Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
ROSE
I’ve never minded being alone before.
Well, except for the scary nights when I was little, when Drake would spend hours reading with me.
But as I got older, I grew to like being alone.
Alone meant I could work on my artwork without being distracted.
Alone meant I didn’t have to pretend the mean comments and jokes from other kids didn’t bother me.
Being different as a teenager wasn’t a good thing, despite what Drake and my mom told me. Being quiet and shy and hiding out in the art room all the time didn’t fit the expectations of high school. It wasn’t like those movies where the quirky art girl falls in love with the most popular boy in school. Not even close.
But alone in my bedroom, I could work on my portfolio. And that was so much more important than dating a guy I’d lose touch with after graduation. My portfolio got me into the Rhode Island School of Design, and set me on the path I’m on now.
Or I was on. But that’s something I’m trying really hard not to think about, though it’s difficult with my hand all bandaged and sending jolts of pain each time I jostle it.
That’s one reason I’m not liking being alone right now.
It’s really hard getting things done with one hand. Opening the pill bottle so I can take my medicine, twisting the top off a bottle of water, using the bathroom…
Ugh.
It doesn’t help that my ribs are bruised and my lip is split and I’m slightly lightheaded from the combination of painkillers and not eating enough food. But my stomach has been in knots since all this happened, and the thought of forcing down food makes me nauseous.
If it were just the pain, I think I’d be okay. Like Drake told me after he recovered from his terrible injuries overseas, pain is only temporary. It’s what we do with it that lasts longer. I can push through the pain.
The fear, on the other hand…
That’s the really terrible part. I thought I knew fear—my mom getting sick, that one time a guy got too aggressive in college, walking down the darkened sidewalk in Queens after midnight—but this is different.
This fear comes at me from two sides. On one, the suffocating fear that my hand will never work like it used to. That my career will be over, and I’ll never be able to paint again.
On the other, I’m terrified of being attacked again. Even though the police seem convinced it was a random robbery, it’s hard to accept it. Why wouldn’t he have broken into a different store, then? One with the lights out? One that didn’t have a person inside who could call the police?
“He wanted access to the safe,” Officer Montague told me the next day. “If the store was empty, chances of finding and breaking into a safe on his own would have been low. He probably spotted a woman inside, late at night, and thought she’d be an easy target.”
My expression must have looked terrible, because then Officer Kingston gave his partner a stern glare and told him, “I don’t think Miss Spencer needed to hear that .”
Not really. But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t feel safe. Not in my apartment, without the Ring cameras I’d planned to install. I can’t do it now, not with only one working hand.
I could have asked Thea to come over, to bring her fiancé, Ben—they would have been happy to help me. Or Ian; he told me to call if I need anything, and he texted me this morning to ask how I was. But I didn’t ask either of them. It felt too much like an imposition.
Thea’s still a new friend; we’ve talked at the library and a few times at my studio, but that’s all. And Ian… I can’t get a read on him—just friends or something more—so I definitely don’t want to push for more than he feels comfortable with.
Could I have called one of my friends in the city?
Possibly, if I wanted them to know all about my injury, which I’m not ready to make public yet. Plus, they’re more acquaintances than friends—people I’ll talk to at events, like their posts on social media, but never actually let down my guard with.
So here I am, alone in this apartment that felt cozy and cute until now, sore and sad and feeling sorry for myself.
Crap. This isn’t who I want to be.
I flop onto my squashy loveseat—one of the first things I bought when I moved here—and try to give myself a mental pep talk.
I’m alive. I could have been hurt much worse. There are two people in Sleepy Hollow who were kind to me. I have a cute stuffed bunny—which reminds me—that I snatch off the coffee table and hug to my chest. And if I’m really in a pinch, I can go stay with my mom in Colorado.
With her new husband, though? Javier, who has a weird habit of chewing everything one hundred times and carrying around a tissue box in case he has an allergy attack?
Eesh. Maybe not. But there’s Drake and Alaska. They’d welcome me at their place in New Mexico.
But that would be too much like giving up, which I’m not ready to do yet.
What I should do is clean up, change my clothes, and try to make some food. Figure out how to block all the doors and windows, so I can sleep through the night. And tomorrow, once I’m rested, I can tackle the rest of it—calling the gallery I’m supposed to be showing at, the insurance company, and NYU to see if I can teach some more classes to make up for the painting I won’t be doing for the foreseeable future.
When my phone buzzes, my first thought is Ian, and that pushes everything else to the side. I didn’t get a chance to text him back earlier; I was busy talking to the doctor and getting discharged from the hospital and then finding a way back here, but now that I’m home, I’d really like to talk to him.
Or text. Whatever.
But it’s not Ian. It’s Reed, who I’m significantly less excited to hear from.
Not that I don’t like Reed; he teaches art history at NYU and we’ve been work friends for years, but it’s not the same. Reed doesn’t make my heart flutter and I definitely didn’t have a sexy dream about him like I did last week after my date with Ian.
