WIP: "The Disappeared" by @dcbbw
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A submission by @dcbbw! WIP of a story that explores Nadia's thoughts, emotions and heartbreak, set during Steve's disappearance after the "breakup" at Ceder Rest (PM1 Ch6). Can't wait to see the full piece! 💖💖💖
Tagging @sazanes and @lizzybeth1986 for NPAD 2023!
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An unshowered, scowling Nadia Park greeted the Door Dasher wearing an oversized pink tee shirt that read: “Bitch, I AM the secret ingredient”, a pair of baggy sweatpants, and a huge purple chenille robe. A Captain America cape was tied around her waist and competed with the robe when it came to dragging the floor. She snatched the bags from his hands, pressed a $20 bill into his palm, and slammed the door.
The delivery guy stared stupidly at the closed door before muttering, “Yeah, fuck you too!” as he turned on his heel, headed for the elevator.
Nadia swung her front door open, bags of food still hooked onto her curled fingers. “DON’T MAKE ME RAGE PANDA YOUR ASS!” she threatened in a half-snarl, half-yell.
Before entering the waiting elevator car, the gangly guy half turned so she could see him flip her the bird. Nadia bit her lip, exhaled angrily, and slammed her door shut again.
Freakin’ people!
She set the bags of greasy goodness onto her coffee table, careful to move her newly opened bottle of Boones Farm strawberry wine out of harm’s way before flopping onto the sofa, her dark hair splayed against pastel-colored cushions. Her eyes stared around the normally bright and cheerful domicile; now all the lights and lamps were off, and the venetian blinds were closed, curtains pulled tightly against them despite it being 2pm on a Tuesday.
The condo was in complete disarray: Two weeks’ worth of everything was everywhere. Dirty laundry sat in piles in the living room, the kitchen, the hallway leading to the bedroom. The kitchen sink was piled high with dirty dishes; she would put them in the dishwasher, but that was full as well. Carryout boxes, empty wine bottles, and crumpled bags that once held potato chips threatened to spill out of the kitchen trash can.
A few of her earlier paintings, which had decorated the dining room accent wall two weeks ago, sat haphazardly on the floor; a large corkboard she had titled The Steve Tennyson Timeline hung there now, filled with photos, charts, and the letter.
For all of her charisma, competence, and creative talents, Nadia Park was, without fail, a hot mess in three instances: when she was drunk, in love, or grieving. And right now, she was all three.
Because of Steve.
The one who swore he would never hurt her. Hell, he was the first and only man who had actually read The Care and Keeping of Nadia Park, making annotations and highlighting what he considered to be the important parts.
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