Once she’s gone, I let the tension ease out. This isn’t so bad. Bryan never took care of me like this. I spent years being homeschooled because of my weak immune system, so my mom was my best—and only—friend for most of my childhood. After this hellish day, maybe some old-school Mom TLC is just what I need, even if it means wearing threadbare Minnie Mouse panties.
Downstairs, over mugs of Mom’s bitter medicinal tea that Ican’t quite stomach tonight, I break the news about Bryan and the engagement. I always thought she liked him, so I’m shocked when she leans back, folds her arms, and says, “Good riddance.”
“It’s so much money down the drain,” I say. “There’s no way I can get back the hotel deposit.”
She flutters her fingers. “Oh, we’ll find a way.”
My skin goes cold. I know that gleam in her eyes.
“Mom, I’m not doing a fundraiser. I’m not playing the sick card if I’m not sick.” Last year, Mom suggested a GoFundMe for my diabetes when insulin prices skyrocketed. For complicated reasons, I need my meds shipped from Germany, and just the dry-ice shipping costs thousands. It wasn’t a terrible idea, just one that makes me feel like more of a charity case than a person.
Now, as long as I can work and cover my own meds—even if it means running up my credit cards—I will. And I’m sure as hell not asking for help to bail me out for being dumb enough to almost marry Bryan.
“A fundraiser?Ididn’t say that,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “You did.”
“Well, anyway, Honor just gave me a raise. So I’m not totally going broke,” I tell her. “But it does look like I’ll be staying in the apartment for the next month.”
“Josie, you can stay here as long as you like,” she says. “Alan and I love having you so close…” She holds up her hands as I start to protest. I’m old enough that I should not have to rely on my mom and stepdad. She reaches her hand across the table to clasp mine, and she looks at me like I’m made of glass.
“But FYI, we were planning on Airbnb-ing the guesthouse when you left…so this does mean our expenses will go up.” Again, that icy feeling. Mom, who knows me too well, sees itwritten across my face. “No, no, no. I’m not saying we should do a fundraiser! Sheesh!”
“Good,” I say.
“But I do think you should check in on your socials. Maybe post an update to your followers, let them know how you’re doing, sweetheart? They care about you.”
Do they care about me? It’s true that many of them have been invested in my recovery for years, and maybe even more so in my mom’s journey parenting a sick kid. I don’t think of those faceless people as actually knowing me, though. They’ve been exposed to one sliver of who I am.
“Maybe tonight? Post a picture while you’re still looking pale,” she adds.
Gross as it sounds, whenever I post looking too healthy, I get trolled by people who doubt I was ever really that sick or think we exploited my cancer for sympathy.
Mom grabs my phone, quickly types in my password, and snaps a photo. I make a mental note to delete it as soon as she’s gone. No way am I posting anything.
Still, as much as I don’t want anyone’s pity, the trolls have gotten it all wrong.
I’ve been sick my whole damn life. I would give anything—anything—to be well.
—
Later, once I’m in my bed, the nightmares come.
I’m in the lobotomy lab at Ravenswood, bound to a gurney with old leather restraints, my body thrashing against the bonds. In my worst nightmares, I’m always a kid, helpless in the grip of syringe-wielding doctors—a terrifying, messed-up mash-up ofmemory and fear. But this time, I’m fully grown, and my younger self sits in the corner, clutching my favorite stuffed rabbit, wide-eyed and terrified like a witness to my own horror.
A masked man leans over me, an electric drill poised right at the center of my forehead. The yellow light from above casts a sinister halo around him. Little me is humming the alphabet song, her small voice soft and unaware, like she can’t process what’s happening right in front of her. Then, just as he squeezes the trigger and the drill roars to life, beginning its awful grinding into bone and brain, the mask slips.
Denim-blue eyes and soft lips. It’s Axe MacKenzie.
I jolt awake, screaming, my heart slamming against my ribs. I want to call Nonna, my grandmother Rosa Greene—the only person who’s ever made me feel strong and sturdy. But it’s late, and she’s even more lost at night. I can’t bear the thought of her not recognizing my voice. Not tonight, when everything already feels so hostile.
Not tonight, when that House of Horrors has followed me home.
Six
Axe
“Get a grip, lad,” I mutter to myself, glaring at my PowerPoint. It’s the ass crack of dawn, my favorite time to work, and I’m hunkered down at Shelton’s 24, the only open-all-night diner that’s as neutral as its name. A place for truckers to eat a plate of eggs after a long stretch. There’re no distractions here. It’s not cozy, not charming, not trying to be anything but open. Which is exactly why I like it. I signal the waitress for a refill. Squint at the screen.
Later this morning, I’m introducing She’s the One, SynthoTech’s newest product, to an important potential investor, and I’ve been working on the finishing touches. But the usual gritty magic of this place, the kind that sharpens my focus—along with its coffee, strong enough to wake the dead—isn’t working.
