Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I pull my coat tighter around me and flag down a cab. It’s a quiet ride. The driver doesn’t talk at all and we’re only left with the soft hum of his radio. I rest my forehead against the cool glass and let my mind wander.
I think about work. I think about the app I’ve been trying to debug all week. I think about Damien’s hand on my thigh last night under the dinner table and the way he said my name when he dropped me off at my place this morning.
Then, three blocks from home, a strange feeling hits.
It starts as a tickle at the nape of my neck, an unease I can’t quite name. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then to the sidewalk outside, then behind us, but there’s no obvious danger. No one is staring at me from the shadows. There’s no car following too closely.
But the feeling lingers, a heightened awareness of being watched.
I shake it off. I’m not the type to spiral into paranoia, but in New York anything could happen. But it doesn’t fade, even after the cab lets me out at the curb and drives off with a soft hum. The hairs on my arms lift.
I turn casually, pretending to adjust the strap of my purse, and scan the sidewalk behind me.
There’s nothing there.
Still, I move faster than usual. My keys are already between my fingers as I reach the front door of the apartment building, and I don’t let go of them until I’m locked inside. The foyer is warm, softly lit, and empty. I press the button for the elevator and watch the numbers descend.
One floor, then two, then three.
I turn one last time and nothing awaits me.
The elevator dings. I step inside and lean against the mirrored wall, exhaling. It’s probably just my aunt’s comments throwing me off. Or maybe I’m tired. Or maybe it’s the guilt I’ve been feeling since I started sleeping with Damien.
The elevator doors open. I walk quickly to my apartment, slide the key into the lock, and shut the door behind me with a quiet click.
I’m safe now.
I set my bag down and head to the kitchen, flipping on the lights as I go. The familiar comfort of my apartment wraps around me like a blanket, and I start to breathe a little easier. Still, I glance toward the window. The city glows beyond the glass, quiet and alive. I tell myself there’s no one there. But I don’t completely let go of that feeling of unease.
When I wake up the next morning, I smell something terrible. When I go into the kitchen, the first thing I see is the coffeemaker. I approach it slowly, like it may bite me, and sure enough, that’s the source of the horrid smell.
It’s very weird. I love coffee. I basically live on coffee. But now, the scent is like wet dirt and sour metal. My hand jerks away from the coffee pot, and I have to press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from gagging.
Becca looks up from her spot at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of her and a thick book cracked open beside it.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, though I probably don’t look convincing. “Yeah. Just, ugh. I think something’s wrong with these coffee beans.”
She looks at me curiously. “They’re the same beans we always use.”
“Well, they’ve turned into something evil overnight.”
I grab a banana and sit down across from her, trying to will away the nausea curling low in my stomach. I take one bite and immediately regret it. The texture feels wrong. Like glue. I swallow and push the rest of it away.
“Okay,” Becca says, pointing her spoon at me. “What’s going on with you?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I glare at her, but it’s weak. She knows me too well.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I woke up with this awful feeling in my stomach. It’s not pain exactly, but it just feels off. And now everything smells disgusting and the idea of food is gross to me.”
Becca sets her spoon down and leans forward. “Are you stressed?”
“Probably,” I mumble. “Work’s been insane, and—” I stop short, not wanting to say Damien’s name out loud.
“And…?”
I shrug. “Just life. I’m sure it was something I ate. Maybe the pasta I had for dinner was off.”
She watches me for a second, then tilts her head. “When did you have your last period?”
If I’d been drinking anything, I would have spit it at her. “Excuse me? How’s that any of your business?”
“Because I always stock the bathroom with tampons, and I didn’t have to buy as many this month.”
My heart thuds once heavily as I consider this. I do a mental count, then do it again. My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago?”