by Daisy Jane
Any pain that flitted through my brain is gone. My heart still hurts. I see Brynn’s name light up my phone over and over, the tears come again, fresh like it’s happening all over again. Setting the apple next to my phone on the outdoor table, I tuck my now wavy-from-tears hair behind my ears and close my eyes. I just want to forget it all. If only for a moment.
Chapter 24
Sandpaper nips at my nose then over my hand. Blinking my eyes open, I see Grandma standing on his hind legs, looking at me, tail wagging happily behind him. It’s dark in the back yard now, the timer-set Eddison bulbs lining the fence give off a soft white glow. Yellow floods the patio from inside the house. Pushing myself up on the lounge chair, I look at my phone. Twenty-seven missed calls. A handful of them from Abbie, two from Kayla and the rest from Brynn. It’s ten after eight. I’ve been sleeping on the lounger for two hours.
“Sorry Grandma,” I say, ruffling his ears as I swing my legs over the side of the chair. Stretching, I realize, my head is still a bit in the clouds from the pot but I need it. The memories of Brynn come running back to me, and I wipe away a tear before I give that one tear the power to start a flood. The curtains are closed over the slider, telling me Eli must be home.
If I know Bodhi, he’s turned his second date into something more and good for him. Smoothing my hair as much as I can without a mirror, I then rub my fingers under my eyes, wiping as much lost mascara as I can. Inhale, exhale.
Brynn may have taken my job and ruined our friendship but still, I plan to tell Eli exactly how I feel. I need this tonight more than I did before. No pressure.
Pulling open the slider, Grandma runs through first, tangling the curtain on the outside of the door. Bending down, I untangle it and my eyes go through the glass door to the bottom of the kitchen table. I see feet. Bare feet. With painted toe nails and tan, sculpted ankles leading into tight, muscular calves.
Stepping inside, I close the slider behind me and lock eyes with Eli, who looks up at me with surprise. His eyes dart across the table to the beautiful brunette across from him. They have laptops out, cords running in opposite directions to keep them charged. Next to her laptop is a plate with remnants of Chinese Chicken Salad on it. She’s eating the food I made for Eli.
“Sloane,” he cuts through my dizzying stare. “I didn’t know you were here.”
I don’t know why but suddenly it’s hard to speak. I swallow but there’s a lump in my throat that won’t go down.
“Sloane, this is Candice. We work together.”
“Hi Sloane,” she holds up a hand and smiles so sweetly. Her teeth are big and perfectly straight and overly white and her skin is smooth like a newborn, no flaws in sight. Her long, shiny dark hair is in loose waves over her shoulders and she’s wearing a very tight dress, with a blazer slung over the back of her chair. She’s sitting but even so, I can tell she’s fit. Like the kind of woman who commits to a five AM workout every day. She’s toned and beautiful, just like Eli.
“Hi,” I finally say, and then I force my feet to move so that I’m not as weird as I feel. I move across the kitchen and pull open the fridge, but I don’t even know what I’m doing. I am not hungry. Is there anything in this fridge that will help the fractures I feel in my heart? I don’t think so. Then I spot the black bean brownies. Pulling them out I slide them onto the island. I look up at them and she’s typing away on her laptop, but Eli, he’s not. He’s watching me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, caution in his tone, as if something about my appearance says “don’t fuck with me.”
“I’m super good,” I say, hardly meeting his eyes.
“Your salad was delish,” stupid perfect Candice says, smiling brightly at me with her head cocked. “Eli says you’re a great cook.”
I look at Eli and his brow is pinched; his fingers smooth over his keyboard but he doesn’t type.
“Thanks,” I say, giving Candice whatever fake smile I can muster. I don’t even know if it was believable or not but I don’t care anymore. My plan to talk to Eli and tell him how I feel has been ruined.
Like everything else in my life.
Okay, that’s a bit dramatic but still, after what happened with Brynn earlier, that’s exactly how it feels.
“Is everything okay? Did you get a migraine?” Eli asks, turning his body to partially face where I am in the kitchen. I cut a small piece of black bean brownie and take a bite.
