that aside for you. It’s in the junk drawer in the kitchen."

I nod, pretending like I know what a junk drawer is. I really hope it’s labeled.

"So, why aren't you at work?" I ask, trying to will some of my nerves away.

"I took the day off," he says. "I wanted to be here when you woke up."

Something in me goes soft at the thought. He stayed home. For me.

Then I immediately stop the feeling in its tracks. He has a husband. Whatever this warm, fuzzy thing is that keeps rising up inside my chest needs to back the hell up.

He. Is. Married.

"Can I make you something to eat?" Owen is already moving toward the kitchen. "You've got to be starving."

"I can feed myself,” I say, not wanting to be a bother. "You've done enough."

I follow him as far as the kitchen doorway.

It's a small room, barely big enough for more than a few people to stand in without bumping elbows. The countertops are a yellow laminate, a little worn at the edges. The cabinets are white with mismatched knobs, and mugs hanging from hooks underneath them.