B: Hanging in there.
Wes: You’ve been working out like a machine. Anything going on?
B: Just pushing myself.
Wes: Taking care of yourself, too?
B: Been busy. I gotta go. Not feeling well.
I set my phone down and stood, the room swirling around me as my mouth went dry. When did I last drink water? I’d had three cups of black coffee that morning. The bitter taste lingered in my mouth. I checked in with Maricela’s secretary and let her know I was going home. The energy it took to pack up my things seemed Herculean, and I slumped against the wall as I took the elevator down to the street level. I felt guilty being so clipped with Wes. He was just doing his job.
I ordered a ride, cursing myself for losing the opportunity to get in more steps by walking home. After I climbed into the back seat, I tapped out another message.
B: Sorry. I’ll talk to you later. Just getting home.
The car pulled up outside my building, and I trudged inside, determined to still get some kind of exercise, since I couldn’t imagine hitting the gym feeling like this. I circled around the elevator and stepped into the stairwell, the concrete circling above me in a dizzying tessellation. I started up the stairs to my apartment. My footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell as I made my way higher. My phone buzzed in my hand, and I glanced down.
Wes: I’m not trying to nag you. Just concerned. Take it easy and get some rest, ok?
A fresh wave of guilt washed over me. If I told him the truth, he would tell me to be patient and say I was doing great, the way he always did. He’d ask me how I felt and tell me to check in with my body, but he wasn’t the one who had touched me and found me lacking. I rounded the landing outside the third floor, my breath coming heavily. I gripped the railing and closed my eyes against the swirling in my head, the dizziness returning.
“What am I doing?” My voice bounced off the concrete walls. I’d wanted Ben forever, but kissing him hadn’t even been good. Now I was lying to my coach, the man who occupied more and more of my thoughts. I was not eating enough, and all to feel this horrid, all to prove some point to myself that guys like Ben couldn’t hurt me again. It was like a switch flipped in my brain. When I got home, I was going to figure out how to get back on track, maybe ask Wes for help. The dizziness passed and I stepped forward, eager to fall onto my couch and see his words on my screen, but my leg cramped and I lost my balance grabbing for it.
There was a weightless moment, and my body twisted in the air. There was a strange flash of awareness before panic set in. I’m falling. Falling! I didn’t have time to tense before I hit the concrete, crashing step by step down, but I couldn’t get ahold of anything to slow my fall. My head smacked into the last stair before the landing, and I didn’t move, afraid I couldn’t. I tried to roll to my side, and my body screamed.
I fumbled for my phone, praying it wasn’t destroyed. A crack down the screen split it in two, but I could type out Help before the edges of my vision darkened.
22
CORD KNOCKED ON my door before stepping in. “Welcome back. How’s your mom?”
I shrugged and he nodded. “Got it. Let me know when you need help with whatever.” Cord pulled the string on his hoodie and sat across from me. “So, do you want to talk about what Kelsey asked?”
“Yeah, I guess we—” My phone buzzed, and I pulled it off my desk. As I stared at the message, my words froze in my throat.
B: Help
I typed a quick reply.
Wes: What’s wrong?
She didn’t respond, and I fell into the sound of my pounding heart. I hit the call button. We’d never talked on the phone, but it went straight to voice mail, and I hung up as soon as I heard the automated click.
“What’s wrong?” Cord asked, sitting forward in his chair. “Your sister?”
“No, the client. It just says help. Something’s wrong.”
Startled, Cord looked up. “What are you going to do?”
I hit the phone icon, and it went to voice mail again. “This is Britta. Leave a message.” Her real name. How am I supposed to help her if I just now learned her real name?
Worst-case scenarios filled my head. She was being followed or mugged; she’d been sick—was it serious? My fingers opened and closed, trying to figure out what to do as I sprang to my feet.
Wes: Are you ok?
Wes: Are you hurt?
Emotion was rising in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. “Can you access a client’s address?”
“It’s against our privacy policy,” he hedged.