“Nope,” I say, looking back to Candice who looks a bit concerned now as she stares at the laptop.
“Oh E, look, the transaction logs are failing to back up. I don’t think there’s enough space on the server for it to run as-is much longer.” His eyes stay on me and when she glances up to him, she sees that he’s looking at me and under the table, nudges him with her barefoot. That fucking bitch.
And she called him E.
E. E. E. It reverberates through my brain. Still, he looks at me.
“Good luck with your stuff,” I say to them both, not giving Eli a second glance. As soon as I’m at the bottom of the stairs, Eli calls out to me.
“Sloane, hey, wait.”
I can hear the chair move from the table and my heart races. My stomach feels so sick. He stops himself at the foyer and there is five feet between us.
“Yeah?” I say, feeling the emotion form behind my eyes. I need to get away before I break down. I edge towards the staircase backwards.
“Your friend came by here looking for you.”
“Who?” I ask, knowing it was probably Brynn or Abbie.
“Brynn. That’s your best friend, right?”
I don’t say anything because I honestly don’t know anymore.
“Hey, Sloane, are you okay?” he steps towards me and I step back. I can smell his cologne and it warms my veins. A tear breaks free and I wipe it away.
“Yup.”
He rakes a hand up the back of his head nervously. “I didn’t know you were home. I told her I didn’t know where you were.”
“Okay.”
“She was upset, Sloane. She was very upset.”
“Okay.” I take a backwards step up one then two stairs. “Thanks for relaying the message.” I turn around and continue up the stairs, unresponsive to the Sloane he casts at my back as I do.
Today was going to be telling Eli that I like him. Really like him. We were going to have a meal and talk.
Instead, I lost my job and my best friend. And fit, tan, beautiful-footed Candice is taking my crush. Flopping across my bed, I start to cry. Into my pillow so that it’s just for me. But I cry so fucking hard for so fucking long that when I finally stop, I know I need to get up and take a Tylenol and drink water. I know I do. It’s risky to go to bed without sixteen ounces of water in me. But I’m so tired.
I’m so fucking tired of trying to fend off the migraines and please people and feel good. All I want to do right now is sleep.
So that’s what I do.
When I open my eyes, I’m met with a terrible and familiar ache. The dull ache swimming up my neck, pinching behind my eyes. Get up Sloane, go take the injection. Do it. It’s in the bathroom, just down the hall. Go, go take it.
But I can’t. It’s different this time. The pain is there. I don’t want the pain, obviously I don’t. But I just don’t have the fight in me. I’m tired. And when the pinching nerves behind my eyes takes a momentary respite as I press my fingertips into my temples, the events of the day unfold quickly in my mind.
Brynn.
Eli.
Candice.
Rolling onto my belly, I pinch my eyes closed and pull a pillow over my head. There’s no light to block out so it must be the middle of the night or maybe even early morning. But the pillow on my head isn’t for light. It’s for life.
Sadly, it doesn’t work. Then that invisible set of pliers in my head, twisting and pulling on my optic nerves, it drinks a Red Bull or something because the pain. Jesus Christ in heaven, the pain. It crashes down on me like ten-foot swell. I’m drowning i
n the pain; the surface isn’t even nearby. It’s all dark. It all hurts and I feel myself slipping away.
I cry. It’s not pretty and it’s not responsible. I should drag myself down the hall, dig through all the drawers and cabinets until I find my injection, pop a Benadryl and lay by the toilet, waiting for pain to take the form of nausea.
But I don’t. I cry and this time, it makes the pain much worse. My pity party turned migraine is now an actual situation, wherein I’m succumbing to the pain. The crying makes my remaining vision all but disappear but I can’t stop for the life of me, I can’t.
My darkened vision is met with darkened senses, and the more I try to push myself up off the bed, regretting my decision to not get my injection within that first minute, the more impossible it becomes. I feel like Michelle Pfeiffer when Harrison Ford gives her the paralyzer and she’s in the tub, slowly filling, her nose becoming closer and closer to the surface. Except I’m Harrison Ford and I’m Michelle Pfeiffer. My own self-loathing is What Lies Beneath all of this.
