Chapter 6
SIX
NAOMI
“ T he projections show a fifteen percent drop in?—”
“Leave it on the desk.” Dad doesn’t look up from his computer screen, the blue glow reflecting off his reading glasses.
Would it kill him to look at me for two seconds?
It’s like I’m not even here. Like I haven’t spent three fucking days putting this report together.
I stand in his study, folder clutched in my trembling hands, waiting for… what? A thank you? A how are you, dear daughter? Something other than this cold indifference?
The familiar acid burns in my throat. Fifteen percent. If it had been twenty, would he look at me? Would he finally see me?
I slap the folder onto his mahogany desk, but Dad’s fingers never pause their relentless typing.
“The Miller account projections are?—”
“That’s all.”
Dismissed. Like a goddamn servant. “Right. Well, I’ll just…”
Dad pauses. “Is there something else?”
“No.” I cross my arms, nails digging into my biceps. “Nothing else.”
“Good. You can go.” He removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Okay.” I turn toward the door. “Bye, Dad.”
“Please close the door behind you.”
What did I expect? A warm welcome? A fucking hug?
I’m halfway to the front door when I hear my mother’s voice, high and frantic, coming from the kitchen. “I don’t care what it takes. I need those bodyguards now.”
Bodyguards?
I creep closer, peeking through the crack in the door. My mother’s pacing, phone pressed to her ear, free hand fluttering like a trapped bird.
“You don’t understand. I think someone’s following me. Do you think he—” Her voice cracks. “I can’t… I can’t do this alone. You owe me.”
Following her? What is going on?
I’m straining to hear more, but her voice drops to a whisper, only letting me catch snatches, ‘Clara’, ‘that night’, and ‘someone knows.’
The smell of gasoline fills my nostrils, dragging me back to the garage. I’m eight years old again, huddled behind that rusted bicycle, watching Mom.
Her hands shake as she fiddles with something near the car’s wheel, and a soft snap echoes in the stillness. She glances around, meeting my gaze.
I stumble back, bumping into the hallway table, the vase teetering dangerously.
Mom whirls around, pressing the phone to her chest, the fear evaporated and replaced by that flawless mask she wears so well. “Naomi, darling. Everything alright?”
I don’t answer, steadying the vase.
“I’ll call you back.” She ends the call, placing the phone onto the counter. “Sweetheart, you startled me.”
“Sorry, I was just?—”
“Were you looking for me?” She glides closer, her cool fingers adjusting my collar as if I’m some delicate piece of porcelain. “You seem flushed.”
My stomach rolls. “Dad wanted the Miller projections.”
“Ah.” Her thumb traces my jawline, lingering too long for comfort. “And did you give them to him?”
“Yeah.” I step back, breaking the connection.
She tilts her head, studying me like one of her flower arrangements. “How long were you standing there?”
My throat tightens, constricting around the words stuck inside. “Just got here.”
“Mmm. You’ve been so distant lately. We should have lunch tomorrow. Just us girls.”
The snap of metal. The terror in her eyes. The accident. “Can’t. Work.”
“You work too hard.” Her fingers find their way to her necklace. “I worry about you, always alone in that office.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?” Her eyes narrow. “You look… tired.”
Bile rises. “I should go.” I pivot, but her hand clasps my wrist, holding me back.
“Naomi.” Her voice lowers, a sharp edge creeping in. “You’d tell me if something was bothering you, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, Mom. Always.”
Her perfect smile returns. “That’s my girl.”
“I need to go.” I bolt.
She doesn’t follow, but her voice carries down the hall. “Don’t forget dinner this week, darling.”
The cold evening air hits my face, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
My hands shake as I fumble with the car keys. Drop them. Pick them up. Try again.
Inhale. Exhale. Don’t throw up. Don’t ? —
I barely make it to the rose bushes before my stomach heaves. The acid burns my throat as I retch, and the scent of flowers and vomit mixes, making my head spin.
I wipe my mouth, straightening up. I should have gone to the bathroom, but then she would have waited for me. Ugh. I hate this.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, squinting at the screen.
Brandon.
Not now. I can’t deal with his bullshit on top of… this.
The roses blur before my eyes, their red petals swimming together.
Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like Dr. Patel taught me.
I should call her, schedule an appointment. But the thought of sitting in that sterile office, picking apart my fucked-up brain… I can’t. Not today.
Another buzz. And another. Over and over.
Can’t he just leave me alone?
I lean against the car, the cool metal soothing against my flushed skin while my phone keeps up a steady rhythm.
