CHAPTER 8
Sybil
The following morning was a significant improvement over the previous one. I woke in bed, sandwiched under the covers on either side by Bill and Mr. Beans. With the blankets pulled tight around me, I wasn’t ready to bring the day in just yet.
On cue, my phone began buzzing on my nightstand.
I groaned and rolled, coaxing the boys to relent their cozy positions before I could sneak an arm out. My palm landed hard on my phone, and I tilted the screen toward me. It was Cat, which wasn’t a surprise. She was my only contact.
I answered with a groggy, “Hello?”
“Darling! Today is going to be brilliant!”
I yanked the phone away from my ear. Her energy was not matching mine. To preserve my eardrums, I put her on speaker and lay back in bed with a harrumph.
“The announcement of your show this evening has picked up a lot of buzz. People are speculating you stole your own painting!” She giggled. “Isn’t that adorable! I wish I’d thought of that.”
It’s the sort of thing she’d make me do, too. Challenge me to steal my art. I wasn’t going to comment.
“Eight?” I asked.
She knew what I meant. “Yes, Sybbie, eight tonight. Do you need me to bring you anything, or just send the car?”
“Just the car,” I grumbled.
Mr. Beans let out a surly meow as I forced him off the bed and onto the floor so I could move.
I rolled over, head in the pillow. I needed to shower and clean myself up.
An ‘everything shower’ as I’ve heard it called on social media.
Shaving—lots of shaving—exfoliating, polishing, everything I’d need to clean off six months of hibernation.
“Okay, honey. Were you happy with everything at the venue last night?” she added.
“Yeah.” My reply was muffled. “Everything looked good.”
“Great, okay, I still have a lot to do, so I’ll let you do your thing. I’ll see you later, okay?” She hung up the phone before I could say anything more.
She knew I wouldn’t be much of a conversationalist today. Talking took a back seat on days like this, and panic took the wheel. It was like walking through a room full of honey. I had to preserve as much energy as I could or I’d drown in it.
Last night, Bill and I went back to our deli. As predicted, they’d already finished the interior, leaving the windows covered, hoping to preserve the secret.
Daniel and his crew were amazing. Everything was matte black, like a stain of shadow and night. Entering the room was exhilarating—a feeling of vertigo like falling into a vast, bottomless pit. It was a neat space this time.
I’d flicked on the light above where the new piece was to be hung, and placed the Doubt painting. It felt like a scene from an old silent movie as my hands fell away from it. The lighting was perfect, deep, and dramatic—highlighting the grooves in my slash of Doubt.
This was my favorite ritual and one I always handled alone. While Cat did everything else, the delivery and setup of the art was mine. It was one of the few things I enjoyed about the entire process.
I felt myself falling back asleep as the morning dragged on, but not for long. Bill began pawing me, chattering, ready for his breakfast. Mr. Beans, who stood near the door, soon joined him, singing the song of his people in long, drawn-out yowls.
Persistent, I had to give them that.
Once they were fed, I worked my way through the day, one step at a time. It was better to work in manageable segments. If I thought too far ahead, I’d lose my calm.
The first hurdle was forcing myself to eat a big breakfast. Knowing my gut, eating would become less and less appealing as the day went on.
I made my favorite blueberry chia protein pancakes.
They were packed with all the goodies necessary to sustain me and stave off low blood sugar until after the show.
Any physical reaction would trigger my anxiety, so I was careful to pack a few fruit snacks, just in case. Those I could stomach.
Next came the showering. Then the dressing. Then the existential dread.
By the time the evening sky appeared, the feeling clawed at my chest. The approaching darkness felt like a countdown, deepening the familiar fear that took root in my abdomen.
Staring out the front window over the back of my couch, I was in pure survival mode. My breathing dragged in a shallow, fluttering rhythm. Cold sweat slicked my palms, and my muscles felt heavy and leaden. My stomach churned with a familiar ache that spread through my torso, making me nauseous.
I’d sunk deep into the cushions, wishing they’d swallow me. Mr. Beans was on the sill in full view of passersby, unafraid of being seen. I wished he could go to the show in my place. He’d fit right in with his brooding air of judgment.
As the sun fell behind the buildings across the street, I caught myself staring at Nash’s front door with laser-like focus. My gaze was centered on the doorknob, the single item grounding me. Bill was sitting beside me on the floor, his head in my lap, snoring.