A few more gasps and then, it fades and I get a temporary respite from the pain as I black out.
The street is black. The gravel feels funny on my bare feet. It’s raining but the rain is warm, which is strange. Someone is saying my name. Is someone saying my name? I feel weightless and still somehow unsteady so I reach out, my fingers making contact with a slick wall. My eyes feel open but still, I can’t see. I can’t see anything. Then a pain surging through my shoulders up into my neck. A pain so hot that I reach back and feel of myself, to see if there’s an actual fire on the surface of my flesh.
Then, as if a light had been switched, my brain wakes up.
I can’t say it’s full functioning but it becomes deliriously aware.
I’m in the shower. When my eyes barely peek open, I see my feet on the shower floor, and two bare feet behind me, no socks. But the calves of these legs have pants on. I struggle, or at least in my mind I struggle, but my body still doesn’t move. Then, a second switch is flipped and my hearing has returned.
The water sounds so loud, but I know it’s my overly sensitive head.
“Wait,” I choke out, wondering what smells like stomach acid. Something smells awful.
“Sloane,” the voice comes from behind me and it belongs to the bare feet attached to the pants. “Sloane, you’re okay. We’re getting you cleaned up, okay? Okay?” the voice is deep and strong but it is trying to stifle panic.
Stifled panic is something I know very well. When I get the bad headaches around anyone, it’s terrifying. Hell, they still terrify me.
“O-Okay,” I say, keeping both hands pressed against opposing walls, trying to steady myself. I know now that despite my feet being on the floor, the solid forearm wrapped around my middle is indeed the only thing keeping me steady.
“I’m sick,” I say aloud, not sure what exactly I mean but definitely understanding it myself.
“I know, baby, we’re getting you cleaned up.”
Brain fog, stomach acid, warm water. Still, baby. I could never forget the way that word of affection sounds like silk on his tongue.
“E-Eli?” I ask, tilting my head back. My head weighs too much when my hair is wet and my neck hurts so fucking bad. My neck is killing— “is it the injection?” it comes out so quiet that he’d have to have his face right next to mine to hear it.
Then I feel a tickle against my ear. His lips.
“Yes,” he answers, calmy but still, there’s stifled panic. “Your neck hurts because I gave you the injection. It’s going to help.”
I try to nod but he turns me around to face him. It’s not to give me an intimate look but rather, he puts his hands under my arm pits, his shoulders showing the strain of supporting me at a distance. He’s wearing his work clothes, slacks rolled up to his calves. Still, he’s soaking wet. I can see all of his tattoos through his white dress shirt.
“Close your eyes, we gotta rinse your hair, okay?” His voice is low, his eyes dark, my heart beats quick even in the madness of the pain.
I just close my eyes, without words or nods. I feel my chin slam against my chest and then, I’m being gripped around the waist by his forearm again, his chest to my back.
“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” he says softly against my ear. His fingers massage my scalp over and over, smoothing over my face and dragging a warm cloth around my chest. It is not a sexual thing he’s doing. It is care.
The water goes off and I try as hard as I can to lift my head.
“I c-c-can’t,” I stumble through the speech like I usually do in this state. You’re okay Sloane, I tell myself, this is because you waited too long for your injection. You’re okay. But even so, the fear of what if crawls through my limbs, rattling me from the inside out.
I have no energy yet by body shakes and trembles madly, instantly.
“It’s okay, I got you,” Eli says, wrapping a towel around me. My feet are off the ground now and I’m in his arms. I must be. I feel the bed underneath me. It’s so soft and in my peripheral, the window seems to be missing.
“I’m going to get you some things. Do not move, okay?” his hands grip my body and he rolls me to my side. “Stay on your side, Sloane, don’t move.” Blinking, I try to bring him into focus. But by the time my eyes agree, he’s out of the room.
