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We’ve just come home from chemo, and so far, Nixon had to stop twice so I could throw up. To say today’s not my day would be an understatement.
I give my head a small shake. “I think I’ll just try to fall asleep. You go and do your thing.”
“I don’t have anything better to do.” He grabs the blankets, pulling them to my chin before tucking me inside, just like he did when I was a little girl.
“Liar,” I croak out, my throat feeling tight.
“I’m not lying.” He looks appalled that I’d even suggest it. I would believe him even if I didn’t know better.
“I saw your message when you went to the bathroom. That agent’s in town, and he wants to talk to you.”
Nixon’s eyes narrow as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to snoop through other people’s belongings?”
“Hey, it’s not my problem you gave me your phone, and the message just popped up on the screen. I’m serious, Nixon. Go and talk to the guy.”
“He shouldn’t even be calling.”
I roll my eyes. “Because that’s how it works.”
“That’s what the rules say.”
“Screw the rules. This is your future we’re talking about. Go see what he has to say.”
Nixon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly on the fence about it. “Yasmin’s out. I think she said she has to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, and she’ll also stop to grab groceries.”
“Your point?”
“You shouldn’t be alone!”
“I’mfine, just go and do your thing.” I turn to my side, fighting a twitch of pain as I move and pull the blanket closer to me. “I’m going to sleep. Besides, the faster you go, the faster you’ll be back.”
“Jade,” Nixon groans, and it’s evident that his need to go is fighting with his need to do right by me.
“Go. I mean it.”
“You’ll call me if you need anything?”
“I’ll call you.” My eyes fall shut as I murmur: “Go.”
A hand touches my forehead, and he must be satisfied because he pulls back. “Fine. I mean it. Call me.”
I murmur something incoherently, my mind already adrift. In the distance, I can hear the door close and soft footsteps walking away, but I’m too tired to pay him any mind.
I just lay there, too weak to move, too weak to even think.
I’m not sure if I fell asleep or not, but the next thing I know, I’m assaulted by the memories.
Mom being sick. Prescott breaking up with me. Doctor’s appointments. Finding the lump on my breast. Dad leaving. Double mastectomy.
Past and present mix together until it all turns into a mess.
Then I’m falling, and no matter how hard I try to hold on, there is nothing to hold onto.
I jolt awake, my stomach grumbling in protest. Shoving the blankets away, I stand upright. Only the sudden change makes me sway on my feet. I try to grab for the nightstand, but instead, I push the lamp. It falls on the ground, the ceramic part shattering into millions of pieces.
“Shit,” I mutter, my hand covering my mouth as I hold onto the nightstand, but it’s already too late. Before I can stop it or get myself to the bathroom, I bend forward, and throw up.
My whole body is shaking with the movement, my fingers barely holding onto the nightstand for some support.
