26. Oven mitts and bullshit detectors
Chapter 26
Oven mitts and bullshit detectors
LETTIE
S tella took the news about as well as I expected, which is to say she had a twenty-four-karat gold shit fit. I did learn a few new colorful swears, though. So the day hasn’t been a total loss.
Freya, on the other hand, has been silent. Eerily so.
She’s been cheering James on for a long time now, convinced how much he’s loved me since the beginning. Perhaps that’s why it’s making her so introspective. I don’t know. The lie about his name didn’t bother her much. Perhaps it’s because she assumes most people from Bask use an alias.
However, the truth about my father left her speechless.
As for me, I don’t know how I am. Ask again tomorrow.
It’s all still sinking in.
Being at my apartment feels strange. Like I don’t belong here anymore. It might be my bed, my sheets, and my bathroom.
But it’s also . . . not.
And I don’t know why that is.
Everything feels wrong. Even the air isn’t right. Don’t ask me to explain. I can’t.
We’ve been here for a while now. Not a damn clue what time it is. It’s dark outside.
A shiver of fear creeps up my spine. Without James—I mean Tomer the lyin’ snake—serving as my safety blanket, I’m far twitchier than I’ve been in a few days. I’ve done chewed all my fingernails to the nubs. That’s a fun new habit, courtesy of the time I spent as human cattle. Got it for no extra charge.
On the bright side, there are two Redleg guards on protection duty. One stands outside the apartment door, and another patrols the parking lot. Or so I’ve been told.
When we arrived, Deb, one of my female Redleg guards, was waiting for us. Someone must have called her. I’ll give you two guesses who, but you’ll only need one.
She went inside first and did a sweep of the apartment. Once she gave us the all-clear, Josh walked us to the door, careful to keep a few steps away from me. I bet Tomer told him I’m scared of men when he sent him to follow us. Or maybe Josh has known that all week.
Not that it matters, considering I’m never leaving the apartment again. Better get some cats and order terry cloth robes, fuzzy cat slippers, and hair curlers to complete the cat lady persona I’ll surely adopt soon.
“Give me your phone,” Stella demands out of nowhere.
Blinking, I refocus my eyes and find her standing in front of me, palm extended. The sight catches me off guard, and I have to look around to see where I am.
The living room. On the couch. Freya’s seated to my right, a few feet away.
I’m not alone. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.
Stella huffs, her stare becoming more insistent.
I look around, trying to figure out what she wants, coming up empty. “What?”
She drops her gaze from my face to my lap and back again. “Your phone. Give it.”
My eyes drift to where she was looking, only to find I’ve got a death grip on my phone. Lawd , it’s like I’m trying to get juice out of the damn thing.
I loosen my grip but don’t give it to her. “Why do you want it?”
She rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue. “I’m doing what any good friend would do.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap at her, my jaw clenching.
“I’m going to delete him from your phone so you can’t call him.”
“Oh, like I’d call anyone,” I quip, holding the phone to my chest.
“Fine. So you don’t text him. Give it.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Come on. Now, missy.”
My eyes seek Freya’s, and I lift my brows in silent question.
She wobbles her scrunched mouth from side to side, eyes searching the ceiling. “ Wellll ...” she drawls, high-pitched and squeaky.
“Well, what?”
In front of her chest, Freya rolls her empty palms upward. “It’s not a terrible idea.”
Incensed, I raise my voice a bit too loudly. “You agree with this mad woman?” I point my thumb at Stella. “You honestly think I should delete him? Already? Boom. Click. Swipe. He’s gone from my life. Like he never existed. Poof.”
Freya does a one-shoulder shrug, slanting her head to the side. “Of course you can’t delete him from your life, honey. That’s not what I mean. I’m only suggesting it’s a good idea to make it a little harder to contact him. You’re going to have lots of ups and downs for a while. If you had to ask one of us for his number, that would give you a little time to think. You can ask yourself if you really want to talk to him or if it’s a moment of weakness.”
A moment of weakness. The working title for my life story.
I keep my lips sealed because if I talk, I’ll cry. And I’m honestly so sick of crying I might commit a crime if I tear up one more freaking time. Haven’t decided which type. Manslaughter? Bank heist? Loitering? It’s all on the table at this point.
Letting my head fall back to the sofa cushion, I toss a bent arm over my face and groan. Yet I don’t hand over my phone.
“I’m not weak,” I protest feebly to no one in particular.
It’s laughable.
I’m so weak you could push me over with a feather. Stella agreed to share my room with me because I’m too damn chicken shit to sleep alone. Fortunately, Freya said the death lizard could hang out in her room, so at least I don’t have to sleep with that creature a few feet away.
At the thought, a shudder rolls through me.
“No one said you’re weak, Lettie bear,” Stella soothes, shimmying onto the couch between Freya and me. “We’re only looking out for you.”
