Chapter 3
MINKA
Lock it down. Lock it in. Harden the fuck up, Minka Mayet.
At least you didn’t change your last name when you married… twice. At least you still have your own identity. Your own education. Degree. Job. You have your own life outside of him.
Not.
I move on autopilot, my steps robotic, my trembling jaw grit tight. Because if I don’t get that shit under control, I might start crying. And if I start crying, I’m not sure I’ll find the off switch again.
I drop my bag on the floor by the kitchen counter and glower at the length of ivory ribbon sitting on top, leftover from Aubree’s wedding.
The last time I was here, I was rushing around in search of the things I’d need for my best friend’s nuptials, but also, in search of the answers for how best to serve Steve after his hospital discharge.
I needed a place for him to stay. A nurse to take care of him. A miracle… that’s what I needed.
And look at me, the giant fucking genius, tucking the old man inside the house I’m no longer welcome inside. Which means walking the blistering halls of a four-story walk-up without the homely, hugging arms of Steve Morris twice a day.
Lock it down. Lock it in.
Just like at my father’s funeral, when the man I loved more than any other chose to leave me.
Shivering all over, I breathe through my nose and walk stiffly toward the fridge, dipping my hand into my pocket and taking out the vial.
Just one half of my Factor pack, useless without the other half.
I set the tiny glass bottle on the counter and swing the fridge open to reveal…
not much. Yogurt pouches. A half-carton of creamer.
A dozen eggs. And right at the back, my emergency stash of Factor.
I reach in and grab the box, dragging it free of the fridge, but the longer I hold the package, the heavier dread becomes in the base of my stomach.
Because it’s not cold. Nothing is cold. Not the eggs.
Nor the yogurt. I slam the door and whip it open once more, like the foolish action might trick the fridge into becoming functional once more, but when the interior light stays off, but the small clock on the oven is on—proving we have power—I’m left with the realization the fridge has died, and as I tear the box open and scan each small label, shaking both bottles and setting them with the first, I release a long, groaning sigh.
Because even if the fridge still worked, this pack long ago passed its use-by date.
“Dammit!”
This is the same emergency pack I put on the middle shelf way back when I first moved to Copeland eighteen months ago.
Archer, in all his efforts to make life perfect and easy for me, made it so I never had to think about refilling my scripts.
My medication simply… kept appearing. The mental load, completely and totally removed from my mind.
And I, being the selfish asshole I am, grew far too comfortable in my role as his patient.
Now I have no meds.
Frustrated, I toss all three vials in the sink, shattering at least one of them. Pressing my hand to the lip of the counter, I bring the other up and scrape shaking fingers through my hair.
Breathe through my nose. Relax. Hold it together.
I don’t remember the last time my apartment was so quiet.
Cato always had the television on. He was always chattering about something annoying.
Crunching on a bag of chips. Mia was often here, giggling and playing, picking her new favorite friend of the day.
Daddy, Cato, or Uncle Arch. Even Chloe, the damn cat, would meow and whine, her nails scratching the floors as she wandered from one side of the apartment to the other.
Now, the silence is suffocating. The cruelly persistent buzzing in the depths of my ears, made worse by the equally oppressive heat squeezing me on every side.
Even in an apartment with air conditioning, the old system struggles to keep up as sweat beads on my brow, pooling under my breasts, and tickling my spine.
The heat makes my blood run warmer. Faster. Which makes infusion all the more important, and my lack of meds, concerning.
I lick my parched lips and reestablish my robot persona, straightening my posture and dropping my hands, then turning away from the sink, I scoop up my heavy leather bag and snatch my phone.
No missed calls from Archer, no texts, no changed minds.
Unlocking the screen and swiping to my contacts list, I search, search, search until finally, I stop on Doctor Kurbonov’s name. Drawing a fortifying breath, I dial and bring the phone to my ear.
Lock it down. Lock it in. You’ve existed alone for the entirety of your adult life. You can do it again.
“This is Doctor Kurbonov.” Sascha Kurbonov is a woman in her fifties and, in the past, not all that inclined toward chit chat.
Thank God. “It’s long past dinnertime, Doctor Mayet, and my husband’s tolerance for such after-hours discussions remains low.
