Chapter 7 Lia
Lia
Miserable.
That’s how I feel.
I stand there in one of my cooling T-shirts, feeling a bead of sweat dribbling down my spine. Ugh. Two days. I’ve been in this apartment for two days, and already it’s an inconvenience.
I catch my reflection in the microwave and sigh as I lift the prescribed tea and vitamins to my mouth. I don’t know how any of this is supposed to work. I mean, is hot tea going to take the sweat away? Nope.
My heat suppressants would have, though.
I swallow the vitamins and take a gulp of the tea, grimacing at how hot the liquid is. Anything to distract me from the fact that my shirt is tucked up beneath my boobs.
My skin feels moist. I want to crawl out of it. I hate the sensation of dripping sweat.
Back sweat.
Thigh sweat.
Boob sweat.
I walk over to the fridge and open up the freezer compartment. I jam my head in, trying to find some reprieve from the hot flash that overcame me last night. I’ve taken two cool showers, and something tells me I’ll need a third before I can continue baking.
“Oh, yeah,” I groan as the freezer kicks on, blasting me with cold air, “that’s the good stuff.”
The timer for the oven dings, and my reverie is shattered. Great. Now it’s time to stick my hands into a hot oven. I close the freezer, already grieving the loss of the cold against my heated skin as I grab the oven mitts.
“All right, rhubarb. Hopefully, you cooperated this time,” I mutter.
When the oven opens, beads of sweat almost immediately form on my brow. I have to swallow the frustrated whine bubbling up the back of my throat. Now isn’t the time for instincts.
I’m trying not to be upset with Dr. Quinn. I’m trying not to go back on my word with my suppressants. But I can’t stand dripping sweat.
“There,” I say as I knee the oven door closed. “Let’s get you set out to cool.”
When I look around the kitchen, however, I find that every single available countertop space—which isn’t much—is already covered. Apple pies. Cheese pastries. Chocolate croissants. It all litters the sinfully small amount of countertop space this apartment has available.
At least Pickles is a good dog.
After rearranging a couple of the trays of cinnamon rolls that still need to be iced, I find a place to slot the pie. I still have a lot of baking left, but there’s nowhere to do it. The kitchen is filled to the brim. Deliveries aren’t slotted until tomorrow. But I have to bake today.
Pickles barks, jolting me out of my trance.
Crap, I still need to feed him.
“Sorry, big guy,” I say as I rush over to where his food and water bowls are in a corner of the kitchen.
He sits patiently, waiting for me to give the command. I put some ice cubes in his water because I know he likes the crunch, and then I mash some fresh rotisserie chicken into his hard pellets of food.
“All right, boy,” I say as I take a few steps back. “Eat.”
Pickles jolts up from his seated position, his tail wagging as he skids over to the bowls.
Fantastic.
Now I can take a shower.
Even though the cool shower puts a temporary end to my heated skin, it doesn’t stop my brain from swirling. My renter’s insurance isn’t going to be as cooperative as I thought.
It took multiple phone calls over the last couple of days for me to figure out that, yes, my renter’s insurance will foot the bill for rented furniture in this temporary place.
But they won’t arrange anything for me. Which is an issue, because it’s not like I’ve got an extra $350 a month to front for the furniture until the insurance guys can cut me a check for it.
A year’s worth of rental furniture is what my insurance covers. What happens if it takes more than a year for them to fix my apartment?
What if I have to stay in this studio apartment longer than that?
I don’t even realize my body’s shivering until my teeth begin clattering. I want to peel my skin off. I turn the water back to a lukewarm to stop the shivering, but I know I’ll just be sweating here in a few more minutes.
I want to nest. I need it. But all my nesting stuff is piled onto the carpeted floor in the corner of the apartment.
The floor is unforgiving, and I haven’t slept well the last couple of nights.
My back hurts from it, and my hip started giving me trouble this morning.
Crap, there goes the forehead sweat again.
I feel trapped in my own life again.
Out.
I need to get out of this apartment for a while.
KSSSH!
The sound of something hitting the floor rips me out of the shower, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out it’s probably one of the trays of cinnamon rolls. With a towel haphazardly wrapped around me, I race out of the bathroom. Within a few steps, I’m standing on the tiled floor of the kitchen.
Watching Pickles lick at some of the icing that splattered onto the ground.
“No,” I whine as I rush over to the tipped-up pan on the ground. “No, Pickles. Stop.”
He whines with me and then tears are in my eyes as I carefully pick up the pan of cinnamon rolls.
My perfect, homemade, hand-rolled cinnamon rolls.
I sit on the kitchen floor with my towel around me, hold the pan of messed-up cinnamon rolls in my lap.
Pickles lays next to me, staring at the spot where the icing has coated the tiled floor.
Bowling.
I’m going to go bowling.
Somehow, I manage to pull myself up from the floor.
I place the tray of cinnamon rolls over the sink, which gives me room to make sure the pies are as stable as possible on the countertop.
I’ll have to remake them tonight, but for now I have to get out of this place.
I have to get somewhere where it’s easier to breathe. Easier to think. Easier to exist.
That safe place has always been bowling for me.
With a change of clothing and some love given to Pickles, I grab my things and head out the door. I hear Pickles whining behind me and it breaks my heart to leave him behind.
“I’ll be back soon, buddy,” I whisper as I lock the apartment door behind me.
The drive to the bowling alley is a bit of a blur. I manage to make it, though. Thankfully, there’s a parking space pretty close to the entrance, which means I can make a quick exit if things get weird.
The smell of the alley greets me when I walk in, and I inhale deeply.
I don’t care if it’s the smell of old shoes, pitchers filled with beer, and pizza that’s a bit too burnt.
It smells like safety and good memories, and my shoulders relax.
There’s a twinge of something else in the air, though. Something weirdly familiar.
The distinct smell of freshly cut grass, honey, and something uniquely citrusy.
“Daddy! Daddy! I told you it’s her! It’s Miss Lia! Can she bowl with us, pleeeease?”
And when I turn toward the sound, I see Amber waving at me from one of the lanes.
With her father beaming from ear to ear right beside her.