Definitely an ally. Someone I want in my corner.
I make my way down the hall, taking in the space that will apparently be my home for the next six weeks. Or two weeks, if Miss Phillip works her magic and finds me alternative housing.
The common area is spacious and surprisingly cozy. Overstuffed couches in deep jewel tones. A fireplace that looks like it actually gets used. Bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and textbooks and what looks like an alarming number of romance novels.
Étienne's, probably. Given the worn paperback he's been clutching like a lifeline.
The kitchen is open-concept, all stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. There's a coffee maker that looks more complicated than my car, and a refrigerator covered in hockey schedules and takeout menus.
Four doors branch off from the main space. Three of them are clearly claimed, decorated with nameplates and personal touches. Rafe's door has a captain's C mounted on it. Cal's has a whiteboard covered in what looks like tutoring schedules. Étienne's is plain except for a small Post-it note that says 'knock first, please' in neat handwriting.
The fourth door is smaller. Plainer. Tucked into a corner like an afterthought.
My room, probably. Looks more like it used to be a storage closet.
I push open the bathroom door and flip on the light, grateful for the moment of privacy.
The mirror shows me exactly what I expected:a disaster.
Blue raspberry stains streak across my sweater like abstract art.
My hair has escaped its messy bun, frizzing around my face in a halo of humidity-induced chaos. My mascara has migrated south, giving me raccoon eyes that scream, 'I've had a day.'
But underneath all of that, I can still see her.
The girl who survived sixth grade.
Who put herself back together piece by piece when the bullies took everything.
Who had taught herself to stand tall even when her knees were shaking.
You're still here. Fighting. Don't let them win.
I strip out of the ruined clothes, careful to fold Étienne's jersey neatly. It still smells like him, like evergreens and safety, and part of me wants to keep wearing it.
Bad idea. Very bad idea. That's exactly the kind of thing that leads to feelings, and feelings lead to hurt, and hurt is not on the agenda for this six-week escape plan.
I change into the spare outfit I'd crammed into my purse: soft leggings and an oversized sweater the color of dusty rose. Not exactly fashion-forward, but clean and dry and blessedly slushie-free.
A quick washcloth to my face removes the worst of the mascara migration. I finger-comb my hair into something resembling order and pull it back into a fresh ponytail.
There. Acceptable. Functional. Ready to face whatever fresh hell this tour has in store.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Miss Phillip is waiting in the common area, scrolling through her tablet.
"Better?" she asks, looking up with an approving nod.
"Much." I hold up Étienne's jersey. "Is there somewhere I should put this? I should probably return it."
Something flickers across her face. Curiosity, maybe. Or understanding.
"Just leave it on the couch for now. I'm sure Mr. Laurent will find it." She tucks her tablet away and gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"
The tour that follows is a blur of impressive facilities and overwhelming information.
The Omega Lounge is everything Miss Phillip promised: plush seating, soft lighting, a tea station that rivals any upscale café. The nurses' station is efficient and welcoming, staffed by akind-eyed Beta who takes my vitals and schedules a follow-up appointment without making me feel like a specimen under a microscope.
The Omega shops are a revelation.