It was then that Nash’s door opened—my focal point disappearing. It took me a while to process the change, as though dragging myself out of a tar pit. My groggy body woke, then jumped when the door slammed behind a familiar large form.
Bill leapt onto the couch, ready to defend my honor, barking without apparent reason at the window. Mr. Beans sped from the room in a blur of fluff.
“Bill,” I admonished, dropping below the window frame, trying to pull him down with me, but there was no use. Though small, Bill was mighty.
His nose skated across the glass in excitement; his small but solid little sheepdog body impossible to budge. Barks rang in my ears.
I chanced a glance over the edge of the couch before ducking back. Nash was on his stoop, looking across the street in our direction. Had he seen me?
Dear God, please no.
I rolled off the couch with a thud, crawling away from the window to the back of the room and around the corner.
“Bill, come here!” I snapped. Standing, I took refuge behind a column that divided the front room from the back kitchen. I squinted, straining my eyes to see Nash from this distance.
He was waving at Bill.
Crap—so much for keeping my location a secret.
My fingers dug into the smooth column as I tried to steady myself. My mouth parted as my breathing increased, searching for more air. I dared myself to peek out from behind the column, attempting—with surprising effort—to catch a full glimpse of Nash’s form.
The streetlights had flicked on, casting a dramatic glow over the broad shape of him. A dark trench coat draped over his shoulders, unbuttoned and showing a peek of dark pants and shirt. I wouldn’t know what color, but dark looked good on him.
A quiet buzz seemed to fill the air, drowning out Bill’s barking. The rush of blood to my head was causing my ears to ring and my fingers to tingle. A thrill of warmth spread through me as I recalled the way it felt when we were wrapped around each other in Bill’s leash.
He was heading out of the house, which was clear, but I couldn’t help but wonder where.
I was already dressed head to toe in black for the show, and in this moment it helped hide me against the dark backdrop of my dim kitchen.
I had on a long skirt with a high waist and a long-sleeve black shirt with a mock turtleneck.
Nothing that drew attention. A black velvet bow secured my hair in a tight ballerina bun.
Nash began crossing the street toward my townhome.
Oh shit. Please no.
I backed away, his figure falling below the frame of the front window, now on my side of the street.
Bill was chattering, looking down, licking the window between yips and wagging his black and white tail with such force, he was slapping himself.
My heart rate soared as I backed deeper into the kitchen, toward the doorbell camera screen. Turning it on, I held my breath, as though worried Nash might hear me over the speaker as I could hear him. He stood at the base of my stoop and to the right, under my front left window.
“Hey buddy!” A deep chuckled passed his lips. “It’s good to see you!”
O.M.G. No. I was going to have to move now, wasn’t I?
“Is this where you live?” he went on. “Is your human here too?”
Bill was barking and snapping his jaw as though he could understand him, despite my windows being soundproof.
“I’d knock and say hi, but I’ve got somewhere to be. Maybe later, okay?” he promised.
For the sake of my sanity, please, no.
“I’ll see you then, Bud!” He waved at my dog, crossing in front of my stoop and off camera. It appeared he was heading somewhere uptown.
I turned the doorbell camera off and leaned my hip against the counter for support, taking a few deep breaths and reaching for my purse. It was a huge purse, a bit of a security blanket; I didn’t go anywhere without it.
Digging through, I found my emergency bottle of medication.
It was a low-dose beta blocker and would help slow my heart and manage the physical reactions of panic during the show tonight.
Luckily, it would also work to calm me now, too.
I took one, followed by a few sips of cool water from the fridge.
I exhaled and waited, cemented in place for another half hour until my body cooled and my muscles released. The medication had kicked in.
I could breathe again.
It was moments like this that proved my misplaced existence. I was an adult, and despite minor improvements over the years, I worried this would never give. What good was I to anyone?
I tried to bury the thought, but it lingered, unbidden.
My phone dinged, notifying me that my driver was nearing.
Bill, who hadn’t left the window since his new BFF walked by, was little help to me—some service dog he was.
Taking one last fortifying breath, I gathered up my giant bag and slung it over my shoulder. I closed my eyes, reminding myself that I was nobody, no one would notice me—I was safe. It was just a job, and it would soon be over for another six months.