I’m inside his clothes in his bedroom in his house and my entire body is vibrating at a frequency that should require medical intervention.
For one breathless second, I pretend I’m someone he’d undress slowly. Someone who belongs here. Someone he’d come home to, wrap his arms around, press his face into her hair.
You need to stop. You need to stop right now.
There’s a mirror on the back of the closet door.
I open my eyes. Look at myself.
Blonde hair escaping from under my hat. His tie hanging loose around my neck. His jacket swallowing me whole.
I look like a woman who has completely lost control of her own decisions. I look alive.
The cologne’s on the dresser. I see it in the mirror’s reflection. A black bottle. Simple. Elegant.
Don’t you dare.
I pick it up.
Stevie.
Spray it once.
The scent surrounds me.
STEVIE.
I spray it again.
On my neck. My wrists. Between my breasts, getting ready for a date with my own felony. I’m marinating in his scent.
When I get home, I’ll smell like him. When I sleep tonight, my pillow will smell like him. Tomorrow when I wake up, I’ll be wearing Dario Marchetti like a second skin.
I spray it one more time. Just to make sure. I have officially crossed every line that exists.
This is insane. This is…
I’m having the time of my life.
Which is deeply concerning.
I should be horrified. I should be running. I should be calling Saul and confessing everything and begging to be relocated to a facility with better mental health services.
Instead, I’m huffing Dario’s cologne like it’s a controlled substance.
Okay. Okay. Time to go. You’ve had your fun. You’ve been maximally unhinged. Now put everything back and leave before…
“Yeah, I’ll handle it tomorrow.”
A voice. His voice.
Downstairs.
He’s home.
My blood turns to static.
He’s home. And I’m upstairs wearing his skin.
