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MARLOW

I hate pranks.

I mean really, really despise them to my core.

It’s a weird byproduct of growing up in foster care.

There were so many kids with misdirected anger and lots of time to spare.

I was an easy target: a shy redheaded girl who was never very quick to make new friends.

Everything from a few plastic spiders in my bed to stealing my clothes in the group home’s communal bathroom seemed to be fair game.

Most of all, I hate that I hate pranks so much. I wish I could just laugh them off like a normal person, but my knee-jerk reaction is always to get upset. It’s embarrassing.

The fact that it was Ryan playing the prank only makes matters worse. It’s not like we’re friends, and my overreaction certainly didn’t go unnoticed.

But seriously – glitter? What a stupid prank. What is a grown man even doing with all that glitter in the first place?

Our uniform pants are basically the same texture as a Brillo pad, so removing the glitter is an exercise in futility. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve only managed to grind it deeper into the fabric.

So, yeah…my crotch is a disco ball today.

When lunchtime rolls around, I don’t pass up the opportunity to go home and change.

My apartment is only three blocks away from the ranger station. My move to Gatlinburg was unexpected, so I had to take what I could get when it came to rentals. That’s how I ended up living in the apartment above a German bakery on Main Street.

And, strangely, I love it.

The woman who runs the bakery, Olga, lived in the apartment upstairs for years, but the steep staircase has become her nemesis in old age (her words, not mine) so she decided to rent the place out instead.

The bakery is tucked in a small alcove off the main road, behind a giant fountain where tourists stop to tie their shoes and consult their maps.

The building is supposed to look like a storybook cottage.

Amidst a sea of in-your-face tourist attractions, it’s cheesy in its own right, but I find it charming.

It’s the sort of thing that would never exist in a serious city like Chicago.

Olga waves at me over the crowd as I pass the counter and head up the staircase in the back.

For a woman with a bad hip, she sure keeps up with the lunch rush day after day.

It seems like all the people who aren’t at the ranger station or out on the trails are here at the bakery today, nursing their blisters and gorging on German pastries.

The apartment is still filled with Olga’s furniture.

The only thing I replaced was the bed. The rest of it is mid-century maple, but not the trendy type.

It’s the type that will probably never come back into style, the type that feels like walking into a dollhouse.

There’s a chair rail running around the entire common area with mint green floral wallpaper on top.

It’s not going to win a spot on the cover of a home décor magazine, but I’m completely in love with the cozy, little apartment.

I change into a glitter-free pair of uniform pants and throw together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before heading back to the office.

Ryan is walking out of the building when I arrive. He glances my way, eyes lingering on my crotch. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or just amused by the lack of glitter. Either way, I’m definitely not a fan of having Ryan Ehler spend any amount of time looking directly at my crotch.