38. Blue Tassels

There’s crust in my eyes. 

I slide a hand out from under my head to wipe them away, but a ghost sensation is left behind and doesn’t leave, no matter how hard I rub. I drop my hand with a defeated sigh. 

Instead of landing against the mattress, it slides to hang off the bed. 

Huh? 

My bed sits against the far wall of my room, and I tuck myself as close to that wall as possible, still convinced my tossing and turning will send me tumbling to my doom if I sleep too close to the edge. 

So why is my arm dangling off the edge? 

My eyes are still a bit glued together from the crust, but I pry them open. 

This isn’t my apartment. 

For a panicky moment, I’m not sure what this place is. 

Has it finally happened? Has a hooligan been stalking me and decided to strike, grabbing me from my bed, chloroforming me before I could wake up and fight back, and dragged me to his … weirdly well-designed and comfortable lair? Oh my god, did they get Doug, too?! What about–

A blue pillow stalls the Dateline episode playing out in my head. 

A blue throw pillow, with short, almost playful tassels hanging from each corner, sitting in the corner of an armchair across the room. 

Miranda’s chair. 

We’ve only had two “She-Ra” nights, as the girls call them, but in those two nights I feel like I’ve collected two dozen memories of Miranda in that chair, with that pillow. 

Gently squeezing it, watching the girls jump around to the theme song. 

Stroking the soft silk as the girls argue about who’d been the worse friend, Catra or Adora. 

Twirling a tassel, an amused smile on her face as she nixed their feeble arguments to stay up later and watch another episode. 

I’m in Miranda’s house. And just like that, the whole affair comes flooding back. Though I’m not sure why I’m still on Miranda’s couch. 

The last thing I remember is relaxing into the corner of the couch, my feet tucked under me, listening to Miranda eviscerate a Survivor contestant’s strategy. 

Now, I’m completely sprawled out, with a throw pillow under my head, and a blanket tucked around me that definitely wasn’t there the night before. 

A swell of hope surges like a wave in my chest, forcing a gasp from my lips, but I push it down. Away. 

Silly hope is what got me into this mess, a week of torture, confusion, and despair. I can’t do it again. 

I won’t. 

I really shouldn’t. 

I sit up, tossing the blanket off of me and finding my resolve. Part of that resolve is deciding to ignore that small, unsquashable, unshovable droplet of hope. 

It simply doesn’t exist, I tell myself as I stand. 

Liar, that small, definitely not there, inescapable drop whispers. 

  Like a godsend, the smell of coffee floating through the air distracts me from things I definitely should not be thinking about. I follow it, my steps stumbling, and at some point my hip grazes a dresser and nearly sends a no doubt priceless vase crashing to the floor. 

Nearly. 

I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, but I must still be asleep, because there’s no way this is real. 

I rub my eyes again, a little harder, but nope. Still there. 

Miranda, freshly showered, hair still slightly damp, wrapped in a silk burgundy robe with bare feet, standing at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee from a French press into a simple blue mug. 

She glances back, catching sight of me staring and starstruck. 

“Ah, you’re up.” She turns back to pouring. “There are spare clothes and toiletries in the guest room, if you want to freshen up.” 

It takes me a second, my brain still half asleep, now with the added weight of the impossible scene before me. 

With Miranda, a second is always too long. 

She sets the French press down, and turns to lean against the counter, coffee mug in hand. There’s a crease in her forehead. 

“Andrea?”

I give my head a quick shake. 

“Sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse. I gesture vaguely to my head. “Sleep. Cobwebs.” 

Her forehead relaxes, and her face does this thing. The corners of her eyes soften, the irises like a backyard pool in the morning light. Her mouth is just as gentle, a simple smile curving her lips. I swear, the smile hits her cheeks, and there’s a dimple I’ve never seen before. 

Wow. 

Still smiling, she waves me off, turning to the fridge. 

“Go on now,” she says. “Breakfast will be ready when you come back down.” 

“Um, sure,” I stutter. “Thanks.” 

She hums in reply, and I stumble back the way I came. 

God, I really do need that shower, if just to wake me up and get my head back on my shoulders. 

It’s too hard to ignore that tiny drop of hope otherwise.