Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“I heard that,” Clover says as I stop at the edge of her bed. “And yes, he deserves a beer. I’m a lot right now. But I can’t help it. I think I’m allergic to morphine. In my brain.”
“Yes, please,” I say with a nod. “A beer sounds good.”
Beatrice flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “See you at dinner then.”
I watch her leave, fighting the urge to read too much into the tightness around her eyes. She’s probably worried about Clover, that’s all. Yes, Clover’s funny on meds, but she’s also clearly not feeling so hot.
She grimaces as I lift her from her chair, and by the time I have her settled in bed, she’s white as a ghost again.
“Okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. Just need to get some food in here, I think. The nausea is pretty bad.”
“Then let’s get you fed, woman.” I help her prop up with the extra pillows and set the tray of food on her lap.
Then, I do my best to keep her awake long enough to eat by scrolling through the streaming choices on the TV on the bureau, looking for something to watch that doesn’t charge an extra fee on top of the fee they’re already paying. It’s harder than it sounds, and fifteen minutes later, I’m starting to doubt anything is included in their subscription.
“It’s a racket,” Clover says, pointing her final pear slice at the screen. “Everything is a racket now. It’s enshittification.”
I arch a brow. “Enshittification?”
“Yeah. I read about it the other day. It’s the gradually increasing shittiness of everything as the capitalist system squeezes every last drop of profit from the already struggling lower class. Which is us.” She slips the fruit between her lips and chews, still favoring her wounded cheek. “Well, me, anyway. Maybe not you. But it still sucks for you, too. It’s why nothing works right, and they want to make us pay to watch dumb commercials on their dumb streaming services that we’re already paying for, which is dumb, and I hate it.”
I nod. “It is dumb.”
She shoots me a guilty look, swallowing before she confesses, “I didn’t read about it, Blue. I watched a TikTok. I lied. I don’t have time to read. I work too much. Probably also because of enshittification.”
“That’s all right.” I wait for her to wipe her fingers before collecting the empty tray. “We all lie about things like that.”
“I’m still a good person?”
“You are,” I confirm. “Very good.”
She slides lower on her pillow, her lids drooping. “Wake me up to brush my teeth later, okay? I’m too…tired right now.”
“Will do,” I promise. “I’ll wake you up for teeth brushing and your last dose of meds.”
“Okay,” she murmurs sleepily. “But not pee. I’m not going to pee anymore. I’ve decided. I’m done with that.”
“Sounds good,” I agree, pulling the blanket up around her.
When her breathing grows long and even, I pad out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.
Back in the hall, the anxiety I’ve been holding at a distance descends full-force again. I can hear Beatrice puttering in the kitchen and start that way, but for some reason, my feet refuse to keep going.
Sweat breaking out along my spine, I pull my cell from my back pocket and scroll to my messages one last time.
Still nothing from Bea, not so much as a confirmation that the texts have been received, though I saw for myself that they popped through to her phone yesterday in her hospital room.
But she has that setting turned off. So, do I. Who wants people to know exactly when you’ve seen a message? Not me. It’s an invasion of privacy, and I like my privacy.
So does Beatrice.
It’s one of the many things we have in common, just like our love of music, dark, cozy bars, and summer nights spent wandering by the river, listening to the bayou sing in the distance. Every place I’ve lived has its own song, but New Orleans is special. I truly love it here, but it wasn’t the same when she was gone.
Nothing was…
She took the magic of the city with her, and I might never get it back again.
But standing here spiraling about it won’t change anything.
Willing myself to stay in the moment, I start down the hall, reaching the open-concept living room, library, and eat-in kitchen just as Beatrice sets a salad bowl on the island.
She startles when she sees me, her breath rushing out with a shaky laugh. “Hey! There you are. Just finished the salad. So…that’s ready. When people are ready for salad.” Her hands return to her crutches as she maneuvers around the island. “Do you think Clover might want some now? Before the lasagna?”
“She’s asleep,” I say, frozen by the couch, not sure whether to move in or wait for Beatrice to decide how close she wants to be.