The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,111
the moisture on my cheeks, the lurch in my shoulders. Hear the hitching sobs. Swallowing embarrassment, I scrub my skin dry with my forearms. Pin my emotions in place.
And I feel someone watching me. The hair on my arms stands at attention, a legion of soldiers at the ready. Behind me, a small child cries over a spilled bag of Swedish Fish. A young couple kisses. Two men in khakis exchange a rowdy high-five. A woman waves to someone aboard a boat. No familiar faces, no one staring, but the sensation is too strong to shake.
On my way to the car, while waiting at a crosswalk, I see Nicole leaving Middleton Tavern. Our gazes meet and hold. And she turns away. The light changes and people push their way around me. I finally shake myself out of my stupor—if she wants to be that way, so be it—and pretend her rejection doesn’t hurt.
When I return home, the first floor smells of candle smoke, faint enough to have trailed in from the outside, but I call Ryan’s name anyway. Of course he doesn’t answer. We have three candles clustered on one end of the fireplace mantel; I press my thumb into each, and it sinks a bit in one. The wax isn’t liquid, but I swear it’s warm. Did Ryan have a candle lit earlier? Even if he did, wouldn’t it be cool by now?
Wielding a fireplace poker, I stalk from room to room with a sense of déjà vu, but this time everything’s in its place. There’s no one on the first floor, no one on the second. I even check under the beds and the closets. No one’s here but me.
I double-check all the windows and the doors and carry the poker with me, along with a glass of wine, to the bedroom. The lock is only a flimsy push button, but I press it anyway. I check under the bed again, then sit on the edge of the mattress, drink my wine, and listen to the quiet.
When the glass is empty, I open my email and find the last one from Lauren. BECCA, IS THIS YOU? I type. I wait for a long time, but there’s no response.
* * *
I do something I’ve not done in years: I call in sick. I don’t even talk to Ellie, simply call early enough to leave a message for her to cancel my appointments. Once that’s done, I set the phone to silent and roll over. When I wake again, I’m tangled in sweaty sheets, my mouth bitter. I shove the dreams from my thoughts and unwind my legs.
It’s sunny outside, but I keep the blinds shut. No need for cheer in this house. I return the fireplace poker and, while coffee is brewing, check my phone. No calls or texts from Ryan or Mom or Nicole. Only a response from Ellie that my appointments were canceled and she hopes I feel better. I fill a mug. Put together some yogurt with blueberries and granola but toss most of it out uneaten. Send Ryan a quick text apologizing again. In a few moments, it shows as read, but there’s no response. I wrap my arms around myself and rock.
I send my mom a message, too. In her case, it shows as delivered, not read. Then I send one to Gia, apologizing, telling her I can explain. Delivered. Read. No response.
I scratch my scalp. Refill my mug. Dump it into the sink and return upstairs. The sheets smell sour, but I don’t care. Nearly an hour of flopping back and forth from belly to back like a beached whale later, I climb out of bed again. This time I shower.
I’m in the hallway, hair in a towel, when I hear the patter of soft footsteps. I stand, fists clenched tight. Someone’s in the kitchen. Robe belted tight, I toddler-step to the first floor, pausing at the landing. And there, a single footstep. Careful, cautious.
No fireplace poker in sight, but I raise a fist and run in, voice a hero’s war cry. But the kitchen’s empty. The breakfast nook, too. The entire first floor. I let my fist drop. Walk the rooms again, twisting my hands together, but you can’t out a damned spot when you’re the one who’s damned.
I change into leggings and an old hoodie. Fuzzy socks. I don’t know where the day went, but the sun’s already dropping below the horizon.