I’m in a penthouse apartment with a woman who thrives on taking care of those she loves. There’s a reason I call her Hen, and it’s not just because it’s in her name. Though she denies it, the eldest de la Peña sibling is a mother hen. The biggest problem we’ll have over the coming weeks is arguing over which of her favorite bougie cafes to order chicken noodle soup from.
After another painful squish from Mom and a kiss to the forehead from Dad they leave, taking a chunk of my anxiety along with them.
“Time for meds?” Hen holds out two Vicodin and a glass of water.
“That bad, huh?”
“I mean, I’m not saying you’re a bitch, but two of my neighbors have put their apartments up for sale because of the crabby lady on the eighteenth floor of the building.”
I clutch my midsection as I laugh. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know how to talk to them right now. They kept this huge thing from me, and I’m scared about what that means. I don’t even know if Sophia knew before me. And I know they don’t treat us any differently but all these thoughts are playing around in my head.”
Hen gestures her hand at me again. “Let narcotics take the edge off for now, and when you’re better we can look at getting you someone to talk to. A professional.”
She’s right. I can’t pick through this emotional dumpster fire all by myself. I swallow the pills with the entire glass of water and try to get comfy before sleep takes me.
When I wake up, it’s dark out. I don’t know how long has passed. The blinds are still open and the apartment is quiet. I haul myself out of bed to brave the bathroom. There’s a fresh bottle of water by my bed and someone plugged my phone in to charge.
I smile to myself at Hen’s hen-ing as I shuffle into the bathroom, the pain in my body still dulled from the meds and grunt as I maneuver myself onto the toilet.
By the time I’m done I’m sweating and praying for death. I don’t want to stand up again, but I don’t want to call my best friend to help pull me up off the shitter. I suck in a few steadying breaths and bite the inside of my cheek as I pull myself to standing.
I’m sticky with sweat and lightheaded, but I know if I don’t eat something I won’t be able to take my next round of meds before bed, so I have to dig deep and put my big girl panties on to brave the kitchen.
As much as I love Athena, and as much as I know she’d be at my beck and call, I don’t want to summon her to bring me food. Plus, the doctor told me it’s good to move, even if it hurts like a motherfucker.
It takes me twenty five days to make it into the open planned living space.
Snails are moving faster than me right now, and I’m pretty sure there’s sweat in my butt crack. I’m kind of regretting having my gallbladder removed. Would an inflamed gallbladder and some gallstones rolling around my insides have been worse than this?
Okay, fine, that was some serious pain that brought me to the emergency room.
There’s a light on in Athena’s study and the door is open, but the rest of the apartment is dark. She must be working. Maybe she could do with some soup, or grilled cheese, or a PB&J, too. I don’t know what carries me to the room but when I get there it’s not the back of my best friend’s head I’m staring at, it’s my boyfriend.
He’s sitting at her desk, typing frantically on his laptop. He’s got three drinks in various states of empty around him. He has what seems to be notes to his left, with numbers scrawled down the margin, then his head is hanging in his hands like he’s despairing at something.
When I inch forward I take a peek at his screen, my breath catches. The document has the same title as the book I have on preorder. And Justin isn’t reading it, he’s writing it.
CHAPTER24
Justin
Savannah’s gasp behind me gives her away, and my stomach sinks. Not because she’s interrupted any great stream-of-consciousness of writing or the perfect climax to my book or anything, but because she busted me before I found time to tell her.
I swivel around to face her in Athena’s fancy office chair. It probably cost more than my car is worth, and it’s comfy as hell. I wonder if she’d notice if it went missing and magically appeared in the hockey house a couple days later. She’s rarely at our place so it’s not like she’d see where it ended up. It’s tempting, but she’d probably rip my balls off and feed them to Bacon before I could even explain myself.
Best not.
Ashen, face twisted in pain, and hands on her hips, Savannah scowls at me from a few feet away. But before she can utter a word, I’m up on my feet and sliding my arm through hers, banding my forearm across her back to steady her and take her weight.
“Let’s get you sitting down.”
She grunts, but otherwise stays quiet as she lets me lead her back through the corridor and into the living room. I ease her onto the couch, prop a couple of throw pillows—that probably cost more than my hockey skates—behind her, and pull up the footstool so I can sit within arm’s reach of her.
Stupid? Possibly. She has a few things she probably wants to slap me for, but right now she’s clearly in so much pain, and all I can think about is taking it from her.
“We’ll talk. I promise. But right now I just need to help you, okay?”
Her face says she wants to fight me, that she wants to tell me to go fuck myself and figure her shit out by herself. But then her mask falls, and she’s back to pinched features and hissing through her teeth.
