“I’m not. You shouldn’t be here.” And before I can respond, he’s out of earshot.

Well, he’s fucking rude.

It’s not like I asked for a homemade turkey dinner. I’m just looking for an ounce of comfort here.

Comfort I now need to find myself.

I glance around the downstairs and wonder if there’s a blanket in a closet somewhere but realize that if he doesn’t have even a single piece of junk food in the house, he’s not going to have a spare quilt from a kooky aunt just rolled up waiting to be used.

Urgh, that’s annoying.

A chill races up my spine as the air conditioner kicks on. This is not going to do.

I consider slipping my body under the couch cushions, but sure, their countertops might be clean, but who knows what has happened on this couch?

Do I ask for a spare sweatshirt?

Not sure Ryot would be partial to sparing his warm-weather garments, and if I’ve learned anything in the past, never disrupt Nichole while she’s with a man—that’s how I found out she’s so bendy.

Hmm . . . I glance down at the cushion again . . . maybe I could unzip it and slip my body inside?

No.

Nope.

Not going to happen. People fart on couches, so there are farts in these threads and I just won’t do it.

I sigh and lean back on the couch just as my eyes connect with the flag.

Huh.

You know . . .

That quite possibly could work.

I set my grapes and Capri Sun down and stand to examine the flag. It looks to be at least six feet long. A nylon material won’t replace the warm cocoon of a wool sweater, but beggars can’t be choosers.

This will have to do.

I examine how it’s hung up and notice that it’s held on the wall by Velcro as well. What is with these guys? Have they never heard of Command strips?

Either way, I give the flag a solid yank, listen to the sweet sound of Velcro tearing apart from its long-lost lover, and then bundle it up as I bring it to the couch.

Oh yes, I can already tell this was a good choice. I snuggle in close to my Studmuffin flag, grab my Tupperware of grapes and my Capri Sun, and sit back and relax.

There, now this is living.

* * *

“Myla . . . Myla, wake up.”

“Two more minutes, Dad,” I murmur into my pillow.

“Myla, it’s Nichole. Wake up.” She shakes my shoulder, startling me out of a haze.

“Huh? What?” I ask, my eyes peeping open to find Nichole standing in front of me, her hair a mess and razor burn peppered along her face. “What’s happening?”

“Time to go, Myla.”

“Go where?” In my sleepy haze, I assess my surroundings. Where the hell am I?

“Home.” Nichole tugs at the fabric wrapped around my body. “What are you doing with this?”