by Alexa Riley
As if my thoughts have conjured her, I see Sydney walking in and straight toward me. “Hey, are you okay? I didn’t see you this morning. What time did you come in? Did you . . .” She leans forward, closer to me. “Did you go home with that bartender?”
I groan. “Yes.” Her eyes widen, but I shake my head. “No, none of that.” I lift my hands to message my temples.
“Are you hungover? Does your head hurt?”
“I’m fine. It really doesn’t hurt anymore. Just a bit tender.” I set my hands back into my lap to prove that I’m okay. “Sorry if I scared you. I shouldn’t have stayed behind. I should have gone home with you.” I shiver from the memory of last night and how drunk I was, a small convulsion—hopefully not noticeable—but Sydney grimaces and I know she saw it.
“I left there early. I tried not to wake you when I got home, and then came straight here.” I open another email and groan loudly. “God, I’m so far behind. Thank you. I’d be lost without you.”
“If you need anything, I’m here. How are you, by the way? Are you okay being here?” Her voice is lowered, and I know she’s concerned about the inner office gossip that is sure to be circulating from my incident at the funeral.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m okay.”
Sydney leans in. “It’s okay to not be okay.” When I don’t respond, she reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I think you really need to see someone. You have the card the doctor in the ER gave you. Can you please consider calling him? It’s okay to ask for help. It’s hard to lose someone so close to you.”
The memory of Richard makes my heart lurch in my chest. “I just don’t know if I can talk about it, and with Mom always needing me, I’m not sure I’ll have time, you know?”
“You have to start putting yourself first. You’re the strongest person I know. Taking care of your mother, that’s not easy. Maybe now it’s time you find someone to help take care of you. It’s always been hard for you to let people in, to talk about her, but I think it’s time to try. I think this is for the best. No more excuses, Eve.”
“It’s not that . . .” I shake my head.
“What is it then?”
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. A sweat breaks out across my brow and my heartbeat picks up. A sharp pain radiates down my arm. I reach across my far shoulder and rub at the knot in my left shoulder blade.
“Can we talk about this back at the apartment?”
“Yeah, of course,” she whispers. Her face scrunches as she grimaces. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Michael called a company meeting after lunch. Everyone is afraid we’re getting sacked.”
Michael is now the executive vice president of the agency. If he’s calling a company meeting, it’s a big deal. She shrugs before she heads over to her desk that’s directly diagonal from mine.
I pull out the latest project I’m working on and try to distract myself, but the wait is driving me mad. The walls feel as if they are closing in around me. I wish Richard was here.
I STRETCH my arms above my head and yawn. I’ve been sitting at this desk for hours. I consider drinking the cup of cold coffee on my desk, but I fear even that won’t do the trick. Glancing at the clock, I realize not only have I worked through lunch, but I’m also about to be late for the meeting. My heels click softly on the marble floor as I make my way to the conference room.
Most of the staff, including Sydney, is already there when I enter the brightly lit room. Taking a seat beside her at the long Lucite table that spans the center of the room, I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Park Avenue. Snow has started to fall again. Clumps of wet flakes cling to the surface of the nearby buildings, and I lose myself in the white haze.
Muffled sounds reverberate through the room and I turn my attention back toward the center of the table. The atmosphere swiftly changes as Michael Durand walks into the room. Tension swirls in the air.
The fear is palpable.
“Good afternoon, and thank you all for being here. This will be a short meeting. I just want touch upon some rumors that have been floating around. No, we’re not closing,” he says abruptly. A rush of air is expelled from everyone in the room. “However, things will be changing. Over the next few weeks, the attorney will be going over Richard’s will as well as some other pressing business matters that I won’t go into today. I know this is vague and I wish I could give you more assurances, but unfortunately, this is all I have for you. In the interim, I will be in charge. As you are aware, Richard had a silent investor in the company, so until they decide who takes over as CEO, any questions can be directed to me.”
When he finally stops speaking, his eyes flick over to me. Simultaneously all the eyes in the room follow his gaze. They all seem to narrow in suspicion, as if I know something.
I do, but I won’t tell them that.
After Michael leaves, the room erupts in a series of loud whispers. Sydney turns to me and I shrug.
Someone grasps my shoulders from behind. My back stiffens as I turn to find Barry standing there. Where most everyone who works for The Stone Agency is a team player, Barry travels to the beat of his own drum. He’s reserved and prefers to work alone. We’ve never gotten along.
“Hi,” Barry says. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. He never makes eye contact with anyone. “Do you know who’s taking over?”
“Hello to you too, Barry.”
His fingers start to tap at his leg. “He told you everything. You have to know something.”
“Sorry, can’t help you.” His brow furrows at my words, but before he tries to press any further, I walk away. Until I speak to my mother, I don’t really know anything, but even if I did, I wouldn’t share it with this creep.
CHAPTER FIVE
EVE
THIS WEEK SUCKED.
Fear gripped me often, nightmares infiltrated my sleep, and my appetite dwindled.
But today is Saturday.
So today is a good day.
