And Now She's Gone(31)
“Okie-dokie.”
“You working right now?”
“Nope. I’m about to take a shower and call it a night.” She didn’t mention Hank.
But Nick was in the business of knowing everything. He probably knew that Hank was just now zooming onto the 405 freeway in his blue Camaro. Knowing that Nick was all-knowing didn’t stop Gray from pretending not to know that he knew.
Silence, then Nick said, “Good night, you.”
She stared down at the crowded roadways and the bright lights. For a moment, she wished that her life had been normal, that Nick had been normal, that they could be normal together, falling in love properly, having babies, vacationing in Oahu, watching MasterChef on Wednesday nights and buying Christmas trees on the second Saturday of every December. If wishes were fishes, as her father used to say.
Back in her bedroom, Gray aimed the remote control at the television and found Running Man on cable. She padded to the bathroom and stripped off the stained silk shirt and wrinkled white linen pants. In the medicine cabinet, she found the still-full bottle of amoxicillin and popped one. She grabbed the new bottle of oxycodone from her purse and shook it as she wondered whether the dull thud in her side required a nuclear weapon.
No. She sat the narcotic on the medicine cabinet shelf and grabbed the vial of Aleve. After taking two, she stared at the diagonal surgical scar on the side of her navel. Small but angry. Yellowing and red hot. Is that color normal? And did she want Hank to see it?
“I’ll wear a tank top.” Then she brushed her teeth, twice—Hank would taste the vodka.
In the shower, lather, lather everywhere, over scars and knots and discolorations. She scrubbed away Thursday until her skin twinkled. She didn’t wash her face—didn’t have enough time to reapply her makeup. Even though nearly five years had passed, she could still glimpse her right eye, swollen and black. Back then, hiding that eye with inexperienced hands had taken her over an hour, and half a bottle of concealer. Eventually, she learned to use primer first and then foundation to even her skin tone. Once she’d reached pro levels, she harnessed the power of contour powders to make her face look slim and not swollen, and highlighter—she used that for its shimmer and magic. Bronzer made her look sun-kissed, as though she’d lain on a beach for days instead of on her bathroom floor for hours, stunned and scared.
RuPaul was her patron saint, then and now.
Like the other actors in this city, she only scraped off the paint once every light had dimmed and every eye had moved on to witness the next spectacle.
No one had seen Gray without her face in eight years.
Not since her name was Natalie Dixon.
16
The buzz from Gray’s phone on the nightstand pulled her from the sleep she’d just found. The digital clock on the dresser blinked five fifty. The world was still as sunlight edged through the bedroom’s vertical blinds. No dust motes had arrived yet to swirl in that young, golden light. The soothing scent of her favorite candle—hibiscus, lily, and melon—still lingered.
Gray had slept on her back. Slept. Ha! More like catnapped, fifteen-minute snatches of sleep spread over four hours. She’d dreamed a few of those times. Dreamed of driving in an endless desert, dreamed of an icy tornado slamming into Los Angeles and making everything twinkle blue, dreamed of her and Nick eating bright green ice cream out of a tuba.
Hank’s arm now lay across her chest, a giant protecting his golden-egg-laying goose. He had been a magnificent lover. He’d easily flipped her upside down, not an easy feat with her weight gain, and he’d easily held her up against the dresser and the wall and above the headboard. If she’d worn an Apple Watch, the OS would have called 911, because her heart rate had soared and had scraped the underside of heaven. There were moments when she could have burst, like her appendix had almost burst before doctors caught it during that nick-of-time CT scan.
Being with Hank had been the most primal thing she’d experienced since … discovering In-N-Out’s secret menu and eating an Animal Style Double Double with banana peppers, Animal Style French fries, and a Neapolitan milkshake in one sitting. Wonderful and dangerous, and she knew now, like she knew then, that she’d be filled with regret and nausea.
She hurt—a stitch in her side, twinges in her lower back—but she didn’t mind taking one for the team, taking one for wellness.
Sunlight, flickering now like candles through the slats, danced across Hank’s chiseled face. A perfect and beautiful creature, and in her heart, Gray felt … nothing. Not one thing. It was like the light now shimmering on his face. There, but … not really.
In one of her waking moments, she thought about making breakfast for her guest—but she didn’t want him finding comfort here. Eggs and sausage don’t equate to marriage … Okay, coffee, that’s it, had been her last thought as she slipped back into another catnap.
Her phone buzzed again from the nightstand.
She thought of ignoring it but then remembered that incoming text messages would dictate her Friday. Isabel Lincoln was supposed to provide proof of life pictures—she could have been sending those now. Tea Christopher could have retrieved Kenny G. Ian O’Donnell may have decided to end this investigation altogether.
In other words, Gray needed to get up and start her day. But it was only 5:52.
Careful not to disturb her sleeping beauty, she reached to the nightstand for the phone.