She doesn’t have to say the rest of her sentence. I know how it ends. Because I can’t look out for myself.
An acrid taste fills my mouth from the bitterness swirling in my gut. I need something to rinse it away. Slowly, I stand and stretch. The twinge of pain through my ribs barely registers over the throbbing hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
“What do you need, Lettie?” Freya asks, already up and moving faster than me.
“Something to drink,” I answer, schlepping toward the kitchen.
She races ahead of me. “I got ya.”
I don’t have the strength to put up a fight, so I take a seat on a stool instead. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten all damn day. They tried to get me to eat a few times, but I waved them off, citing an upset stomach.
Lowering my head, I rest my cheek on the cool, hard counter. Taking a series of deep breaths, I attempt to force away some of this smothering gloominess, hoping to replace it with another emotion—anger, shock, shame, embarrassment. Anything to get rid of this emptiness.
Yes , I’d take shame instead of this desolation.
It’s like I left a part of me back at his house.
Freya sets a big ol’ honking iced tea on the counter, making my mouth water. I sit up and grab it, noticing the ice swirling around and clanking against the inside of the glass.
As I bring it to my lips, a paralyzing fear slices through me out of nowhere. On reflex, I throw the glass to get it away from my mouth, hurling it across the kitchen. It hits the wall and shatters in a hundred pieces, sloshing ice and dark liquid in all directions.
With my eyes unfocused and unblinking, I sit there, my hand still in the position it was in before I chucked the drink.
Completely still. Frozen.
“What the fuck?”
“Lettie?”
“Is she okay?”
“What happened?”
I don’t know who says what.
Like a stone, I’m unmoving. Utterly paralyzed with fear.
Then I can taste it.
That taste.
Both bitter and too sweet for a Diet Coke.
Suddenly, bile rises in the back of my throat, and my gut pitches. A heave I can’t stop rocks its way up my chest. On autopilot, my body springs into action, and I bolt toward the hallway bathroom. My stomach empties onto the floor before I get there.
By round three, I finally make it to the bathroom. My eyes water as wave after wave pounds through me.
The whole time, that disgusting taste never leaves my mouth.
Not from the vomit. From the drink.
And I don’t mean the tea that Freya gave me tonight.
“Knock, knock,” Freya chirps from near my bedroom door.
“Come on in,” Stella answers when I don’t.
She’s on the bed with me. I don’t know what she’s doing since my back is to her. Reading maybe. Plotting world domination is another solid possibility.
At least I’m not alone.
Not in body, anyhow.
Freya squats by my side of the bed, bringing herself to my eyeline. “Hey, I got you something.”
“No thanks,” I answer automatically.
She frowns and holds up a bottle of water, giving it a little shake.
After my stomach calmed down enough to break away from the commode, I washed my mouth out and brushed my teeth with tap water, which I got for myself by cupping my hand under the faucet. Turns out, the only liquid I’ve consumed today is what I could get from my hand to my mouth.
Too fucking scared to drink from a cup.
Pathetic, Lettie.
In no way do I think that Freya would drug me. That’s asinine.
Yet I couldn’t accept a drink from her. Stella either.
I wonder if I can drink something if I pour it myself. However, I decided to just crawl up into a ball of depression in bed instead of trying to find out. Not sure I can stand another disappointment. Learning I’ll soon be dying of thirst—quite literally—isn’t on my to-do list today. If I can’t even trust my own hand to pour, it’s gonna be curtains for me.
Oddly enough, I never had trouble drinking anything he poured for me. Not sure why this new fear has cropped up out of nowhere, but it’s here, nonetheless. Waving a big, fat flag in my face to remind me how broken I am.
“It’s sealed,” Freya says, wiggling the bottle closer to my face.
If it’s never been opened, it’s safe to drink, right? Hope—the ugly stepsister of my emotions lately—taps at the cellar door where she’s been cowering for days, begging to be set free.
“Where did this come from?” I narrow my eyes at Freya. “We never used to have bottled water here.”
When I moved in, Freya practically made me sit through a PowerPoint presentation on the water bottle crisis.
She tips her head toward the other room, her silky black ponytail flopping over her shoulder. “Deb brought a case in a few minutes ago.”
“Really?” My nose wrinkles. “Why?”
Oh my gosh . They must have told her about my freak-out. Terrific. Someone else to bear witness to my steady descent. I’ve become the poster child for humiliation.
I sit up in bed, swing my feet onto the floor, and take the water bottle from her.
Fuck it. I can do this.
I will do this.
“Hang on, Lettie. Don’t open it yet,” Stella orders, darting out of the room.
My pulse spikes as I watch her go, but then I remind myself she’s coming right back. Plus, Freya is with me.
