Page 17 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

Everything about Lincoln’s home was damn near out of this world.

Clean, rich, and comfortable. From the big kitchen to the wide open living room, from the bedrooms to the bathroom.

I couldn’t imagine living in something like this every day.

He was oblivious to how uncomfortable I was while he gave me a quick tour of everything.

It just reaffirmed how wildly different our lives were. This was his everyday—his baseline of living—and I struggled to even walk in his space. I didn’t belong here.

You don’t belong anywhere, the voice said.

I shoved it down. Or at least, I tried. I didn’t need to deal with it and everything else right now.

The sheets alone in the guest bedroom probably cost more than everything I owned combined.

I wouldn’t sleep in them. Couldn’t sleep in them.

The floor was fine. He did give me spare clothes for the night and gave me use of the washing machine.

That’d come in handy if I could bring myself to use it.

I hated the idea of his bills being higher just because I was here.

The only thing I readily used was the shower. I was in desperate need of one, and it just sounded nice.

I stood under the scalding water, head bowed, as I let the water run over me.

Fuck, it felt so goddam good. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a real shower.

Months. Literal months. Most of the time, water wipes had to do or a quick rub down with sink water in a public bathroom.

There wasn’t much I could do about the buildup in my hair, but it worked for everything else.

This was heaven.

The world melted away, and the heat and comfort seeped into my skin. Layers of dirt and grime rushed down the drain in a dark river as I scrubbed my skin until it was damn near pink. The raw sensation was welcome if it meant feeling honestly clean.

Knots and oil build-up in my hair added a whole new level of difficulty.

One rinse wasn’t enough. Neither was two.

Every time, more crap came loose. I lost hair down the drain as I worked my fingers through my long strands, but it was worth it.

I couldn’t remember the last time my hair looked or felt dirt-free.

And when everything was said and done, I started all over again because I didn’t have a fucking clue when I’d be afforded the luxury of a shower again.

Not one with real soap and filtered water.

Not one where I could take my time to truly wash myself.

And certainly not one where I didn’t have to worry about unwanted guests or someone stealing my shit.

I also had no desire to get out, so I didn’t.