Anything is better than the hell I suffered being back at the office. The rumor mill ran rampant at The Stone Agency, and work was so stressful, it was no feat at all to get Sydney to go out. She didn’t judge me on the copious amounts of alcohol I drank to help put me to bed. Work has been stressful for her too, so she happily drinks alongside me.
After waking up at Austin’s apartment and doing the walk of shame last week, I tried to convince Sydney to find another bar to go to, but she said I needed to man up and get over it. That once I ripped the Band-Aid off and act normally, it would no longer be weird and that’s exactly what I did. Austin was cool about me sneaking off. He even bought us a round of shots to make light of the situation.
After freshening up, my phone starts to ring. It’s my mom. I can’t deal with her now. I send her to voice mail, and then throw on nicer clothes. After I’m dressed, I make my way down the street to my favorite diner. With my concussion and then having to go back to work, I had completely skipped my weekly ritual. I’m hoping this little sense of normalcy will help aid me in allowing my life to return to ordinary.
Paradise Diner is famous for their amazingly delicious chocolate chip waffles with extra yummy homemade whipped cream. Well, maybe not world famous, but in Murray Hill it was the only place to go.
Just as I make it to the familiar door, my phone vibrates in my pocket and an unknown number appears on the screen. I shudder inwardly when I wonder who it could be, especially on a Saturday morning. It’s never a good thing when an unknown number calls me.
“Hello.”
“This is Sinai-Grace. Is this Eve Hamilton?” My quickening pulse pounds in my ears.
“Yes, it is. What’s going on? Is it my mother?” Please say she’s okay. Please.
“Your mother was brought in today from an adverse reaction to one of her medications.” Guilt sweeps through me, filling my veins with despair. That’s why she called. She called me and I sent her to voicemail.
“I’ll be right there.” I hang up the phone. I
don’t even ask where she is, which room number. Is she even in a room? I just run. I run as fast as I can to help my mom.
Dashing in the entrance of the hospital thirty minutes later, I head straight to the information desk.
“My mother was brought in today,” I huff out on labored breath.
“Name?” The attendant doesn’t even look up as she addresses me, her expression one of indifference.
“Laura Hamilton.” Her fingers type away at the computer in front of me, and with each tap of the keyboard, the raw and primitive grief I had suppressed overwhelms me and makes it hard to stand.
“She’s just now being moved into a room,” she answers, and I so desperately want to beg her to hurry and tell me the room number. Every second that goes by is a second I’m losing before I can make sure she’s okay.
I’m frantic and desperate by the time the receptionist tells me where I can find her. Turning on my heel, I race down the corridor, then take the elevator up. My footsteps thunder down the hall until I find my mother’s room. When I finally step inside, my legs give way.
She’s lying frail in the bed. Her skin is hollow, and her once dewy glow now looks dull and gray. I sit beside her bed and hold her tiny hand in mine. It’s all bone. Everything inside me freezes for a second. My mind and body are numb. Time stops as I watch her breathe. I silently thank God I didn’t lose her too. Lose her the way I lost my father. The way I lost Richard.
She’s all I have left. She can’t leave me.
Tears well in my eyes. It’s too much. This feeling is too much.
My back tightens, my muscles cord and a soft hum sounds in my ear. The impending doom is all around me.
I can see it. It’s lurching its ugly head, ready to strike. Air. I need air.
The need to turn and run is all-encompassing, it sweeps over me, carrying my feet out the door and into the hallway. In my haste, I collide into something, causing a strangled gasp to escape as I drop to the floor. It feels as though I’m floating underwater, trying to break through the surface.
White knuckles, uneven breathing, suffocating.
Like a thick fog on a rainy day, it hovers above me, blinding me. It darkens the path in front of me until I can no longer see.
I’m rooted in place, stuck.
Each pull of oxygen burns, and my breathing comes out in ragged bursts.
Faster, faster, faster until I fear I might hyperventilate.
Everything is closing in.
The walls around me, the clothes on my back, everything is tightening to the point of pain. My chest constricts, as a radiating tingle shoots down my left arm.
Where am I?
What’s happening to me?
My heart.
Am I having a heart attack?
I’m dying.
“Are you okay?” A voice carries over through my haze. My eyes blink rapidly. “I’m going to need you to inhale, in through the nose . . . one, two, three. Very good, now out through the mouth exhale . . . one, two three.”
I breathe in and out.
His voice is steady as he speaks.
“Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale . . .”
My hands shake, and sweat coats my skin. His deep voice continues to soothe me. It lifts me from the darkness and into the light. As reality sets in, I realize I’m in the hospital, kneeling in the hallway outside my mother’s room. Peering down, I notice my hands are still shaking. Residual tremors from the attack.
“Is she okay?” another voice asks.
“She will be,” the deep voice declares. It’s absolute and I believe him.
In, out, in, out.
Still in a daze, I can feel the hand pulling me up, touching my back, guiding me.
“Just breathe. You can do it. Only a few more steps.” His soothing voice instructs, calming me down. Making me follow his lead. When we reach our destination, a seat is pulled out and I’m ushered to sit down.