But seeing as how I thought you were dead, I suppose this is one of those times I could make an exception to the rule. ”
“Dead?” I cock my hip against the counter and push all my weight onto one foot. Anything to give the other a chance to rest. “Why on earth would you assume I was dead?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in quite some time.
” The tinkle of a delicate teacup touching down on its saucer plays through the line.
“I didn’t really think you were dead, seeing as how you’ve become a semi-constant fixture on the news.
Nevertheless… it’s been a while. I assumed you’d found a new hematologist now that you’ve settled in Copeland City. ”
“No, I…” I close my eyes. And when that doesn’t help, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I haven’t found a new anything. Why would I spend time getting to know someone else when I’d already done all the work with you?”
She snickers, the sound as delicate as the woman herself. Classy, too. “Someone is managing your condition, Doctor Mayet, and that someone is not me. This led me to the conclusion that I’m no longer needed. Is there something I can help you with tonight?”
“Uh… yeah.” I lower my hand and exhale a noisy breath. “I’ve misplaced my current supply of Factor, and don’t have a script for more. I need you to send a new one over.”
“A new what?”
“Script! I just said: I don’t have my other scripts, I don’t have my meds, and I’m meant to infuse tonight. If you call in a new order to the pharmacy near my place, I can swing by in the morning and pick it up.”
“Why wouldn’t you have your new hematologist call in the script for you?”
“I don’t have a new hematologist! Jesus.” I tip my head back and stare up at the ceiling. “Excuse me for my impatience, but how am I being unclear? You write the script, I fill it. I buy meds, infuse meds, don’t die. We good now?”
“Minka…” She chuckles. “You have not called me in about sixteen months. I haven’t written you a script in that long.
I worried at first, since going without is a sure way to die, but seeing as how you’re still alive and as cranky as ever, the only conclusion I can come to is that someone else is managing your condition.
This back and forth is unnecessary. Call your current provider. ”
“But I don’t have another hematologist,” I whimper, my throat tightening and my heart stumbling. Because… Archer. The answer is always Archer. He takes care of this stuff, and he does it so smoothly, I don’t even realize he’s taken over until I’m in a situation he would never willingly place me in.
Normally.
“Please, can you write me a new script, Doctor Kurbonov? It’s obvious I have administrative issues to see to, but for right now, I need Factor, and you’re the only person I know to ask for it.”
“Sure.” In just one word, a single syllable, she expresses more than just a confirmation of my question. There’s concern. And smugness. There’s curiosity. But there’s professional detachment, too.
It’s entirely possible I learned my bedside manner from this woman, and seeing as how I’ve known her since my days laid up in a hospital bed as a small child, it’s probable I thought the way she conducts herself is how all doctors speak to their patients.
No nonsense. No chatter. Little emotion.
Swallowing, I drop my gaze and nod. To myself. To my empty apartment. To my future as a spinster sometimes-aunt who doesn’t even have the wherewithal to own a cat on my own. The ASPCA likely wouldn’t allow it. “Thank you. I appreciate your time.”
“It’s my pleasure, assuming you’ve had a recent work-up, Doctor Mayet? It would be unethical for me to prescribe medication across state lines for a patient I have not personally seen in quite some time…”
“Uh… yep.” Lies! “All above board over here.”
“I hope so. I’ll take care of things on my end, on the proviso that you visit and allow me an in-person examination. Soon.”
“Deal—”
“And before you go…”
I slam my lips closed, trapping my pained groan at the bottom of my throat.
I was so close to being done. So near freedom.
I move away from the counter and head to my front door, pushing onto my toes and peeking through the peephole into the hall. My breath catches when I find the man on the other side… not my guard from before. But a new face. A familiar face.
Mr. Harrison stands with a straight back and hard stare, his eyes vigilantly scanning from one end of the hall to the other, down the stairs, then back up again on an unrelenting loop.
Why is he here? Why did they change? Why is he so angry?
“Minka?”
“Yeah?” The single word scratches along my dry throat. “What’s up?”
“I’m worried. You’ve never, in all the time I’ve known you, been so disorganized with your medication schedule. Losing your scripts, not having access to your packs, claiming to have no other hematologist, but you’ve not been using me either… something is amiss.”
