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Chapter Eight
Nick
I’ve been tossing and turning, and have watched the clock go from one to two to three. I have yet to fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the way that man pinned Meghan to her car and then practically threw her against it. I can still see the fear in her eyes, even through the darkened night, as she gazed up at me from the cold, dirty concrete.
My gut churns with anxiety and my body hums with a powerful urge to put my fist through a wall. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve felt this reckless, this irritable.
Tossing my blanket off my legs, I run my hand down my weary face and throw my legs over my bed. The hardwood floors are cool as I head to the kitchen for some water. The night is still black, the neighborhood silent. No dogs bark, no horns honk, and no kids play outside. It’s almost peaceful.
If only my mind were in the same state.
Instead, my brain is like the ball in the Pinball game. Roll…bounce off the side…clang into the bumper…roll…get smacked in the face by the flipper. That’s me. The ball slammed into objects by the damn flipper. For fun.
I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. I need to let off a little steam, and there’s only one thing to do. Heading to my bedroom to change into workout clothes, my attention is pulled to my vibrating cell phone. Glancing down and expecting to see the emergency service I use for immediate dental situations, I still when I see her name.
Meghan.
Swiping my finger, I pull up her message.
Meghan: I’m sure you’re asleep, but I wanted to tell you that I’m starting to feel better.
Me: Really?
The bubbles appear right away.
Meghan: No, not really. Actually, I can’t sleep. My head is pounding and every time I close my eyes, I see his face.
Me: I’m the same way. I still feel horrible this happened to you.
Meghan: Please don’t start that “it’s my fault” crap again. *insert winky face*
Me: Fine. I won’t say it.
Meghan: Or think it.
Me: Anyway, you should try to get some sleep.
Meghan: Pot, meet kettle.
Me: I caught a catnap.
Liar.
Meghan: I don’t believe you. What are you doing?
Drinking the last of my water, I take my phone into the living room and have a seat on the couch.
Me: Thinking about going to the gym.
Meghan: That sounds horrible.
Me: It’s not so bad.
Meghan: I’d rather have my ducking fingernails pulled off with tweezers. *insert getting sick emoji*
Me: What’s ducking fingernails? You have some sort of fungus that I need to know about?
Meghan: Autocorrect hates me. No one says ducking. No one. It’s fucking, autocorrect. F.U.C.K.I.N.G. *insert angry emoji*
