Page 10 of Sunny Undone

But it looks like I’m getting the adventure I was looking for, regardless.

4

DELLA

The ceiling isn’t mine, and for a second, that’s all I know.

I don’t remember where I am or how I got here. Just that the ceiling above me doesn’t belong to any of the places my brain is searching through.

It’s smooth and freshly painted in a pale cream color that catches the early-morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, and I stare at it while my thoughts untangle themselves from sleep.

The room smells different.

Laundry detergent that isn’t mine.

Sheets that aren’t as smooth as mine but not as rough as the motel’s.

And—

I gasp.

I’m at Sunny’s house. And every memory clamors to be remembered after that.

The wetlands. Creeping around in the moonlight in my favorite place, trying to get samples, unseen. Until I heard branches snap beneath footsteps. Pausing to listen in the darkness, only to hear a stifled sneeze.

Running. Because I wasn’t taking any chances with whoever made that sound. Yes, I’d made assumptions about their intent, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Flagging down a man on a motorcycle. Making the decision that this stranger was a safer bet than the one I ran from.

My motel room being ransacked.

The loss of my notebooks.

“Oh, God,” I whisper quietly as I rub my eyes. I hope whoever has my journals is treating them kindly.

My mom always tells me to trust my intuition, but I find that such a foreign concept. Your gut can’t speak. It isn’t some mystical force. It’s pattern recognition. A thousand tiny observations of life compiling themselves into a conclusion before I’m even aware an opinion has been formed.

Usually, it’s right. Sometimes it isn’t.

But today, it’s telling me I’m in trouble and that I can, somehow, trust Sunny.

I force myself to sit up, and from this angle, I can see out beyond the tree line to the water. I look at it and take five deep breaths, one after the other, until the tight feeling in my chest dissipates.

The scent of coffee drifts into the room. It smells good and strong, and my stomach grumbles. I glance at my phone, which I managed to remember to plug in before I fell asleep.

It’s after nine. I haven’t eaten or drunk in fourteen hours, and it’s a wonder that the world doesn’t feel tilted. I’m useless when I haven’t eaten.

Suddenly, loud rock music blasts throughout the house. It’s so loud, I swear I can feel the vibrations of it through the bed frame. I guess that means Sunny is awake.

Throwing the covers back, I assess my pajamas. They are made from bamboo. Environmentally friendly, breathable, and, more importantly, soft against my skin. They made the whole sleeping-in-coarse-sheets thing more bearable. But I dated a guy who told me it looked like I was sleeping in a mud-colored sack when I wore them.

I wonder what Sunny will make of them.

I trudge down the stairs, the music getting louder, round the corner into the kitchen, and stop so abruptly, I stumble.

Sunny is standing in the yard just outside the sliding doors, balancing on one leg on one of those BOSU balls.

Naked.