I’m in his room. My eyes fall shut again and the next time they open, a shirtless Eli is at the foot of the bed, kneeling, gently pulling the comforter on his bed to bring me closer. My legs are off and I feel his hands gently work up my thighs, trying as hard as he can to not touch me. I’m now wearing panties. Then he’s above me, pulling the comforter back. His forearms scoops under me and I smell his soap and cologne as a shirt is pulled down over me. He fishes my arms out and feeds them through the sleeves then gathers my wet hair, getting it out of my face. Raising me, I feel pillows being stuffed under me.
“Sloane, you gotta take these pills, okay? I have your Benadryl and two Tylenols, I’m going to put them in your palm so you can feel them, okay?” His fingers wrap around my wrist and draw my hand into his core. He wraps my fingers into my palm, trying to get me to feel the pills. “You feel those?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Okay, I’m going to put them on your tongue and then just tilt your head back. I have water here, I’ll hold it but your hand can guide, okay? Just drink enough to get those down, okay? Okay, Sloane?”
“Mmmhmm.” I want to open my eyes but I just can’t yet. The pain weighs them down like cinderblocks and if I open them, the weight that rests on them has to go somewhere else. The pain has to be redistributed and I’m scared.
I’m surprised when I can feel the pills on my tongue. Eli’s hand moves mine to the cold canteen—I don’t have one, it must be his. Then it tips. “Ready?” My lips twitch and that’s the sign. He tilts the bottle back and a tiny flow of water comes into my mouth and as quickly as I can, I swallow and the pills are gone.
“Okay, now, I’m going to get the pot and you’re going to have to do some inhales, okay? Think you can do a big, deep breath in?” His voice is still so gentle that tears form behind my eyelids. The fear, his voice, the pain, life. The tears break past and his thumb is there, wiping them away.
I move my head slightly to the left, saying no. “Nnno,” I spit out, unsure if I can inhale deep. Breathing shallow seems to be all I can do in this state.
“Sloane, it helped you last time. You have to try. That or I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
My eyes open and just as I thought, the weight that was settled on them rushes to my hands and feet and now, I can feel, they’re full of sand. Unusable. I usually lose function of them at some point and truthfully, I’m surprised I didn’t wake up with them numb.
Narrowing my eyes, blinking, concentrating, a shirtless Eli comes into view. His eyes are so fucking worried. Still, his voice is calm and smooth.
“Let’s try it, I’m going to go get it. Okay? That or the ER Sloane.”
“
O-Okay,” I stutter.
He presses his lips to my temple before he goes and the small kiss puts tears behind my eyes. I’m a mess. I don’t want him to see me like this. Whether I move out tomorrow or not, I like Eli and I do not want him to see me like this.
He returns with the jar and the apple; I can see because I am forcing myself to keep my eyes open. I want to be better. I want to pull out of this. I don’t want to be like this. I’m mad at myself for not taking the injection earlier. I just felt like giving up.
We don’t speak but I watch his thick fingers stuff the herb into the top, then the metallic flick of the lighter against his thumb. Pressing my hands to my cheeks, I dig my fingers into my jaw, trying to massage out the tightness. It’s so tight, opening my mouth feels hard. This has never happened. And then the shaking intensifies, though it never stopped.
“Can you open your mouth?” he asks, studying what I’m doing.
My lip trembles and tears fall down my cheeks.
“It’s okay, here,” he lights the apple and inhales deeply. He puts it on the nightstand, leans to me, weaving his fingers through my hair as he holds the back of my head tenderly. Pressing his mouth to mine, he blows softly and I inhale as he does. When he pulls away, he repeats the process by lighting the herbs again, blowing into my mouth one more time.
“Okay, now let’s lay you flat, okay?” His eyes seem to soften a bit, but still, vertical lines of stress run across his forehead. My eyes stay on his as he pulls his comforter over my body and settles into the bed next to me, on his side. We’re face to face and the bed rattles as my body shakes, hard.
He studies me for a moment and then, without asking or telling, he pulls me into his chest, throwing his leg and one arm over me. His body is so fucking heavy and immediately, the shaking ceases. Something about weight that calms anxiety.
And Eli’s weight is the quickest cure.