8. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Layne
Keaton Grady was definitely not my perfect future husband. Over my dead body. He hadn’t changed one bit—he was still cocky, and apparently still drooling over women, if the way he’d eyeballed the lady at the table next to us was any indication.
But then he’d surprised me by accepting my no-physical-touch request. That company had to be really important to him.
I unlocked the door to Mom’s apartment and crawled inside. My legs barely carried me anymore. How could a two-hour trip drain my strength like that? A letter addressed to me lying on top of a mail stack caught my attention. I picked it up, nearly knocking over an empty beer bottle. I sighed. Mom once again hadn’t cleaned up after herself. I’d do it later, but now I really needed to lie down.
Finally in my room, I dropped the letter on the nightstand and collapsed into bed. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes. My body barely obeyed anymore. It was as if my limbs were frozen. Every single cell buzzed so much it hurt. My back muscles burned, and there was a rushing and whistling in my ears, accompanied by a dull pain that radiated down to my teeth. But my head was the worst. Not the headache, but the feeling that my brain was on fire and about to explode at any moment. Completely overwhelmed, burned out, yet working overtime without producing a coherent thought.
I wanted to moan, but even that was too exhausting. Jesus, please make it stop.
Even with the windows closed, the sound of cars passing by outside was deafening, and the sunlight flooding into the room pierced through my eyelids. I wanted to close the blinds or at least turn my back to the window, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift a finger anymore.
The torture went on for thirty minutes, then it slowly started to subside. I reached for the letter on the nightstand and tore it open.
It was from the Sozialversicherungsanstalt , the social insurance institution.
My heart rate sped up. This was the moment of truth. Either they would grant me Disability, and I was free, or it was a final rejection.
I skimmed the letter, my brain struggling to register the words.
Until something finally came through. Application rejected.
My stomach sank, then clenched. I stared at the paper in my hand as if the words would rearrange themselves to positive news. They didn’t.
I tossed the letter from me, and it sailed to the floor. What had I been thinking? That the state would actually support me? Yeah, right. Despite legal representation, they had rejected my application and several objections. They claimed that I was faking everything. I could probably be dead, and they’d say I was acting.
I rolled over and stared at the punching bag hanging from the ceiling next to my bed. Oh, how much I yearned to ram my fist into it right now. Have a little boxing session like I used to.
But the old days were gone. This was my new reality. I’d be stuck here forever, having to wake up to the reek of booze and weed every morning. And where would I go once Mom retired?
My eyes burned, and I closed them. Of course this had to happen. The Swiss government loved to boast about our health care system, but when you needed it, they stabbed you in the back.
What was I supposed to do now? Continue to live off social assistance, where I already had a mountain of debt and would continue to stack it up until I died? Having to continuously report every cent I spent?
Suffering from this illness was a huge burden as it was. But not receiving any support . . .
A wave of loneliness crashed over me, stealing my breath. It made so much sense why some people who got refused Disability committed suicide. Not that this was an option for me, but I could feel their pain.
I spent the next few minutes pouring out my heart to Jesus until I calmed down. Able to think straight again, I went through other options. But no matter how hard I tried to find another solution, there were none left. Only a marriage of convenience with Keaton Grady.
I huffed. Did I really want to put myself through this? I didn’t trust this guy. Not one bit. He could be a serial killer, for all I knew. Well, I guess then my problem would be solved, too.
Did I really want to marry a man for his money?
I didn’t. It was wrong and greedy. Keaton had called it a “business deal,” but it cost him a lot more than it did me. The last thing I wanted was to rip him off.
Yet he’d acted as if it weren’t a problem for him. Maybe it wasn’t, considering he owned a freaking private jet. The man was swimming in money like Dagobert Duck. And if I accompanied him to events, I was technically working for him. So why not get a roof over my head and food in return?
Oh, Jesus, why does this have to be so complicated? Can You please tell me what to do? I know marrying Keaton is the only viable option, but You’re God. Can’t You make another way?
For some reason, Hosea’s story pushed into my thoughts. How God had told him to marry a prostitute.
I chuckled. Are you saying Keaton is Gomer?
My amusement died as quickly as it had come. What if this had been God’s plan all along? That I was supposed to shine His light into Keaton’s life?
“You’re kidding, right?”
In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.
The verse came so clear to me that I was stunned into silence for a moment. When I found words again, my voice trembled. “God, please tell me You’re kidding.”