Page 166 of Slapshot Bride

“Take a walk today. You need it. Get some fresh air in.”

I nod.

“I mean it, Riley. You’re already getting sick. Please, take care of yourself.”

I salute her, and she laughs. I laugh too.

“I promise, Mom. I’ll take a walk around the property today. I love you.” I lean in and kiss her cheek.

Satisfied with my response, she leaves. She’s out of the room when she calls out that she’ll be heading out for most of the day to run a few errands.

A moment later, I hear her downstairs. Her keys, the front door, her car, and then the house is empty.

As soon as I’m alone, our last conversation registers.

The nausea.

I threw up twice on Tuesday too.

It always comes in the morning too. Right before I eat.

I sit very still as the wheels begin to turn in my head. I start counting.

I’m not careless. I’ve never been careless. I switched pills right before I left Preston—the chaos of those weeks, a new prescription, a new pack I wasn’t perfect about because my whole life was on fire—and I didn’t think about it.

I’d gotten them during my stay at Easton’s place. And we’ve trusted them.

I count the days twice, and I get the same answer both times.

I’m out of the house before I lose my mind. The pharmacy is fifteen minutes away, and I drive myself, because there is no one I can ask to do this.

I wear a cap. I can’t have anyone recognizing me at this crucial moment. I can’t have them leaking a narrative that’ll further tear things apart.

I buy two different brands, because I don’t trust one to be honest with me.

The drive home is the longest drive of my life. A million and one possibilities run through my mind, almost driving me insane, but I refuse to accept any because it just can’t be true.

I’m protected. I’m safe.

I say the words like a mantra, willing them to be true.

The house is still empty when I return.

I read the instructions like they’re a document I’ll be tested on. I follow them, and set the tests on the edge of the sink. I sit back down on the tile floor, knees up, and I don’t look at them.

Three minutes is a very long time.

I look at the ceiling. I look at my hands. I try not to think of anything.

When the three minutes are up, I pick them up.

Two lines. Both of them.

37

EASTON

I Love Her