After flipping the shower on, I stand before the sink, staring at my washed out face, seeing dark circles under my hollow eyes. Only a century’s sleep and waking to find every burden gone will remedy it. I sigh and open the mirrored cupboard, cursing when a load of cosmetics tumble from the shelves and clatter into the sink. ‘Shit,’ I grumble, scooping up pots and tubes one by one and placing them back. I’m nearly done, only the Tampax left to . . .
Tampax.
I stare at the box, my tongue thickening in my mouth. Tampax. I’m late. I’m never late. Not ever. I don’t like the feel of nervousness beating in my chest or the pulsing of blood in my ears. I try to calculate when my last period was. Three weeks ago? Four weeks ago? I hadn’t gotten it in New York. Shit.
I dash for my bedroom, finding the empty box of the morning-after pill, and pull the pamphlet out, fiddling with clumsy fingers to unfold the paper until it’s laid flat on my bed. Chinese. German. Spanish. Italian. ‘Where’s the fucking English?’ I yell, turning it over and slapping it on the bed. I spend the next twenty minutes reading piles and piles of small print. Nothing sinks in, though. Nothing except the success rate. There’s no guarantee. Some women become pregnant – a small amount, but some, nevertheless. All of the blood drains from my head. I come over all light-headed and the room begins to whirl. Fast. I collapse to my back and stare up at the ceiling, feeling hot, cold, sweaty, choked. ‘Oh fuck . . .’
I don’t know what to do. I’m blank. Totally stumped. My phone! I spring to life and run downstairs to the kitchen. My shaky hands won’t co-operate, my stupid fingers not hitting the buttons I’m telling them to. ‘Damn it!’ I stamp my foot, then stand motionless, pulling in some reasonable amount of air into my suppressed lungs. I let it all stream out calmly and start again, successfully pulling up my calendar. I go over the days time and time again, counting more than I’d hoped, thinking maybe amid the madness of my life just lately, I may have made a colossal error. I haven’t. Each time I count, I come to the same calculation. I’m a week late. ‘Fuck.’
I flop against the worktop, spinning my iPhone in my grasp. I need a chemist. I need to know for sure. This meltdown might be completely unnecessary. Glancing across the kitchen, I note it’s past eight. But a twenty-four-hour pharmacy will be open. My legs are in action before my brain, and I’m off up the hallway, but when my brain kicks in, I’m soon halted in my task of pulling my denim jacket down from the coat stand.
‘Nan.’ My body deflates. I can’t leave, no matter what the emergency. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything happened and I wasn’t here. Plus, Ted is keeping watch. There’s only so many tongue-lashings he’ll put up with as a result of my Houdini-like behaviour before he realises I’m not worth the bother and quits.
Releasing my coat, I collapse onto the bottom step of the stairs and drop my head in my hands. Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more hopeless, I have something else to add to my never-ending list of shitty things to deal with. I don’t want to deal with any of them. I want to curl into a ball and have Miller surround me in his thing, protect me from this godforsaken world. His beautiful, comforting face pops into my mind’s eye, sending me somewhere near to that safe place. Then it drifts into the anger that was all too evident before he stormed out.
He’s not speaking to me, and if he is, then I’m sure I won’t want to hear what he has to say. I groan and rub my palms into my face, trying to scrub away . . . everything. I’m an idiot. A first-class, A-rated, top-notch fool. A deluded fool who should face up to everything going on around her and find that renowned Taylor-girl sass to deal with it. Where has that easy, peaceful life gone? Miller’s right. I don’t have the ability to cope.
Chapter 17
My dreams are dreams. I know this because everything is perfect – me, Miller, Nan . . . life. Content to remain immersed in my illusory world, I snuggle down farther, moaning my comfort and hugging my pillow. Everything is bright. It’s all so very light and colourful, and though I’m aware that I’m being held in a false sense of security, I don’t wake myself. I’m hovering on the edge of sleep and consciousness, pushing myself to fall further into my dreams – anything to delay facing my reality. I’m smiling. Everything is perfect.
Gracie Taylor.
She joins me in my dreams, leaving her mark, making it impossible to shake out once I wake.
Everything is suddenly dark.
Everything is dull.
‘No!’ I shout, angry that she’s encroached on the only tranquillity to be found in my troubled world. ‘Get out!’
‘Olivia!’
I shoot up, gasping, and whip my head around, searching for him. Miller’s sitting next to me in his boxer shorts, his hair wild, his eyes worried. My shoulders sag, a mixture of relief and annoyance – the relief that he’s here, the annoyance that I’m awake and alert. I’m back in the real world. I sigh, reaching up to brush my hair from my face.
‘Bad dream?’ He moves in and crowds me, gathering my body into his arms and cradling me in his lap.
‘I can’t tell the difference,’ I whisper into his chest, making his movements falter slightly. I’m totally honest with him. I can’t define between my nightmares and reality and he needs to know, although it’s a given that he’s fully aware of my current turmoil, because he’s sharing it with me. Or most of it. I’m very quickly even more awake and alert as I recap on last night after he left. I could be pregnant. But something else more important blocks my worry. ‘Nan.’ I go to move from his hold, panicked.