Sighing, I drop back to flat feet and spin, leaning against the door instead. “Nothing is wrong. I’m in a moment of transition, I guess, and my meds became victim to the chaos. Once I fill my new script in the morning, everything will be back on track.”
Everything? Not even close.
“I’ve had a busy day at work, though, so I’m headed for a shower and bed. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.”
“Hopefully,” she encourages. “Reach out if there’s anything else I can do for you. Other than that, I’ll have your script sent over, and I expect to see your name in my schedule soon.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.” I don’t give her a chance to respond. Or ask questions. Or worse, ask if I’m okay. I pull the phone from my ear and end our call with a stab of my thumb, but before I lock the screen and put it away, a banner drops from the top of my screen.
Soph:
Hey. You wanna talk about it? I’ve still got my mature-girl pants on.
Jay’s giving the girls a bath, so I have the next thirty minutes to hang.
Tears sizzle on the backs of my eyes, burning and itching until I’m tempted to tear my skin clear off my face. My nose runs, and when I realize it, my chin trembles.
Because talking about one’s feelings is not conducive to being a robot, dammit!
Me:
No thanks. And though I told you to stop monitoring my calls and texts, I figured you wouldn’t listen, which means you already know how things went between me and Archer.
I’m taking a cold shower and ignoring the world. If I’m lucky, I might drown.
Soph:
There are easier ways to go, Chief. And then there are the fun ways.
One of them includes a full bottle of tequila, a scorpion in your shot glass, and some nasty, bitter goodbye texts as final punishment for the bastard who crushed your heart.
Personally, if I’m gonna die, I’d prefer to take my enemies down with me.
But he’s not my enemy. Not really. He’s my victim, and he’s finished tolerating me.
Me:
I’ll skip your plan and stick with my own. Called my doctor; she’s sending over a script for new meds in the morning. I’m all set.
Soph:
But it’s infusion night tonight.
Me:
It’s fine. Every second day is my routine, but I could go 3, maybe 4 days at a stretch before things get dire. I’ll have Factor in my hands tomorrow morning, which means I’ll infuse tomorrow night and be back on track.
Soph:
I can overnight you some of Jen’s batch. Saves you the effort of going to the pharmacy, and you wouldn’t even have to stab yourself with a needle.
Jen’s are called M&Ms… ya know, like the candy. But also, she named it for you. Minka. Mayet.
Take one pill a day with breakfast. No mess. No fuss. You won’t get tired, and since it’s a slow-release, daily schedule, you won’t experience the ups and downs you currently do.
Me:
Hard pass. Once she has FDA approval, I’ll consider it. Until then, I might stick with the stuff that’s kept me alive for almost 3 decades.
Soph:
She can’t get FDA approval without trials, and she can’t host trials without patients agreeing to test the meds. Seeing as how you’re the only patient she’s making them for, you’re forcing us into an impasse. Don’t be so damn selfish!
I choke out a weary, snotty laugh and tip my head back to lean against the door.
Me:
Yeah, I’m the selfish one. My bad.
P.S. Can you hook my phone up with that app thingy that monitors Steve’s heart?
Please.
I’ve abandoned the man with all those Malones when it was my duty to be with him. Now I have no clue how he’s doing.
Soph:
Already did it. Check your home screen when we’re done. No need to even log in. The app not only monitors his heart, but it’s where Mary inputs her hourly notes: BP, fluids and food intake, sleep schedule. All that good stuff. You won’t be able to see him, but you’ll get the next best thing.
You sure you don’t wanna talk about the Archer thing? I feel a little responsible… ya know, seeing as how it was my plan all along to bring you in on the Agosti thing.
If not for that, you and your man would probably be chillin’ over a glass of wine and dirty sex right about now.
Me:
Don’t sweat it. This is on me.
Pushing away from the door, I cast one last look through the hole—Harrison is exactly where I left him, his eyes still alert, his shoulders swollen with adrenaline and muscle—then I spin and head toward the bathroom.
To shower alone.
To go to bed alone.
He promised to always be wherever I am.
It wasn’t a lie at the time, but in a single afternoon, his words became an easily unraveled commitment.
Lock it down. Lock it in. Alone is exactly how you preferred life not so long ago.