Harper possessed a rare talent - she could blend two worlds that the universe swore could never coexist: her humdrum life as an accountant by day with her steamy famous alter ego crafting erotic tales online by night.
But her double life unravels in...
❝I just wanna get closer Closer to your body than somebody else I just wanna get closer Closer to your body than nobody else❞
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I was in the middle of attempting to paint my night away like Picasso on a caffeine binge when I heard it again: giggles.
High-pitched, girly, squirrels on helium-like giggles.
I put my brush down for possibly the hundredth time today and stared blankly at my closed door. Megan and Harper were at it again.
For the last week, I'd been subjected to day and night of relentless, rodent-like sounds echoing from the walls beyond my door. Just when I'd thought my living situation had some bits of normalcy returning to it, Megan had come straight back into my life and uprooted every last bit of peace I'd found with Harper.
I mean, she practically had her own suite in our apartment now having converted the living room into her own space every time she visited after work finished (which was almost everyday.) And Harper? She'd paid no heed to my warning. In fact, she was the Head of the Welcoming Committee.
I mean, I guessed I could have it worse. At least the two weren't having lesbian dino-sex in the room.
The paintbrush in my hand snapped at the very idea of it and I stared at the chipped wood.
Another fallen soldier.
"We're just making up for lost time," Harper had happily chirped one Megan-free morning over a rare shared breakfast between just the two of us before she set off for another interview.
I wanted to tell her it felt more like they were making up for lost decibels.
Eight out of ten times I'd stepped out of my room, I had walked into some pheromone-infused trap.
Picture this: Megan teaching Harper to bake. Flour everywhere, like a gluten-based explosion. Baking? More like a culinary crime scene, that I ended up having to clean up after Megan dragged Harper shopping for 'interview clothes she desparately needed.'
Another time, they turned the living room into a pilates studio. I had to tiptoe through a forest of flexed limbs and contorted bodies just to get my iPad from the couch. Downward-facing dogs were like an obstacle course to my own sanity, and a test of patience for Aiden Jr.
But the real kicker was the video game rivalry. The walls of the apartment screamed as they battled for supremacy all night, snacking on Doritos and annihilating each other in what I believed was Call of Duty. Either that, or The Sims.
All of this was a recipe for my self-imprisonment.
I didn't understand it at first. But here's the deal: I felt like the odd one out in my own home, an outsider in an exclusive club of two. But no way in hell was I going to admit that to the girls, least of all to my demonic ex.
