31. Trina
TRINA
Finally, I’m able to sleep for several uninterrupted hours. When I wake up, it’s late. There’s thunder rolling outside accompanied by flashes of lightning, but I don’t hear any rain. My apartment is dark, though it feels early for it to be night. A glance at the clock tells me I’m right.
Slowly, I lift myself off the couch, stretching and rolling my neck to relieve the tension from sleeping with my head on the armrest. I fluff out my hair and readjust my clothes.
I don’t feel great, but I feel better than I did.
Maybe dumping Suzanna was exactly what I needed.
Or maybe it was the conversation with Scarlett.
Remembering my phone and feeling a little better equipped to deal with what is sure to be an onslaught of communication, I walk over to where I left it and power it back on.
It starts pinging almost immediately, with several texts and voicemails.
I start with the texts, most of which are from Isabella.
Isabella: I am so sorry. Suzanna cornered me about the offers, and I thought she’d want to know what Ashton was up to.
Isabella: Please don’t hate me. I never meant for it to mean you’d lose your job.
Isabella: Is it too early to tell you I’m proud of you, though?
Isabella: I just tried calling, but your phone is off so I’m going to stop texting you. I hope you’re okay. Call me when you get this.
It would be cruel not to put her out of her misery, but I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now, so I fire a text back.
Me: I’m fine. I took a nap, which is a weird thing to say. Call you later.
And then, after some more thought, I send another message.
Me: I’m proud of me too, actually.
Isabella must have been waiting by her phone because she sends a string of pink and sparkly emojis, which makes me smile. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I found some really amazing friends.
I send a few more texts to worried authors letting them know I’ll be getting back to them soon before starting in on the voicemails. I put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter to let the voice messages auto-play.
The first comes from Isabella. “Bitch, you can’t just quit your job and go dark. Call me.”
Pouring myself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge, I shake my head and laugh quietly.
The second message comes from Scarlett: “Hi again. Just thought you might want to know that Casey called Ryan. I think he’s worried about you. I don’t know what’s going on, but you might want to give the poor guy a call.”
I check the clock again as I gulp the cold water, enjoying how cool it is against the heat of my throat. Word sure travels fast. I wonder how Casey heard so quickly.
The third message comes from Imani: “Hi, Trina. I’m trying not to freak out here, but it’s been a tough couple of days with all this stuff with Halo Sun, and now I get an email from the agency that I’m being transferred to a new agent?
I called Casey, but he hadn’t heard from you.
Can you give me a call when you get a chance? ”
“That explains that,” I mutter before downing the last of the water in my glass.
“Hi, hun.” The fourth voicemail starts, and I freeze. The glass drops from my hand and shatters on the tile of the kitchen floor, making me miss whatever comes next, but I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
My mom.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath. Then, louder.
“Shit!” I turn this way and that, trying to find a place to step that isn’t covered in shards of glass.
My breath sounds loud in my ears, whooshing in and out.
It feels like I’m paralyzed, standing in my kitchen surrounded by glass, skin cold, trying to breathe.
My teeth start chattering, which is weird because it’s so hot. But I can’t make them stop.
“Fuck.” The word is too short to be shaky, but I’m like a leaf quivering in the wind. A new voicemail starts playing, and I realize I missed everything she said. I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of it if two words did this to me.
“Okay, think,” I tell myself. “One thing at a time.” I have to get out of the death trap that is my kitchen.
Carefully, I pick my way over the tiles, sucking air in between my teeth when a piece of glass lodges itself between my toes.
The blood starts almost immediately, and I carefully fall onto my ass just outside the kitchen.
I pull my injured foot closer and remove the glass, tossing it aside.
Limping to the bathroom, I try to keep my toes elevated so I don’t get blood all over the place.
Once there, I grab a tissue and wedge it between my toes to stop the bleeding.
The voicemails have stopped, so I must have reached the end of them. Thinking I’ll get the broom and sweep up the glass, I open the closet where I keep the cleaning supplies. But as soon as I turn around, my phone taunts me from the counter.
