Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.
After dinner, Lauren asks if I want to get a head start on our English essays. I remind her that I start work tomorrow, so I need to get to bed. Then Ashley says something about having my boyfriend tuck me in. I leave so I don't have to think up a clever response to that.
On the way home, I try to mentally prepare myself for waking up at five in the morning. I'll be working the morning shift, from six to two, at Sunset Parks Assisted Living. This will be my second year there as a resident aide. The job basically involves assisting the elderly residents with daily living tasks—getting them up in the morning, straightening up their rooms, helping them shower, etc.
It's actually much harder work than it sounds. I'm pretty much running to get everything done in time. Each resident has a schedule they strictly adhere to, and I never hear the end of it if I don't get to their room in time. The old guys don't care as much, but the ladies—they ride their call buttons if you're even a few minutes late.
I love it there, though, and I love all my old people. Once you work a schedule out and learn everyone's routines, it gets easier. I worked there last summer and on the weekends during school, so I got to know those guys pretty well. I missed them, and I should have visited sooner, but time kind of got away from me.
I wonder if we got any new residents, and I try not to think about the ones we might have lost.
When I get home, I check the garage for Zane's car. It's not there, of course. I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
I decide that a long hot shower is just the thing to make me nice and sleepy. I gather up my things and head to Zane's room.
As always, I resist the urge to snoop around. Like me, he's not much for decorating. His room contains the basics, no personal touches or pictures. He has a very expensive-looking laptop sitting on his desk, but no sign of any other computer equipment. I would think that a software engineer would have all kinds of high tech crap everywhere. But then how many software engineers do I know—especially ones that look like Zane?
Well, at least he's not a slob. Hey. I wonder what's in his closet?
Feeling brave, I take a quick peek. Hmm...lots of clothes, shoes, a set of weight—oh, it smells great in here, like some kind of spicy woodsy cologne.
I think I hear the door, and jump about a mile. It turns out to be nothing but my paranoia. I hurry into the bathroom, anyway.
The shower was a great idea. I get out feeling sleepy and relaxed. I put on my favorite pink tank top and matching pajama pants, then I use my bathroom to brush my teeth, and I am done.
Okay, time to hit the sack.
I lie down on my bed, but I can't get comfortable. I hate it when I know I have to be somewhere in the morning, and I need to get a good night's rest for it. The anticipation usually keeps me tossing and turning for hours.
This isn't working. I decide to get up. I am kind of hungry, so maybe a snack would help.
That's one good thing about living here: the kitchen is always well-stocked. Zane is hardly here, but someone's been keeping the fridge and cupboards full of healthy crap. I've been buying some junk food and TV dinners, but I haven't really touched it. It just occurs to me that I've been eating out a lot lately. No wonder my clothes have been fitting me kind of tight. I'll have to put a stop to that. Maybe I should start dancing again. That was great exercise.
I've got my heard buried in the fridge, waiting for something delicious to jump out and hit me in the mouth, when I hear a noise behind me.
I give a little yelp and whirl around, my heart going into overdrive.
Somehow, it beats even faster when I see Zane standing there, leaning forward against the counter, resting his forearms along the top. He looks a little tired, but impossibly handsome in his fitted black shirt and jeans.
“Hey, Violet,” he says, nodding at me. “What are you up to?”
“N-nothing,” I stammer, caught off guard. I quickly straighten and shut the refrigerator door. “I was just looking for a snack before I went to bed.”
“Bed already?” He raises an eyebrow and checks the time on the microwave. “It’s nine o’ clock on a Friday night.”
“Yeah, well, I work tomorrow,” I explain. When I notice his gaze drop down, I suddenly remember I’m not wearing a bra. I cross my arms over my chest as casually as possible, and clear my throat self-consciously.
I love that half-smile of his. It slowly lifts a corner of his mouth up. “Where do you work?”
I tell him about my weekend job at Sunset Park, and he listens attentively. I even find myself going on about Helize, my favorite resident.
"She used to be an accountant for some big Hollywood studio, and she's traveled all over the world. She's got some great stories—you should hear the one where she spent the week in a Mexican prison."