I’m sure he’s wondering how Sleepy Hollow is going; he thought I was crazy moving here to start. I think his exact words were, “It sounds sleepy, alright. And boring .” So I swipe to open his text, expecting some iteration of that.
Instead, I get a long, worried message.
Are you ok? I just heard. I can’t believe it. In Sleepy Hollow? It’s crazy. I’m so sorry. Are you at the hospital? How badly were you hurt? I heard the studio was destroyed. What can I do? I can come there to help if you need.
I nearly drop my phone in shock. How does he know?
Fingers shaking, I type a quick message back to him.
How did you hear?
A second later, his reply flashes across my screen.
Page Six. One of the faculty saw it this morning. It didn’t have your name, but it said a famed artist was robbed and assaulted, named the award you won, and mentioned you had a studio in Sleepy Hollow. Who else could it be?
The little food I ate for breakfast lurches up my throat, and I almost throw up all over the floor.
God. Page Six ? I’m not famous. Why would they put that in there? And now everyone knows?
Another message from Reed pops up.
I’m so sorry, Rose. I’ve got an extra bedroom if you don’t feel safe staying there. Or I can come visit. I’ve got some personal days saved up.
Swallowing against tears, I quickly reply.
Thanks. But I think I’m okay for now. It’s not that bad.
Three dots blink. Stop. Blink again.
Are you sure? If you change your mind… I’m here.
A pause, and then another message appears.
Did James contact you? He’s into Page Six and all that.
I shake my head as I reply.
No. I haven’t heard from James since we broke up six months ago.
Although I’m a little surprised he wouldn’t even text. Reed is right, my ex definitely reads Page Six and cares about all the celebrity gossip. It’s one of the reasons we broke up—James loved the New York social scene, and I didn’t. He wanted me to use my minor art-celebrity status to get invites to events, and I wanted nothing to do with them.
After six months of James always wanting to go out and me always making excuses, it was pretty clear we weren’t meant to be. But the breakup was amicable and if I’d heard he was assaulted, I’d at least text him.
I’m not upset that he didn’t, though. It’s really fine. I never got serious with James, and I never got chills when I saw him like I did the first time I met Ian.
Another message pops up from Reed.
I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.
I’m the furthest thing from fine, but I’m not telling Reed that.
You didn’t. I’m fine. Really.
Less than a second goes by before his next text.
Are you sure you don’t need anything ?
I debate what to say that won't sound ungrateful.
I’m okay. But thank you. I’ve got to go, I’ll text later. Thanks for checking up on me.
With a sigh, I put the phone face down on the coffee table, sudden fatigue making me feel like I could sleep for a week. But I’m not going to wallow or nap the afternoon away. I’m going to figure out a way to bathe with one hand, get into some comfy clothes, and find something to eat that doesn’t involve a lot of cooking.
An hour later, I’m even more tired, but I’m kind of proud of myself.
I managed to take a bath and wash my hair one-handed, so at least I don’t smell like antiseptic anymore.
My face looks horrific—now changing to purples and blues—but my breath is fresh and my hair is brushed and I even put on some moisturizer.
Getting changed was tricky; maneuvering my injured hand through the baggy sleeve of my old RISD sweatshirt over my injured hand, but I did it.
Now I’m on to making dinner, and that’s going significantly worse. Because of course, when I was shopping over the weekend, I had this brilliant idea to start actually cooking things.
In my shared apartment in Queens, I never bothered to cook. The kitchen was too small, and there was barely any room to store food, let alone prepare it. But this apartment has a large kitchen with full-sized appliances, and I thought it would be fun to make real recipes instead of heating up frozen dinners.
I had this image in my head of learning to make casseroles and soups and maybe even cooking a turkey when Thanksgiving rolls around. If things went well with Ian, I could have him over for dinner and not have to order takeout or delivery. And for Christmas, I’d bake cookies, which I haven’t done since I was eight.
It seemed like a good idea, in theory.
But now I have a bunch of ingredients that require chopping and sauteing and I’m not sure how I’m going to do all of that with one hand when my skill level at cooking is around a two out of ten.
I’m trying, though. I’ve got bread and butter and cheese for a grilled cheese, which seems like the easiest thing to prepare. It’s going okay, the sandwich looks all toasty and gooey, I’ve got it on the plate and I turn to head over to the kitchen table?—
And then everything goes to crap.
As I turn, I smack my right hand on the counter, and the pain is so intense, everything grays out for a second.
I drop the plate and it cracks into pieces.
The sandwich hits the floor and skids under the oven.
Not even thinking, I step directly onto a jagged piece of broken plate.
I yelp again, and now I’m hopping on one foot, holding my throbbing hand against my chest, and I slam into the stupid counter with my hip.
Now my hand, foot, and hip hurt, on top of everything else.
The tears I’ve been holding back all afternoon finally break free.
And I sink to the kitchen floor, crying, hating how lonely and weak I feel.