Hurts.
Hurts like a motherfucking hemorrhoid has exploded into flames in my eyeball.
But I don’t flinch.
Or whimper.
No matter how much I want to.
This is my medicine, and I will take it like someone who needs to be stoic in the face of imminent death.
It’s like she wants me to be able to see her before she kills me.
I probably owe her that.
Have a lot of respect for it, actually.
That’s hardcore.
I like it.
But also, when she’s drained the entire bottle into my eye, there’s still gritty sand in it.
“Better?” she demands.
Sounds a little like she’s ordering me to be better so she can be done with me, to be honest.
“Yep,” I lie.
She grabs me by the face and peers into my eyeballs, which I can tell less because I can see anything clearly right now and more because there’s a humanoid-shaped thing looming close and it smells like that shampoo that she left in the bathroom last night.
It’s not fruity or flowery or baked goods-y.
Reminds me of being little and going with my mom to her once-a-year pamper-herself haircut at the fancy salon that she’d get back home before she passed.
“Did you bring anything out here with you? Where are your shoes?” Laney asks.
“Came barefoot.”
“Get up. We’re taking you to urgent care.”
“I don’t—”
“You are not losing your goddamn eyes on my watch. Okay? Get up. Move. March. Now.”
I hate authority.
Always have. Always will.
But as I’m stumbling after her, I swear I hear her mutter, “So much for the sandcastle.”
Like shewantedto build it, and didn’t know how to say yes.
For the first time in my life, I realize much like I’m not who Laney expects me to be, she might not be exactly who I always thought she was either.
9
Laney
