Page 2 of You've Got Hate Mail
“Get a towel, wrap it around your head, grab the robe, and see if the toilet will flush.”
Yes.
Yes, I can do this. I can problem-solve.
Do it, Cricket.
Do it.
“Okay, okay,” I whisper back to myself. “Count of three.”
One…
Two…
Three…
I poke my hand out from behind the shower curtain and pat the wall until my fingers connect with the towel hanging on a hook.
And now I’m flashing back—dammit.
No.
No moreflashing.
I’mrememberingmy brilliant idea of filming a segment about the general horrible placement of bathroom towel racks and hooks for my lifestyle series on Cheeky-Cheeky, the media company I work for.
Worked for.
“That’s over, Cricket. It’s over.”
Yeah, I don’t believe myself.
It willneverbe over.
Not in the digital era.
But I have to pick myself back up sometime, so I yank the towel into the tub with me and make quick work of wrapping my soapy hair inside of it before shampoo bubbles drip in my eyes.
It’s a good towel.
Nice and thick.
Comforting, even if it’s heavy enough that my neck is protesting. Three days of driving and sleeping in my car on my way from Chicago to Sonoma clearly took its toll on my body.
“Next step, the robe,” I murmur.
I reach out of the shower again, patting beyond the wall to the door, where a stupidly luxurious silk robe that I found in the closet here is waiting for me on the hook on the back of the door.
I reach.
Reach farther.
Just a little more…
I blow out a heavy breath. “This is stupid, Cricket,” I whisper to myself, barely audible over the sound of the fan. “You’re alone.”
Except for the women in the house a stone’s throw from this little cottage that they’re letting you stay in while you hide.
