Sunlight shines through the tall windows in my room, making me stir. I pull the covers up over my head to block out the sun as my head pounds to its own beat. The buzzing of my phone alarm rings out, and I stretch across the king-sized bed to tap the snooze button before snuggling down under the blankets again.

Four minutes pass before the alarm blares again.

“Fuck,” I moan out.

Baggie’s head bumps into mine, and I crack my eyes open.

“Morning, handsome,” I croak out and scratch under his chin.

Baggie stretches his neck into my hand, giving me better access.

“Meow,” comes his soft voice. He yawns big, showing his teeth.

He nudges his head on my hand as I push the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet touch the shag rug that covers the hardwood floor, and I rub my temples that still have a drum banging between them.

“Are you hungry Baggie?” I ask, as I slowly rise to stand. “Let me grab some meds first.”

“Meow.”

I cross my room and enter the bathroom, quickly doing my daily routine. I brush my teeth to get rid of the extreme cotton-mouth feeling. Finally able to stand my own mouth, I grab a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet. I head down the hall, through the living room, and into my kitchen.

Baggie nips at my hand as I scoop the cat food into his bowl and place it on the floor next to the water dish. He starts purring as he eats, and I stroke his sleek, black fur. After a few moments of petting Baggie, I walk into the kitchen to the fridge. Opening both side-by-side doors simultaneously, I grab the brown eggs, turkey sausage, sharp white cheddar cheese, and the fresh salsa.

Let's do this.

Once again, I assemble all my ingredients, combine and season them, and heat up the oil in the skillet. As I slowly pour the mixture into the pan, amazing smells begin to filter through the kitchen. Still a bit hungover, I zone out. Before I know it, the amazing smells quickly turn to burnt-egg smell, and my stomach revolts.

Unbelievable!

I quickly turn off the burner, toss the ruined omelet in the sink, and slam the skillet back onto the stovetop.

“Damn it!” I yell, as I storm out of the kitchen.

I stand to the right of the concrete stoop, gently placing my white earbuds into my ears before clicking the music icon on my phone. I find my favorite running song, push play, and slowly head north about a block up West Avenue toward Martin Luther King Boulevard. When I reach the corner, the white lights of the crosswalk light up, and I dash across Martin Luther King Boulevard, heading east to Guadalupe Street, and UT, for my normal run.

The three-and-a-half blocks seem too slow. Like something is holding me back. As I hit the corner of Martin Luther King Boulevard and Guadalupe Street, another favorite song blares from my phone; Hate Me by Blue October. I begin to block out the people on the street as I speed up... and run right into Torrance and his fiancée, causing them to spill their drinks from the coffee shop they just exited.

I lock eyes with Torrance, smile slightly, and dart away from him as fast as I can. I run up Guadalupe for six blocks before starting my journey in and around UT, where the trail crisscrosses through campus. When I finally exit the campus, I head down to 15^th Street before running the ten blocks west toward West Avenue. I slow to a walk to cool down for the last three blocks back to my building. Today, not only does my head throb, but my feet ache when I make it into the building and up to my loft.

I enter the loft, kicking off my shoes and undressing. I’m hot, sticky, and sweat is pouring off of me. On my way to the bathroom, I stop in the kitchen for some water. Baggie follows behind me.

“Why can't I do anything without seeing that ass?! Does he do it on purpose? This town really isn't big enough for the two of us,” I grumble, stomping down the hallway.

Turning on the shower faucet, I notice the water isn’t getting warm.

“What the hell else can go wrong today?” I growl, checking the time on my watch as I remove it.

I cautiously step in the shower then quickly shave and wash my hair and body before stepping out. Hurriedly, I towel myself off to get warm. After my morning bathroom routine, I walk out of the bathroom into my bedroom. I pull on my most comfortable non-holey jeans, and a thin, white Dallas Cowboys T-shirt with Ben’s number on it for the game.

In the kitchen, I attempt another breakfast. This time I decide to make two eggs over medium, home fries, two turkey sausages, and a side of fruit salad made with strawberries, bananas, and grapes. I also manage to boil some water for tea. Surprisingly, my little brunch turns out perfectly.

“What the hell is wrong with my cooking? Why can’t I cook more complicated dishes like I used to? I have to get a handle on this,” I mumble to myself as I plate my breakfast.

I pour the boiling water into a mug and steep the chocolate-flavored tea. Then I pick up my brunch, the newspaper that's lying on the counter, and my mug before strolling to the dining room table.

While I eat breakfast, I start flipping through the paper, when I come across an engagement announcement in the food section.

“Asshole!” I drop my fork, shove my plate away, and run to the restroom.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and send a text to the guys.

Calla: I’ve had a shitty morning. I’m running to the farmer’s market. Will be in after.

Trey: Are you hungover?

Calla: Not really. Other bullshit.

Wes: You saw the announcement?

Calla: Yes, but that was after I fucking literally ran into them on the street during my run.

Wes: Well, shit.

Trey: Are you okay?

Calla: Yep.

I slip the phone back in my pocket.

I roam around the market, buying the different herbs and flowers we need for the restaurant. As I am finishing up my shopping, I decide to make something special for the afternoon meeting. I come across some jumbo prawns and shrimp that will go nicely in a new pasta dish I’ve been creating. I pick up two pounds of each and go to pay.

“How much for four pounds?” I ask the vendor.

“One hundred dollars,” he responds, taking the packages from me.

“Are you freaking kidding? I've never paid that!” I raise my brow and shift my bags.

“Calla, demand is going up, and your cooking is going down.” He places the shrimp on the scale and crosses his arms.

“What the hell? I’m not paying that.” I storm off toward my car.

A prickling sensation starts on the back of my neck. I feel as if the other chefs in the market are staring and judging me. As I get to my car, and am putting my packages in the trunk, another chef comes up behind me and hands me a big parcel. I look up at him. “Thank you,” I manage as I reach in my back pocket to grab some money to pay him. He simply shakes his head and walks away.