Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
NATASHA
“Shit, that hurts,” I mutter, trying to wrap tissue around my hand. I started a job, cleaning rooms in the motel I’m currently living in, actually. Does it suck? So, so much.
But I get to live here rent-free in exchange for the work, along with a small salary, and it’s the best thing I could come up with right away. My phone died on day two, so it’s not like I can send out résumés.
I don’t even have a résumé.
Of course, my left hand or wrist . . . something . . . is still horribly injured, and I can hardly use it. It’s probably broken, but I can’t afford to go to the hospital.
It’ll heal with time.
I hope, someday, I’ll be able the play the piano again, but just the thought of it makes me cry, so I blink fast and focus on trying to cover up this wound.
“What happened,” Sue, my boss, asks.
Shit.
“I slipped and cut my hand,” I reply. “I just need to cover it up, and then I can get back to work.”
“Listen, Natasha, I like you. I think you’re a nice girl who’s going through a shitty time in your life, but I have to let you go.”
I feel all of the blood drain out of my face.
“I’ve only had this job for a week,” I protest. It’s been two weeks since Julian kicked me out, and every single day has been a nightmare. Getting this job was the only thing keeping my emotions under control. “Please don’t fire me.”
“You move at a glacial pace,” she says, shaking her head with sympathy. “I know it’s because your wrist is hurt, but you’re just too slow, sweetie. And now you’ve hurt your other hand. As much as I like having you around, I need someone who can actually do the work at a decent rate of speed.”
I press my lips together, willing myself not to cry.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need this job so badly.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m giving you the next two weeks off. You won’t get paid your salary, but you can still keep your room benefit. I want you to rest and heal, so in two weeks, you can come back good as new and kick ass.”
A tear falls down my cheek, and I stare at Sue, shocked by her offer.
“You’d do that for me?”
Aside from Julian and his family, no one’s ever been this kind to me. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know if I can trust it.
“What’s the catch?” I ask her.
“Get better,” she says. “Eat something. In the two weeks I’ve known you, you’ve lost ten pounds. Take care of yourself for a while, get your feet under you, and the job will be waiting for you.”
“I’m so grateful,” I reply, overcome with emotion. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go clean that cut on your palm and rest.”
With a nod, I walk back to my room. It’s not good that I won’t have a salary for two weeks, but at least I can still stay here for free.
I borrowed some extra cleaning supplies from my cart when I started the job and did a deep clean of my room.
My wrist sang with pain afterward, but I felt better knowing that it was cleaner.
I walk into the bathroom and examine the cut over the sink. It’s deep. It should probably have stitches, but if I’m not willing to go to the hospital for a likely broken wrist, I’m not going for a cut either.
I’ve just started cleaning it up when nausea rolls through me, and I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, throwing up what little food I had in my system.
Then I wrap a towel around my hand and climb onto the bed, lying on my side.
I stare at my dead phone on the bedside table.
I could go over to the pharmacy and probably buy a charger for it, but I don’t have anyone to talk to.
I should eat, but I’m not hungry.
I’m just sad.
Everything hurts—not just my hands, but my heart, my stomach, my soul.
I’m exhausted from crying every night. After working all day, I come back in here and cry for hours until I fall into a fitful sleep.
Then I get up the next morning and do it all again.
Eating isn’t on my mind, and it’s really not in my budget either.
Something’s wrong.
I’m so sweaty. Out of breath. Exhausted.
So fucking tired.
And I throw up a lot, even though I haven’t had anything to eat in days.
I’ve always been the type to toss my cookies when I’m anxious, scared, nervous.
And I’ve been all of those things pretty much from the minute I met my father for lunch so many weeks ago now.
It doesn’t surprise me that I can’t keep food down, but the other symptoms are worrisome.
My cut hand is killing me, so I walk into the bathroom and remove the towel that I’ve been using to keep it covered.
That doesn’t look good.
There’s puss and redness. A red streak runs up my forearm. Is it infected? Is that why I’m so hot? It’s been a week since I cut myself. It should be healing.
It shouldn’t look like hamburger.