What is wrong with him? Did someone die?
I yank out my phone, hovering over the reject button as Brandon’s name flashes across the screen.
Voicemail. Let him stew.
I check my messages.
Brandon: You good? Haven’t heard from you?
Brandon: Still ignoring me? Real mature, cupcake.
Brandon: Naomi. Seriously?
Brandon: At least write something. Not even an emoji?
Shit. Our weekly dinner at Elliot’s.
The one I’ve blown off for… what, two weeks now? Three? My stomach churns, acid climbing back up my throat.
I wanted to go tonight. Had it all planned out. Drop off the reports, head straight to the restaurant, and act normal. Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I can handle sitting across from him, watching him watch me not eat.
But now? After…
Naomi: Can’t make it.
Naomi: Oh and * middle-finger-emoji *
Brandon’s contact photo pops up with that stupid smirk, all dimples and cockiness.
I press accept. “What?”
“Wow, hello to you too, cupcake.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“When are you ever?” A pause. “You missed dinner.”
“I texted.”
“Yeah, one hour later.” Ice clinks against glass in the background. “Real considerate.”
“Work.”
“And how’s daddy dearest treating his star employee?”
The acid burns again.
“That well, huh?” More ice clinking. “You know, normal people eat dinner.”
“And normal people don’t day-drink, yet here we are.”
“It’s evening.” His voice softens, and somehow, that’s worse than the sarcasm. “Did you eat today?”
“Not now.”
“You okay? You sound?—”
“I said not now.”
“Where are you?”
“My parents’.”
“Ah.” Just one syllable but loaded with understanding. “Want company?”
“No.” Yes. Maybe. Please.
“Stay there.”
I hang up.
The phone immediately buzzes again.
Brandon: I’m on my way.
Naomi: Don’t.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.
Brandon: Your dad’s not going to love you more for killing yourself with work.
My thumb hovers over the block button.
Brandon: And neither is your mom.
The dots appear again. Pulsing…
Brandon: But I’m here.
The taste of vomit still lingers on my tongue, mixing with the overwhelming scent of roses, guilt, and self-loathing into a toxic cocktail. Or maybe that’s just the lingering scent of my shame watering the garden.
I can’t face him. Not tonight. Not when I’m this close to falling apart, when the cracks in my carefully constructed facade are showing.
He’d see right through me. He always does.
I open the car door and collapse into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking so bad I can barely grip the steering wheel. The leather interior closes around me like a coffin, and I crank the AC to full blast, desperate for air that doesn’t smell like roses or vomit.
Inhale. Exhale.
My phone keeps lighting up. I chuck it onto the passenger seat, where it bounces and lands face-down.
The engine growls to life as I throw the car into reverse, tires shrieking against the pavement. Manicured hedges blur past, then the pristine white columns of the house, until it finally disappears in my rearview mirror.
My chest loosens with each mile marker I pass, and the wind whips through the crack in my window, drowning out everything except the pounding of blood in my ears.
The snap of metal. Mom’s trembling hands. The fear in her eyes.
The familiar urge to fill myself up to empty everything out again rises. To regain control, the only way I know how.
I punch the radio on. Bass thumps through the speakers, but it’s not loud enough. I crank it until the windows vibrate, until my teeth rattle, until I can’t hear my own thoughts anymore.
The phone lights up again on the passenger seat.
I take the next turn too fast, tires squealing, and the phone slides across the leather, tumbling onto the floor.
Let it rot there.
Let everything stay buried where it belongs.
I don’t remember the rest of the drive home. Don’t remember stumbling up the stairs to my apartment, fumbling with my keys.
Once inside, I ravage the kitchen, shoving whatever I can find into my mouth, cookies, chocolate, and—I cram another handful of chips in my mouth, not even tasting them anymore. The bag crinkles as I dig deeper, desperate for… something. Anything to fill this void.
My phone buzzes relentlessly.
Brandon: Answer your fucking phone.
Brandon: Naomi.
Brandon: I swear to god.
I grab the container of leftover fried rice, shoveling it in cold. The texture’s wrong, gummy and congealed, but I don’t care. Can’t care.
The phone rings.
“Just leave me the fuck alone!” I drop to my knees, burying my hands in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp.
Breathe. In and out. In and out.
I look up, taking in the empty wrappers and containers littering my kitchen counter like evidence at a crime scene. My fingers are sticky with chocolate and grease that I just smeared into my hair. The smell of artificial cheese and MSG makes my stomach roll.
What a mess.