I sit on the edge of the bed as tears cloud my eyes, and I try to figure out how we got here. Saying how I feel has never come easy, and I’ve been spoiled by a husband like Gerardo who doesn’t force me to be vulnerable, but I’ve been neglecting myself by sealing my heart off in this impenetrable vault.
Standing from the bed, I walk into the bathroom, my ankle protesting now that my adrenaline is waning. I turn on the faucet and stare at the running water as I begin to self-reflect on my behavior tonight. I’m going to be breaking my husband’s heart tomorrow. Is it too much to want to wait until I’ve broken it off? Just to give the situation some dignity?
I chew my bottom lip as I cup my hands under the cool water and splash it over my heated face. It’s doing nothing to soothe the shame coursing through my chest, but I ignore it as I splash some more. I grew up in a cold household, with two people who became parents when they were barely out of high school. It meant I was raised in school, and during after-school activities is where I learned I loved dance.
I loved it so much that I made sure I was as close to perfect with it as I could be so I could escape my small town and my small-minded, incompetent parents. I know that’s why I’mfrigid, why whenever I’m on the verge of being vulnerable, I harden my walls.
Mateo doesn’t deserve that though, and I need to go tell him that.
I dry my face off and shut off the water, the pain in my ankle slowly spreading up my calf. I’ve been trying to avoid taking another painkiller, but if I plan on facing the man who owns my heart, I’d rather do it without limping.
After getting dressed in a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, I look to my bedside table for my pills. Only they’re not there. I do a quick circle in the center of my room, looking for that orange bottle, but it’s nowhere to be found. My heart begins to pound because I know I left it on the bedside table, the same side Mateo had placed his phone.
“Oh, no,” I moan as I grab my cell phone from the desk and dial his number. When I get his voicemail, I forget about the pain in my ankle and run out of my room, my heart up in my throat.
Mateo took my pills.
I run barefoot, limping, and heart splitting open in real time. The corridor outside my room stretches like a tunnel, the carpet muffling the frantic slap of my footsteps. I barely feel the pain in my ankle now, the adrenaline drowning it beneath the tide of terror surging through me.
Mateo took my pills.
The realization rings in my head with every pound of blood in my ears.
I jab at the elevator button a dozen times, my breath ragged, the walls pressing in around me. When it doesn’t come fast enough, I throw open the stairwell door and start climbing, my legs burning, my injured foot screaming with each ascending step. I push past it though because there’s no other option.
When I reach his floor, I stagger into the hallway, gripping the wall for balance, barely able to breathe. My fingers shake as I dial the front desk.
“Concierge,” a man answers smoothly.
“I need you to unlock room 1414. Now,” I gasp. “It’s an emergency.”
There’s a pause. “Ma’am, I’m not authorized to—”
“It’s Mateo Sanchez’s room,” I cry, choking on my words. “He might be overdosing. Please, I’m his emergency contact. I don’t have time to argue!”
The urgency in my voice must land because the man responds quickly, “We’re sending someone up immediately. Stay on the line.”
I don’t. I hang up and bang on the door with the side of my fist. “Mateo! Open the door!”
No answer. Just the cruel, sterile silence of a hotel hallway where people sleep peacefully in their rooms, oblivious to the world collapsing just feet away.
About five minutes later, a security guard rounds the corner with a key card in hand. “Miss, please step aside.”
He unlocks the door and I bolt inside, breathless. The room is dim, the bedside lamp casting a soft, amber glow over a meticulously made bed. Empty. The silence rings loud in my ears.
“Mateo?” My voice is raw, trembling.
Then I see it. The bathroom door is ajar and the light is on. I push it open and the world ends.
Mateo is on the floor, his body curled awkwardly, shirt half on, and lips tinged blue. The pill bottle I searched for—my pill bottle—lies on its side by his outstretched fingers, every last tablet gone.
“No... no, no, no,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside him. “Mateo!”
I shake him, my hands gripping his face, his chest, anywhere I can touch him, as if I can will him awake. His skin is clammy, breath shallow, eyelids fluttering like he’s stuck somewhere between here and gone.
“Come on, Mateo,” I sob, cradling his head in my lap. “You stupid, beautiful boy, don’t you dare do this. Not to me. Not after everything.”
My fingers fumble for my phone as I scream over my shoulder. “Call an ambulance! Please, someone call an ambulance!”