Ugh, just the thought of hamburger has me dry-heaving over the toilet again, and then I fall onto my side on the cool tile and fall asleep.
I’m so cold. Shivering. Teeth chattering.
Hands hurt.
With a whimper, I pick myself up off the floor of the bathroom, dizzy when I get on my feet. How did I get here?
I go to turn the AC off, but it’s not on. Why is it so cold in here?
Maybe I have a fever and need medicine.
I check the bottle on the table and see that I’m out.
I’ll have to walk across the street to the pharmacy to buy more, and just the thought of doing that is exhausting.
I want to lie down and sleep. Get under the covers to warm up.
But if I have a fever, I’ll need both ibuprofen and acetaminophen for the pain and to get the fever down.
I think I still have some money in my purse.
Twenty-five hundred dollars doesn’t go far in this town.
Making sure I have my key card for the room, I push outside and sigh in relief as the hot midday sun hits my face. The warmth feels so good, I can’t help but tip my face up to the sun.
I’m sweaty as I make my way across the street and into the store. I shiver when I walk inside because it’s so cold in here. As quickly as I can, I find the medicine I need and grab a couple of bottles of water before making my way to the counter.
“Natasha?”
I frown into my purse, trying to find my cash. I should have enough for this. Please let me have enough.
“That’s twenty-six ninety-five.”
“Okay.” I pull all the bills I have out of my purse and lay them on the counter, feeling embarrassed when the cashier has to unwad them to count them. I just don’t have the energy, and my hands are killing me.
“Natasha.”
I blink and turn at the sound of my name, and then feel the blood leave my face as terror takes up residence in my stomach.
“No.” I shake my head, trying to keep the nausea at bay, and back away. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Hey.” Elliott looks concerned, and he doesn’t make a move toward me, he just holds his hand up like he’s trying to approach an injured kitten. “Natasha, you don’t look good.”
“You don’t have enough money,” the cashier says.
Immediately, Elliott takes his wallet out and taps his card, paying for my medicine.
“You don’t have to pay for the junkies,” she says to Elliott.
“She’s not a motherfucking junkie. She’s sick. She’s buying medicine for fuck’s sake.”
Elliott shakes his head and offers me the plastic bag full of my things. He tries to hand me my cash as well, but I can’t bring myself to get close enough to him as terror continues to race through my body.
Will he hurt me? Will he tell Julian where to find me?
“Okay, I’ll put your money in here.” He drops the cash into the bag and then passes it to me.
I snatch it out of his hands and back away. God, I’m so dizzy. And so cold.
“Did you hurt your wrist?” He asks, gesturing to the brace on my left hand.
“Doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “Please don’t tell your dad you saw me. Please just forget this, okay?”
“Natasha, I can help—”
“No!” Panicked, I keep backing away, shaking my head and trembling. “No. I’ll scream. I’ll call the police.”
“Christ.” Elliott’s frowning at me, and I leave as fast as I can, looking back to make sure he’s not following me.
I don’t see him.
I’m afraid I’m going to fall down from weakness and dizziness, but I force my eyes to stay open as I maneuver back across the street and let myself into my room. I have to hurry to the bathroom because I have to throw up again.
I want Julian.
I don’t care that he kicked me out. I want him. I want him to hold me and kiss me and tell me that it’ll be okay.
Nothing is going to be okay.
I can’t do this by myself. I’m hurt, I’m scared. I’m so fucking sad. Life without him isn’t worth living at all.
I manage to take a couple of pills, not even seeing which ones I’m taking, and then I crawl back into bed, so exhausted from the trip across the street and seeing Elliott.
He looked genuinely concerned, but I can’t have him going back to Julian to tell him where I am. He said he’d kill me if he ever saw me again.
I believe him.
He will kill me. I just wish I knew what I did that made him hate me so much. It can’t just be because I had lunch with my father.
That’s ridiculous.
“Don’t hate me,” I mutter, sounding delirious to my own ears. “I wanna go home. I just want to go home.”
I turn my hot face into the pillow, enjoying how cool it feels on my skin, and cry myself to sleep again.
It’s the only way I ever sleep at all.