When No One Is Watching(40)

I sit up, wince at the pain in my neck. All of my attempts to knock out and have a few hours of peace were for nothing because the nightmares were so realistic that I’m even more exhausted.

There’d been demons in the walls, banging and scratching as they burrowed their way into the house to make me pay for my lies. I’d tried to run for help, to go to Mommy . . .

I wait for the anxiety from the dream to release its hold on me now that I’m awake, but nothing unclenches. Probably because reality is just as shitty and—oh fuck. It’s Thursday.

I push myself up to my feet and jog to my bedroom. My cell phone isn’t on the charger, and I start pulling pillows, duvet, sheets onto the floor until I hear a thud and grab for it.

The phone is dead. It was charging last I remember, so I must have used it during my Ambien stupor, as if things aren’t already bad enough.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I snatch up the end of the charging cord and plug it in, that annoying image of a battery with a slim red line sitting on the screen forever, like it’s purposely fucking with me. Finally, a white apple appears, and then the security code prompt. Without thinking, I enter my old code—the date of the first day me and Marcus had met—which is, of course, wrong. I changed it three years ago, when I started to suspect he was checking my phone.

“You’re being paranoid, Sydney.”

I put in the new code, the numbers Mommy always played in the lotto.

The phone unlocks and after it connects to the network, the first thing that comes through is a text from Claude.

Yo, you need to chill. My girl saw your wild texts and now she’s mad at ME. You’re going through something, I get it, but please delete my number.

Ouch.

I can’t bring myself to look at whatever humiliating, pathetic message I sent him, so I just delete the whole text chain. I expect to see a response from Drea letting me know how her night went, but she’s either still on her date from last night or is trying to enforce her “you can’t use me as a therapist” boundary.

None of that matters, though; there’s a voicemail from the lawyers. The call I’ve been waiting on, and maybe my last hope, and I slept through it. I ball my fist and dig it into my thigh as I return the call.

“Gladstone and Gianetti.”

“Hi, this is Sydney Green, I—”

“Hello, Ms. Green. Ms. Gianetti left you a message, but her schedule is packed for the next few weeks.”

“I’m sorry I missed her call. Is there really no way—”

“No.” The receptionist’s tone says this is final. “Unfortunately, it seems that there’s not much that can be done at this point with your mother’s case. She’ll be in contact via email. There’s also the matter of outstanding payment, which we understand might be difficult considering the situation.”

Surprisingly, I don’t feel anything. Somewhere, behind the desperation-fueled attempt at positivity, I’ve known they wouldn’t be able to help. “Okay. I understand.”

“You might also look into one of the nonprofits. They’d probably have more resources for you to act independently, too.”

“Okay.” I listen to her rattle off a phone number, but it’s already too late.

The truth that I’ve been avoiding at all costs starts to sink in: I’m fucked from every angle and no lawyer can help with that.

Pain builds in my chest, and I sink to the floor, eyes squeezed shut and barely able to sip in a breath.

I open the text function to my chain with Drea and tap the audio note feature. “Are you home? It’s happening again. My chest.”

I hit send and then curl up around the phone.

There’s nothing I can do about it but wait. I can’t afford another medical bill, and even if I could, they’d likely just tell me I need to reduce my stress, which isn’t exactly an option at this point.

Maybe it is a heart attack this time, though, because I’m sweating and shaking and the pain in my chest is intensifying. Hell, I wouldn’t be mad if this is the big one. Then I could get some rest and someone else could deal with the mess I’m in.

I lie on the floor for a long time, breathing and daring my punk-ass body to put up or shut up, then wondering what my mother would say if she saw me like this. I know what Marcus would say. “You want to make a scene and act crazy? Fine. I’ll treat you that way.”

That memory beats at my chest, but I call Mommy’s number and listen to her voicemail, and the panic attack recedes.

I get up shakily and make my way to the shower, where I squeeze an almost comical amount of exfoliating body scrub onto my washcloth, running it over my body until I feel like maybe I’ve scoured off a layer. After a face scrub and rinse, I head into my bedroom and work a thick body butter into my skin, taking my time, allowing myself to zone out during this familiar daily ritual.

I’m staring at the wall, mind blank and gaze unfocused, when a tiny black spot begins to scurry.

Any calm my little self-care routine has won back is lost immediately. I charge toward the crawling speck, scooping up the water glass on my bedside table and slamming it onto the wall.

It better not be another goddamn bedbug.

My skin starts to itch like the moisture’s been sucked out of it, but as I peer through the thin glass bottom of the cup I realize it’s just a baby roach. Not ideal, but picking up a can of Raid is easier than steaming all my belongings.