And that I’m a grown fucking adult with opposable thumbs and a somewhat functioning brain.
To distract myself, I return my attention to Freya and the water bottle mystery. “How did my bodyguard know to bring a case of water here?”
Freya opens her mouth, then closes it immediately. Her eyes dart to the side.
“What?” I ask, my pulse spiking.
She angles her head toward the hallway. “Stella, whatcha looking for?”
It’s only then I notice the sounds of kitchen cabinets and drawers opening and closing.
“Looking for something. No worries. I’ll find it,” Stella hollers.
“Freya, look at me.” I snap my fingers. “What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing,” she lies.
Bullshit detector fully operational, despite everything else in my life being broken and irreparable.
“Was it him? Did he send it?”
Her eyes widen before she can school her features.
Dammit. It was him.
To avoid my probing gaze, she starts inching toward the door. “Stella, what do you need, hun?”
“Don’t leave.” Panic lodging in my throat, I reach for Freya, locking my hand around her wrist. “Don’t leave me alone.”
Her face softens, and her lips turn down at the corners. “Oh, Lettie. I won’t leave you.”
Like a trembling mess, I fold my body in on itself, collapsing onto the edge of my bed. I dig the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to physically hold back the tears.
Tears of shame, tears of fear, or tears of anger.
I can’t tell the difference any longer.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, unable to face her.
That shame I was longing for has arrived, making itself at home.
The bed moves beside me, and then I feel her arm wrap around my shoulders. I stay hidden behind my hands in accordance with section three of the Cowardice Operations Manual .
“Lettie, it’s okay to be scared,” Freya whispers. “I’m scared too.”
“What?” I gasp in shock, my face springing out of my hands.
A sad smile caresses her lips, and she nods sullenly. “I haven’t been able to go back to work.”
“Really?”
It’s been nearly a week since they rescued me.
“Yeah. It’s hard, you know? I don’t know who to trust.”
Guilt pierces a hole in my chest, stabbing me in the heart and lungs. Those fucking tears I’ve been fighting off finally break through my defenses. If I’d have been more careful, she wouldn’t be suffering this way.
Before I turn into a blubbering mess, Stella reappears in dramatic fashion. Her signature style.
“Okay, you can open the bottle now, Lettie.”
I narrow my waterlogged eyes at her, only to realize I can’t see very far. All this crying dislodged a contact lens. Fucking hell. Now I’ll have the pirate one-eye squint until I can get out of bed to get a new contact lens or find the missing one. It might be on my chest, up my nose, or in my hair line. Who the hell knows? It could be rowing a dingy down my perpetually flowing river of tears.
With my one good eye, I notice Stella pounding one fist into the palm of her other hand. But that hand is wrapped in an...
I do a one-eyed squint, embracing my new pirate side, closing the contact lens-less eye. “Is that an oven mitt?”
Two more times, she pops her fist into the oven mitt hand. “Yep. Couldn’t find a baseball glove. So oven mitt it is.” She looks at Freya. “Where’s the water? Did she throw it already?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
I flip her off but break out in a spell of cathartic laughter. I’ve missed her so freaking much.
Chuckling with us, Freya bends at the waist and scoops the water bottle off the floor. Well, damn . I guess I dropped it when I thought she was leaving me.
I take it from her and give her a congenial head nod. “Thank you kindly.”
“Sure thing,” she tosses back with a wink.
My laughter at Stella’s antics settles as I twist open the water bottle. No urge to toss it in sight. “So far, so good.”
With my peripheral vision, I notice Stella circling the bed, coming nearer. When she gets directly in front of me, she squats down like a baseball catcher and sticks the mitt out in front of her, making a target.
She pantomimes spitting on the ground like a ball player.
I’m still laughing when I put the bottle to my lips and take a sip.
Successfully.
The bottle stays in my hand the entire time. Gold star for me.
After enjoying a soothing gulp or ten, I put the cap back on the bottle and eye Stella down, feeling oddly triumphant. Much like a toddler who learned to drink out of her big girl cup.
“Well, that’s just disappointing,” Stella jokes, then tosses the oven mitt over her shoulder.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I tease, reveling in the levity. “Turns out I’m capable of holding my fluids after all.”
“I’ll cancel the bulk order of Depends,” she quips as she flops onto the bed. “And I guess we don’t need the waterproof sheets either.”
“I’ll take those if you’ve already ordered them,” Freya jokes, a snort-laugh escaping.
A huge guffaw bursts out of me, braying donkey-level. I know exactly what she’s talking about because I’ve seen her getting freaky at Bask plenty of times.
Stella’s gaze bounces between Freya and me, her mouth and eyes widening. I suspect she gets the joke since she’s a dirty girl too.
Freya tries to muffle her laughter, her cheeks growing redder. Finally, she blurts out, “Because I’m a squirter!”