Chapter Eleven
Now
Monday morning, I awaken when my alarm goes off at six and I stare at the dark shadows on the ceiling for a moment. I must have drifted off around five, because it was 4:52 when I last looked at the clock.
Translating to I managed to snag about three hours of sleep, total, last night. Two earlier, downstairs, where I fell asleep on the couch watching TV,then another up here when I made my way to bed not long before midnight.
Not too shabby. Although I’ll be extremely punchy, grouchy, snappy, and borderline psychotic from sleep deprivation by the end of the week, if this pattern holds.
I’m getting pretty good about faking sanity, though. Casey and Declan have gone a long way toward helping me with that, recognizing when to intervene and keeppeople away from me.
When I start to think about how much I miss driving, times like this remind me that it’s probably a good idea I’mnotdriving.
Not just because I’m not a safe driver in this condition, but because it’d be too easy to jam the accelerator to the floor and aim for a highway abutment, or run myself off the side of a mountain.
Too…tempting.
While I haven’t outright admittedthis to Casey, I have noticed she goes out of her way now to make sure if my security team isn’t driving me somewhere, that it’s either her or Declan who drive me.
I’m not allowed to drive. To be honest, I’m not even sure where my car keys are. Either set, or the valet key. I’m pretty sure she hid them.
Just like she doesn’t let me hold the Xanax.
I sit up, something nagging at me, though.It takes me a moment. Then I wonder why I’m smelling coffee.
I grab my robe on my way to the bathroom, use it, then head downstairs.
Yes, freshly brewed coffee. And on the counter, a sticky note written in Casey’s hand. Without my glasses, I have to squint to read it.
You’re welcome. Tick-tock, GF. Budget meeting 9 sharp.
GF—Governor Forrester.
If she was here, I’d smile.
Instead,I suck in a deep breath as the mask threatens to shatter even before I’ve fully pulled it into place today
Dammit.
She has this eerily accurate way of pegging my emotions. She even left my mug and a spoon and everything except the creamer sitting out for me. That I grab from the fridge and pour myself a mug of coffee.
When I pause in the front entry, I see she packed my laptop for me and hasit sitting on the bench in the foyer, on top of my four binders of info I’d brought home with me on Friday.
Back upstairs, I find my glasses, pick up my personal phone, and text her personal cell.
Thank you.
I get a smiley face and aDin return, meaning she’s driving. Based on the time, she’s likely almost to the office. On the way there, she’s probably using the dictation function onher official phone to make dozens of notes about the day’s schedule, or is on the phone with Declan and dictating notes to him. I know I have the budget meeting, but I don’t know what awaits me this afternoon. If it was something I needed advance notice for, she would either have told me that, or warned me what to wear, or what to bring with me to change into later. I hope this means it’s an officeday for me.
It means I might be able to sneak in a short nap at some point, which will help.
Every little bit helps.
I dump eyedrops into my bloodshot eyes first. A shave comes next, then I climb into the shower. I have a comforting routine for mornings like this. I stand under water as hot as I can tolerate it, for starters. Just…stand there. I need to get my blood pumping, and coffee alonewon’t make it happen. Once it feels like maybe I can start moving again, then I begin scrubbing my flesh, hard, with one of those scrubby things, and body wash.
It might sound stupid, but I use Ellen’s favorite brand of body wash. It’s one small way I can still feel connected to her. If they ever stop making it, I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Maybe it’s masochistic, but I don’t care. I’mstill alive, I still haven’t killed myself, so it’s a win, right?
