The Longest Three Minutes
RILEY
The nausea wakes me before the light does.
I’ve been queasy for three days now. Not sick, exactly. Just off.
The nausea shows up in the morning and thins out by afternoon, and it’s always accompanied by a tiredness that sleep doesn’t fix. I keep waiting for it to turn into a proper cold, a fever, something with a name, and it never does.
These past three days have been exhausting.
I’ve decided it’s the emotional stress of the week. This month—all of it. It’s the grief. The late nights I’ve forced myself through, editing photographs taken during the day, to keep my thoughts from wandering to him.
I’ve stepped out of the house once. And that one time, the paparazzi followed me everywhere. It was hell.
So, when Rachel’s texts came in last evening, the excitement that came with seeing it quickly dissipated, knowing I couldn’t step out of the house without a camera or a mic being shoved in my face.
Yes, the Preston situation has died down, but fans are beginning to have questions about Easton. Questions that remind me too much of what I’ve lost. Questions that I have no answers to.
I’m still on the bed when my phone beeps. I reach for it from the nightstand to see another text from Rachel. I forgot to respond last night.
Rachel:
So Coffee? Whenever you’re up for it. No pressure. Or, I could stop by. Just know I’m here for you, Riley.
I read it and smile.
I quickly respond.
Me:
I’d really love to have you around.
I hit send and drop the phone.
I roll onto my side, and a fresh wave of nausea hits me. I wince and press my face into the pillow.
I must've drifted off because the next time I open my eyes, bright morning sunlight is streaming through the open window.
There’s a knock on the door almost immediately, and I groan, knowing it’s my mom. She’s here for her morning ritual of trying to convince me to get out of the house and ignore the cameras.
“Riley… dear.”
She lets herself in with a tray holding dry toast and ginger tea. She sets it on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes scan my face. Her hand moves toward my face, tucking a stray strand behind my ear.
“You need to get out of this room, Riley. It’s been almost a week already.”
“I know, Mom…”
“And you don’t have to leave the property. You can just go for a walk. Get some air in. Invite a friend or two over.” She smooths the duvet over my knee. “Have a fun moment. You’re free now.”
“I don’t want to be free if this is all I get.” It comes out before I can soften it, and I watch her face as the words sink in.
“Riley…” She takes my hand.
My heart squeezes, and the truth I’ve been holding back slips past my lips.
“I keep trying,” I say quietly. “I've thrown myself into photography every day, but it doesn't work anymore. Every time I pick up my camera, I'm right back in a greenhouse. Or a canyon. Or a hockey arena.”
I close my eyes. “All the places he took me so I could take pictures. So I could explore and get better at something I loved.”
My throat tightens. “I'm tired, Mom.” My voice cracks. “I'm tired of pretending those three months never happened. Everyone keeps telling me to move on, like all I need is a hobby and a good night's sleep.”
I shake my head. “I can't.”
My mother is quiet. Then she moves until her back is against the headboard next to me.
She gently squeezes my hand that’s still in her hold. “Honey, tell me all about it.”
And I do.
“It was supposed to be fake.” My voice cracks on that word. Fake.
“The whole thing. Me and Easton. We made it up, Mom. It was an arrangement. He let me stay, and when Preston wouldn't leave me alone, Easton told him I was his girlfriend to get him to back off.”
I stare down at my hands. “And then... we just kept it going. On purpose. To keep Preston away. It wasn’t supposed to be serious. And now Preston’s gone. The whole reason for the lie is gone.”
I swallow hard. “I’m sitting here in love with a man I met because I climbed into his car by accident, and I don’t…”
I look away, trying to hide my teary eyes.
“What if it was only ever real for me? What if the whole time, for him, it was exactly what we agreed it would be? He never said otherwise. I never said otherwise. I told Mason it was fake, to his face, when he found out, and I realized he was Easton’s best friend. Easton never contradicted me.”
This reality crashes into me. My heart shatters.
God, I’ve been so stupid.
“Sweetie, do you want to hear what I have to say, or do you want me to sit with you?” Her voice is soft, but I stare at her, needing to hear the truth. Maybe, it’ll set me straight.
“I want to hear it.”
“You spent six years with a man who took control of your entire life and never allowed you to be yourself. You only got out almost two weeks ago. And now, you are lying in a bed asking me whether the next man loves you back. And I don’t think it’s wrong to love him, honey.
I think he might be everything you say he is. ”
She tucks another strand of hair behind my ear.
“I just think you have spent your whole adult life defining yourself by whether a man was choosing you. And you’ve been free of that for less than two weeks.
Maybe sit in it. Just for a minute. Be Riley, who takes pictures, who enjoys her life.
And I think if Easton Blake really wants you, he’ll come for you when the time is right. ”
“You think so?” I ask in a small voice, and she nods.
I try to sit up to hug her, but I must have moved too fast, because the nausea comes back all at once, and I’m off the bed and across the room before I can think.
I make it to the bathroom before bending over the toilet. I puke my guts out, and stay there for a few minutes.
When I finally stand up to rinse my mouth, my mom is there. She silently watches me, and when I’m done, our eyes meet.
“Riley…”
“I’ve been nauseous for the past three days. I think it’s the stress.” I wave it off. “I threw up on Tuesday too. Always in the morning, and I’ve barely eaten anything these past few days.”
She looks at me for longer than I’m comfortable with, but I don’t say more.
We walk back to the bedroom, and she picks up the tray with the untouched toast and tea, now cold.
“Take a walk today. You need it. Get some fresh air in.”
I nod.
“I mean it, Riley. You’re already getting sick. Please, take care of yourself.”
I salute her, and she laughs. I laugh too.
“I promise, Mom. I’ll take a walk around the property today. I love you.” I lean in and kiss her cheek.
Satisfied with my response, she leaves. She’s out of the room when she calls out that she’ll be heading out for most of the day to run a few errands.
A moment later, I hear her downstairs. Her keys, the front door, her car, and then the house is empty.
As soon as I’m alone, our last conversation registers.
The nausea.
I threw up twice on Tuesday too.
It always comes in the morning too. Right before I eat.
I sit very still as the wheels begin to turn in my head. I start counting.
I’m not careless. I’ve never been careless. I switched pills right before I left Preston—the chaos of those weeks, a new prescription, a new pack I wasn’t perfect about because my whole life was on fire—and I didn’t think about it.
I’d gotten them during my stay at Easton’s place. And we’ve trusted them.
I count the days twice, and I get the same answer both times.
I’m out of the house before I lose my mind. The pharmacy is fifteen minutes away, and I drive myself, because there is no one I can ask to do this.
I wear a cap. I can’t have anyone recognizing me at this crucial moment. I can’t have them leaking a narrative that’ll further tear things apart.
I buy two different brands, because I don’t trust one to be honest with me.
The drive home is the longest drive of my life. A million and one possibilities run through my mind, almost driving me insane, but I refuse to accept any because it just can’t be true.
I’m protected. I’m safe.
I say the words like a mantra, willing them to be true.
The house is still empty when I return.
I read the instructions like they’re a document I’ll be tested on. I follow them, and set the tests on the edge of the sink. I sit back down on the tile floor, knees up, and I don’t look at them.
Three minutes is a very long time.
I look at the ceiling. I look at my hands. I try not to think of anything.
When the three minutes are up, I pick them up.
Two lines. Both of them.