I lift my head and my heart stops then lurches in my chest.
Standing in front of me is the psychologist from the hospital—from this hospital. The doctor with eyes so blue, it feels you could get lost in them if you stare too long. Transfixed, I pull in a straggled breath and will myself to calm in front of him. My face turns down and away from his scrutiny. Why did it have to be him to find me? A burning sensation spreads against my cheeks. I wish I could disappear. I can’t look at him. I need to leave.
“Look at me.” With slow movements, I lift my chin up. There is no judgment in his eyes, only concern. Air enters my body as I calm and take him in. I let out another breath.
“Dr. Montgomery,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
He hears me, though, and gives me a nod as his trained eye continues to assess me. I wonder if he remembers who I am. If he remembers that he treated me, or if this look of concern is natural for him due to his profession.
“Yes?” He takes a seat across from me. A small line is present between his brows, making me wish I could hear his thoughts right now, because the way he stares at me is unnerving.
“Do you remember me? I’m—”
“I remember you.” He cuts me off with a firm voice, but I hear a slight hesitation. The expression on his face is one of general concern and it appears he is battling how to respond to me. “Are you feeling better? Are you all right?” His voice softens.
“I’m okay.” I lurch forward. “My mother? Where’s my mother?”
“She’s fine. Still sleeping.” With a strangled breath, I finally take in my surroundings. We’re sitting in a small room. A fluorescent light flickers above me, making my eyes squint. It’s plainly decorated, and appears to be a vacant patient room.
“Why am I here?”
“You were having a panic attack in the middle of the hallway, so I thought it would be prudent to move you somewhere more comfortable and private.”
A silence stretches between us. He looks deep in thought and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about. His eyes are soft. There’s something caring inside them, comforting. As if he can feel my pain and there is sympathy living inside the ocean of blue that shines brightly against the early morning light.
With an exhale, he averts his gaze and lets out a breath. His posture becomes more distant, more formal. I bite down on my lip. It feels like an eternity waiting for him to speak.
“Have you had more episodes since you left the hospital?” A burning flush spreads against my cheeks as I tuck my chin down. I feel so small right now. “There’s no need to be ashamed.” There’s softness in his voice that makes the tension building inside me begin to dissipate. “If you don’t mind me asking, have you started seeing a therapist?”
“No,” I mutter under my breath. He looks as though he wants to say something, scold me for taking such little care of myself, but he refrains.
“Do you still have my card?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
“Use it, Eve.”
When I finally am able to get up and walk away, all I can do is shake my head. I don’t have words to voice how I feel right now. This man has rendered me speechless.
CHAPTER SIX
PRESTON
I’VE BEEN SITTING in my office since she left, staring at the goddamn wall. It’s been hours since she fell apart in the corridor, and yet I’m still sitting here thinking of her. Her words, her tears, and the look in her eyes play on a constant loop. It takes me back to a previous time, when I had met similar eyes, similar feelings, and similar sadness. An unwelcome feeling I haven’t felt in a long time twists its way through my blood stream. A storm. Raging winds are bearing down and I fear I’ll be engulfed in the destruction.
This feeling I hide from is a deep-seated guilt. A guilt I thought I had previously eradicated. But these feelings are misplaced. They don’t belong to her. No. They belong to someone else. To the one before. To the one I never helped. To the one I never saved.
I need to walk away. Cut my ties and pray she never contacts me.
Instead, my words betray my thoughts.
I told her to contact me . . . again.
Why did I do that? Because I’m a fool and was ill prepared to see her. When I bumped into her earlier, it was as though the universe was playing a sick joke on me. It had been weeks since she was here and she hadn’t called me yet. I was okay with that. I had come to terms with it.
I was off the hook.
I rest my head in my hands and pull at my roots until the point of pain.
Fuck!
Now it’s all shot to shit. Now I can’t bring myself to walk away.
Why does she have to look so much like her?
Is she my punishment?
My penance . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVE
MY TEETH GNAW at my lower lip as I wait for my mom to wake. I pull my legs into my chest, wrap my arms around them protectively, and watch her. Was she always like this? Or was there a time when she was young and happy? Was it my father’s death that turned her into this? Is this my fate, too? Is Richard’s death my own catalyst? Am I destined to become her?
I never understood my mother. It was easier to judge her than be compassionate towards her troubles, but the recent events have been eye opening. Now I know how fast the fear can take over.
Reaching out, I take her hand in mine. What made you like this, Mom? It has to be more than simply my dad’s death. I wonder if she will ever tell me what haunts her. There is so much pain in her eyes. She refuses to talk about my father’s accident. She refuses to talk about anything. I have yet to voice my own fears, my own nightmares, so how can I fault her? How can I judge when I’m walking down the same dark and winding road?
I can’t.
My mind drifts to Dr. Montgomery and the way he almost implored that I speak to someone about the issues lingering inside me. There was something in his eyes that made me believe he was more invested than he let on. The circles hollowing his face spoke of sadness—a deep-rooted sorrow, and it made me want to find out about this man. Speak with this man. Learn anything about this man.
