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The contractions deep in my gut continue to sweep over me, crashing like tall waves, each one worse than the one before. Eventually, I lose my handle on the doorframe and with it, my footing. I fall forward, endlessly forward, until my skull hits the edge of the sink and a hard crack ensues.
I’d hoped it would end there, but it doesn’t. Instead, I am witness to my suffering, as everything slows. This could just as easily be happening to someone else, and if it weren’t for the relentless tearing in my stomach, maybe I could pretend that it was.
The blood though, I can’t ignore. It trickles out of the corner of my mouth, vibrant against the white marble floor. Brick red and sweet, it coats my lips. I inhale the metallic scent; the warmth brings me comfort. Everything is so cold.
My mouth fills, and as I spit blood onto the floor, I see that in the fall, I’ve bitten off a sliver of my tongue. It looks out of place lying there all pink and moist, covered in tiny bumps. My fingers reach out to touch it. It feels muscular and rough, like something I might have once fished out of the ocean. I cup it in the palm of my hand. For what reason, I don’t know. To save it? Just in case? What a silly thought. A last vestige of hope.
My cheek pressed against the cold tile, I think,so this is where it ends. There’s a rattling in my chest, the kind you hear stories about.
It tells me I don’t have long.
Still, my stomach and chest continue to heave, and my body clings desperately to life, a reminder that it refuses to give up long after the mind has. Clawing my way along the smooth marble, I move toward the toilet, but once there, I am too tired to even lift my head.
I allow my eyes to close, and I say a silent prayer that whatever comes next, comes quick. I pray that my children never see me like this, that they never know how I suffered in the end. Then, I wait for the bright white light, but what I get instead is a knock at the bedroom door. It’s soft at first and then more urgent. I hear a muffled voice, so familiar, followed by desperate pounding.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t open the door, even if I wanted to. I have no idea what killed me, but I sure as hell know who did.
Chapter One
Then
Ali
Seattle
He watches as she fastens her bra. His eyes never leave her as she searches for her panties, lingering as she slides them over her thighs. “Do you have to go?” David asks, solemnly.
She looks up and brushes the hair out of her eyes, only to have it fall back into place. Ali knows he loves it when she messes with her hair. He loves her optimism. He loves everything about her. “You know I do.”
“Yeah.” He flashes a smile. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“This feels like guilt.” She scans the room, looking for the items that she had laid out on the bed. Items that were supposed to have made it into her carry-on, but never did. Items that are now scattered on the floor. “We have a deal, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. No guilt. No making you choose. I get it.”
“Why do I sense abut coming?”
“There’s nobut,” he says. “I just miss you when you’re gone.”
“And I miss you.”
“I take it the session didn’t go well.”
Her brow raises just a hair and then her eyes soften. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “How was the happy couple?” She hears the sarcasm in his voice. He doesn’t know this, but she hates it when he follows a question with a question.
“You know I can’t discuss that.”
“Right, client privilege, of course. I was thinking…maybe it would be a good idea for you to stop seeing them.”
“What?”
He sighs. “You’re incredible, but I think you should work with people who at least have a shot.”
“Who said they don’t?”
He raises his chin slightly as his expression morphs from one of frustration to one of surprise. He runs his hand through his sandy blond hair, drops it to his side, and then stares at her with dark eyes. “I just assumed.”
