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“I’m a fucking mess.” I toss the rag aside.
This isn’t going to cut it. Cleaning up doesn’t mean shit if I don’t deal with the mess inside.
But where do I even start? With the restaurant? With Naomi? With the gaping hole in my heart that my father left behind?
The restaurant is taken care of. And as long as I don’t have my shit together, I shouldn’t be close to Naomi. So that leaves…
I continue cleaning.
Three hours later, my hands are raw from scrubbing. Every surface gleams. So clean, you could plate a fucking tasting menu anywhere in this kitchen.
Just like it should be.
Not that anyone will.
The only thing being served here is a heaping portion of rock bottom with a side of self-loathing.
De-fucking-licious.
Next, the living room.
It’s a war zone. Empty bottles form makeshift barriers between piles of clothes and takeout containers. The coffee table’s buried under a month’s worth of mail and receipts.
I attack it systematically, like prep work in the kitchen. Sort first: trash, laundry, papers. The rhythm’s familiar, gather, sort, clean. Mise en place.
The vacuum roars to life, drowning out my thoughts. Good. I don’t want to think about how long it’s been since I used it. About how I let everything go to shit. About how?—
Fuck.
A cufflink rolls out from under the couch.
Dad’s. Sterling silver with his initials. Must’ve dropped it last time he was here, bitching about my ‘phase’ of playing chef.
I pocket it before I can think too hard about it.
The windows are next. Months of city grime blur the view. I spray, wipe, and repeat, the glass squeaking under pressure.
The bathroom’s easier. Bleach burns my nose as I scrub the shower tiles, and the mirror gets special attention. Spots and streaks my number one enemy.
Whether it’s the fumes or exhaustion, my eyes burn, my knees throb, and my fingers are stiff and numb from gripping the scrub too tightly.
Four hours in, and my apartment doesn’t look like a crack den anymore. Everything’s clean, organized, perfect.
Empty.
Just like me.
Except that every muscle in my body aches, and my hands scream when I finally put down the cleaning supplies, skin wrinkled and raw, smelling of bleach and lemon cleaner. But the pain feels earned. Real. Like maybe I’m scrubbing away more than just surface dirt.
I collapse onto the couch, the silence ringing in my ears. No bottles to reach for. No takeout to order.
It’s the first step.
The sky outside shifts from black to gray, and the first lights creep through freshly cleaned windows, painting shadows across spotless floors and warming my face.
Feels nice. Like Mom’s kitchen on Sunday mornings, when she’d…
My eyes drift shut.