I don’t know how long I stand there, in the middle of my studio apartment, holding a broom like a staff and wishing my body knew the difference between listening to a voicemail and being chased by a dragon.
But eventually, I drop the broom. It lands on its side with a thwack that I barely register as I cross the small space to pick up the phone.
Half expecting it to start breathing fire, I tap the screen to unlock it. The list of voicemails is right there, but the only one I can see is the unknown number that must be hers.
Seventeen years. More than half my life ago was the last time I talked to her.
When I told the dial tone I loved her. When she got confused about my age.
She was supposed to come get me a year later and never did.
I still don’t know why. All Aunt Donna told me was that she wasn’t dead.
Turns out Aunt Donna knew my mom had been trying to call me all along.
With a shaking thumb, I press the play button on her voicemail as quickly as I can, before I can overthink it.
“Hi, hun,” my mom’s voice fills the space.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to call. I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me.
Maybe you still don’t. I don’t know. But here I am.
I’m calling.” She pauses, then laughs. It’s a crackly, dry sound as if it doesn’t get used very often.
“It was good to hear your voice on the message there. You sound older. Responsible. I’m glad.
Well, I hope that’s true, and I’m glad if it is.
” She curses quietly. “I’m rambling. This is probably the dumbest voicemail you’ve ever gotten.
But…this is my new number. Donna said you were in Chicago now.
I’m still in LA. You can call if you want.
I understand if you don’t. But I love you, Cat. I always have. I hope you know that.”
The room goes silent. My jaw is slack, and I’m still standing next to the kitchen counter, barely registering the throbbing in my toe.
“I love you, Cat. I always have. I hope you know that.”
Completely without my permission, a huge, yawning sob is forced out of me. I bend at the waist, wrapping my arms around my stomach as saliva starts pooling in my mouth. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if I threw up right here on the floor.
Because with those words, the realization that the last time anyone told me they loved me was when I was nine, before I was taken away. Aunt Donna and Evelyn certainly weren’t going to say it to me. It’s not something friends just come out with randomly either.
Casey might have, and that thought makes me want to curl up right here on the floor and bawl my eyes out. Because what if it’s too late? What if I’m going to be starved for this one little word for the rest of my life?
But just the thought of Casey calms my heart rate a little. He always made me feel better. That was the whole point of our arrangement, and then I got greedy. I wanted more.
I wanted him to love me.
“Fuck!” I cry out, stomping my foot in frustration and then moaning in pain. “Get it the fuck together, Trina. It’s a voicemail, for fuck’s sake.”
But I can’t think of anything but Casey. Casey would know what to do. He would know how to make me feel better. So I snatch my phone, keys, and purse off the counter and slide my feet into the gym shoes waiting by the door, tying them loosely so as not to crush my toe.
It’s starting to rain, the wind whipping the trees at irregular intervals, but I don’t register any of it. Get to Casey is playing on repeat in my head. With enough sense not to try to drive in this state, I walk as fast as I can to the train that will take me to his condo.
The ride goes by in a blur. My brain is eerily quiet. My body is wound tighter than a piano wire. I can’t even look at my phone. I’m almost afraid it will explode in my hands. Or, worse, ring.
But it doesn’t, and within twenty minutes, I’m getting off the train in the now-pouring rain.
By the time his building comes into view, my shoes are soaked because I didn’t bother avoiding puddles, and my clothes are on their way to join them.
My hair is a soggy mess, and I can feel the water from it mixing with what I’m sure are tears on my face.
I rush up the stairs and pound on his door.
No one answers. I pound again. Nothing.
Of course he’s not home. And that’s what it takes to knock some sense into me—he doesn’t want to see me. He made that clear. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I lost my mind, that’s what. It’s a blessing in disguise that he’s not home. I can save face if I turn around and leave right now.
The pain starts radiating from my foot as the hallway comes into sharper focus now that I’m thinking clearer. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve done this alone since I was a child, I can do it alone now.