Chapter 21 #2
I wake up at 0500 hours. I go for a run on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and do a calisthenics workout on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On Sundays, I do both. Once I’ve worked out, I shower, then have breakfast at 0700 hours. My lunch is at 1300 hours and my dinner is at 1900 hours.
I, I, I. My, my, my. My needs. My wants. My schedule.
Since bringing Octavia home, I’ve made some changes, but I’ve slotted her needs into my day instead of even trying to adapt to her lifestyle or her schedule.
When I woke up yesterday, I vowed to change, to be different.
I love Octavia and our baby enough to accept discomfort and pain if it shelters them from it.
So I woke up and worked out alone. I made breakfast and ate it alone, keeping hers warm for when she woke up.
I showered alone and got dressed alone, all so that she could rest, so that her body could wake up when it was ready, not when I dictated.
But the moment she opened her eyes, she was hurt and confused and rejected, and I did that.
I tried to do something good, and it turned into something so wrong that I broke her, and I broke us.
I’ll fix it, but knowing I’m the reason it broke in the first place feels the same way I feel when my entire day becomes chaotic.
Sleep doesn’t come, and when the clock hits 0500, I slip from our bed and change into my gym shorts. Carefully wrapping her in the blanket I brought for her, I cradle her in my arms, stepping slowly and cautiously down the stairs until I reach the bed I built for her in the gym.
Peeling back the covers, I feel the coolness of the sheets and frown. I don’t want her to be cold. Will the baby get cold? Placing her into the bed, I quickly cover her with the comforter, then turn up the heat.
My steps drag as I finish my run, decreasing the speed of the treadmill as I watch for any signs that Doll is uncomfortable or waking up. It isn’t until the treadmill slows to a stop that I remember what day it is.
It’s Saturday. On Saturdays, I do a calisthenics workout, not a run. I just ran. I forgot what day it is, and I ran. My brain short-circuits, and I freeze, staring around me like the answer to what I do now will jump out from behind a wall and announce itself.
I forgot what day it is. I’ve never done that. Ever. I go for a run on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and do a calisthenics workout on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On Sundays, I do both. Today is Saturday.
“Knight,” Octavia calls, sitting up from the bed, blinking as she looks around her, a soft smile spreading over her pouty lips.
I start to go to her, then freeze. Today is Saturday.
How did I forget the day? What do I do now?
I can’t do my normal Saturday workout, but I can’t just not do it.
I don’t know what to do, as the familiar itch starts in my toes and slowly rises, inching up my body until it covers my face, making my chest feel tight and breathing uncomfortable.
“Knight?” Doll calls again, but I can’t see her, because I’m dizzy and itching and frozen.
“Baby?” she says, and I hear the sound of her feet as she comes toward me. I can see her, but I can’t. My eyes aren’t focused because I don’t know what to do.
“Knight, are you okay?” she asks.
I try to shake my head, but my muscles won’t cooperate. Then her hands land on my chest, and I can breathe again.
“What’s happened? Please,” she begs.
“I-It’s Saturday,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I forgot.”
“Oh,” she whispers, confusion lacing her voice.
“I forgot.”
“Well, yesterday was kind of fucked up. Maybe we should just treat today as a Friday do-over,” she suggests.
I want to say yes. I want to agree, but today is Saturday, not Friday.
Instead of having sex like we usually do after she wakes up, Octavia takes my hand and leads me out of the gym and up to the kitchen.
Breakfast is at 0700. I cook it for us. Only this morning, she makes eggs and bacon, placing the plate in front of me, with a strange look in her eyes.
I try to eat, but the eggs aren’t the way I like them, and the bacon is too crispy.
She cleans up, leaving the dishcloth on the wrong side of the basin and suds still lingering around the rim.
Taking my hand again, she tugs me out of the kitchen and leads me upstairs, the way I normally do to her.
This is wrong. Everything about this morning is wrong, but I won’t hurt her again.
I can’t yell or shout, or get rid of the clawing, gnawing anxiety that’s smoldering inside of my veins, reminding me over and over and over that everything is wrong.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way.
In fact, I’ve had hundreds of days where even my own skin feels wrong.
But it’s been years since the last one, and I’d forgotten how the wrongness drowns me.
I’m thirty-eight years old. I’ve learned how to cope with upsets to my routine, but I don’t ever remember having to cope with losing track of what day of the week it is.
When we get into the bathroom, Octavia turns on the shower, then tugs my shorts down and leads me under the water.
No. I run a bath for Doll. I wash her body and her hair. This is wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Everything continues to be wrong. Doll dries her own hair.
She opens my dresser drawer and hands me underwear and socks.
She dresses so quickly that even the ritual of us getting dressed side by side is wrong.
She offers to drive, and even after I say no, she fastens her seat belt before I can do it.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The chair beside Octavia’s that has been empty since the first day we came to the studio, is now filled with a man.
Wrong.
Even though he looks like his sister and is friendly as he introduces himself as Atticus, it’s all wrong.
Doll’s first client is a petite woman who asks to use a private room, so that she doesn’t have to wear a bikini top in the main studio.
When I start to follow them into the room, the client’s eyes go wide, and Octavia bars my way, pressing a kiss to my lips as she closes the door and shuts me outside.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Instead of Jaiden, who usually collects our lunch orders, a kid named Michael turns up at 1230 hours, his expression dour and disinterested. He arrives late at 1315 hours with our food, shrugging when Betty and Sully tell him both of their orders are wrong.
“I’m so tired,” Octavia says with a yawn. “My next client isn’t due till two thirty, so I might take a power nap in the breakroom for an hour.”
My lips part to remind her we eat lunch in the car so that I can finger fuck her until she orgasms, but she speaks before I can.
“Will you come sit with me?” she asks, yawning again.
Even as she rests her head in my lap, her warmth pressed against me, all I can think is wrong, wrong, wrong.