ASHLEY:

I couldn’t sleep.

Me.

The girl who could doze off in the middle of the Victoria Secret Fashion show and particularly bad sex was absolutely wide-awake.

It was pathetic.

It was unacceptable.

It was all her fault.

She had arrived at five in the morning with seven or eight suitcases and maybe five cardboard boxes full of crap. I didn’t even ask what was in them, though I had guessed five or so one-hundred pound bags of potpourri. I simply helped her bring them up the stairs, wishing Aiden was around so he could undress, cover himself in baby oil, and do the heavy lifting. But no. He was with Chelsea, and more than likely they had fallen asleep after a vigorous game of “What Should We Name Our Children.”

Spencer and I didn’t say a lot to each other then. I was way too tired to endure her judgments and criticisms, and when we were done I showed her Aiden’s old room and hurried back to my warm bed.

But now I could hear her in the apartment, banging things and moving shit around. Needless to say, I could only sleep through so much. So I journeyed out into the living room to find some sort of strange room I had never seen before. Had I gone into the wrong apartment? Because I didn’t remember owning so many candles. And I certainly didn’t remember having any…dare I even say it?

Plants.

She stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips. She was obviously too busy contemplating what else she could screw up in my apartment to hear me come out of my bedroom.

“Spencer,” I said quietly, so as not to startle her, “what the hell is all this?”

“All of what?” she asked innocently.

“All this shit you stole from Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Oh, this stuff?” she said gesturing towards the magazines, candles, lamps, and—dear God—bookends.

“Yeah.”

“I’m just making myself feel at home. I mean, you didn’t think I would just move into your apartment and inconvenience myself without bringing my own personal touches, did you?”

“I should’ve assumed you’d bring some things. I just didn’t know my apartment would transform into a fucking Crate and Barrel catalog.”