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Her accuracy is just as terrifying as the headless stuffed teddy bear seated on her pillows.
“I’m Londyn, by the way,” she adds when I don’t respond. “And you’re Penny Rose, all the way from a teeny-tiny town in New Hampshire. I’ve never been to the East Coast. Is it really as cold as it looks in the movies?”
“Colder, actually.”
She shudders. “We won’t be going there, Shithead,” she says to the bear. “I’m not going to walk around with hard nipples four months out of the year. Screw that.”
“It would probably be closer to five months, to be honest.”
“Noted.” She rolls on her side and props her head up on her arm to stare at me. “You still haven’t told me what your damage is.”
“Don’t you know?” I smile sweetly, not ready to let my guard down. “You seem to know everything else about me.”
“Unfortunately, the roommate info card doesn’t show diagnosis or any other juicy information.”
I breathe out a sigh and try to ignore the fact that the windows don’t open in this place. “I guess you could say it was a case of mistaken identity.”
She makes an impressed face. “Nice. What kind of pills are they giving you for that?”
“Tiny white and blue ones.” I arrived at this so-called tranquil recovery center in California over a week ago, but this is the first time Londyn has been in our room. “Have you been in solitary?” I ask.
Her eyes roll. “This isn’t prison, Rose. We don’t have solitary. My parents signed me out for a vacation to remind me they still love me. They took me to their new beach house for a week of sand stuck in my ass and barbecued animal carcasses.”
“That sounds nice. The beach house part, I mean.”
“I guess. What does it say about me that I’d rather be here?”
I ponder that for a moment. “I think it says you feel safe here.”
She appears satisfied with that answer. “Is that your real hair color?”
“It is.”
“I’m jealous. It’s a fabulous color.”
“Thanks. I like yours, too.”
“It’s from a box. I usually change it every two months. I get bored easily.”
She stands and straightens her comforter, smoothing all the wrinkles until it’s perfectly flat. “It’s almost two o’clock. Do you want to join me on the veranda for yoga? There’s usually eight of us.”
“I’ve never done yoga before.”
“There’s an instructor. Just follow along. All of us suck at it, so no one will notice if you do, too.”
Shrugging, I follow her, hoping it will at least help pass the time and make me appear calm and normal.
Not—as they tell me—in the midst of suffering from a possible delusional disorder.
After yoga, there was daily group time, then dinnertime. After that, we watched a movie in the TV room, took our nighttime meds, and went to bed. If it were up to me, I’d only venture out of my room for food and the required private and group sessions, but that’s not allowed.
Before my unfortunate meltdown, I was an energetic, upbeat, and social person. I was never a hit-the-snooze-button type. I woke up refreshed and happy every morning. But ever since my stay at the hospital, I’ve felt like my head is stuffed with cotton. Everything seems like I’m looking at it through a smudged lens, hearing it through muffled speakers. Observing it all from off to the side somewhere and not really living it. And I’m so incredibly tired. All I want to do is sleep, and doing so doesn’t diminish the exhaustion at all.
I’m also incredibly, painfully homesick.
I miss Lily.
I miss my job, my coworkers, and picking the cutest pet of the day.
I miss the cozy blanket on the couch.
I miss the moss and leaves and the worn stone path etched into the grass leading to the barn.
I miss the sparkly dust fairies that float in the sunlight through the barn window.
I don’t miss Alex.
No, that word doesn’t even come close to describing the intense, never-ending ache that lives in my heart or the longing that consumes me every moment of the day and night. It's as if he was carved out of my being, and now I’m left with a hollow space that echoes with his voice.
It has been decided by my doctor and my parents that while I recover from my alleged fixation, I should take a break from Lily and Alex. Exhausted and numb from the medication, I’d agreed.
Now I wish I hadn’t.
Thankfully, my parents and Lily are all unaware that me and Alex are in a relationship that stretches far beyond friendship. By the time my parents arrived at the hospital, I’d been sedated enough to stop insisting I was Alex’s late wife. While Lily witnessed some of my rambling, she believed I was experiencing a temporary delusion. Due to the fact that her father never stops talking about his dead wife and her stuff is all over the house, no wonder her poor best friend was confused after she hit her head.
