Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
That’s all Ben is trying to do, so I have no excuse to tell him no.
“All right,” I say into the phone. “Fine. We can meet.”
“I can swing by your place and pick you up if you like,” Ben says.
My skin turns to ice and my heart thumps hard against my sternum, the tremor visible in my shirt.
Panic sets in.
Ben Black is probably a nice man, but the thought of being alone in a car with any man sends me into a tailspin.
“That’s kind of you, but no.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I’ll get there on my own.”
“Sure. See you then, okay?”
“Yeah. See you then.”
He must know what happened to me. Braden and Skye have certainly told him everything.
I may as well have a tattoo written in red letters across my forehead.
Tessa Logan was drugged and raped by Garrett Ramirez.
Tessa Logan almost died.
That’s how I know I’m not actually suicidal.
I don’t want to die. There are just days—like today—when I have a hard time with the simplest of tasks. When my torment is so great that I’m not sure I can get through one more day.
Honestly? Figuring out how to end my life would be too much effort.
I stroke Rita behind her ears. “Guess I’ve got to go out tonight, Rita.”
When did I last shower?
Working remotely has had a detrimental effect on my personal hygiene. On those days when I have to do a teleconference, I simply put on the bare minimum of makeup, brush my hair until it looks decent, and put on a clean blouse. I’m usually wearing my sweats, or sometimes only underwear—always a color, I hate white panties—as I sit in the meeting, forcing myself to engage. So far, I’ve been able to get my work done, and I have enough PTO for Skye’s bachelorette party and the wedding.
No problem, right?
I go through the motions, day by day. Force myself to get out of bed, get to my computer, do my work.
Despite the fact that I’ve been subsisting on bacon and Ben & Jerry’s, I’ve lost ten pounds. Yes, those stubborn ten pounds that I’ve always wanted to take off are finally gone, yet I can’t be happy about it. When I look at my naked reflection in the mirror, I see the body I’ve always wanted.
Except it’s someone else’s body, and I can’t bring myself to care.
I log off the website, set Rita down, rise, and head to my bathroom.
Maybe a shower will help.
I turn on the shower, listen to the soothing sound of the water pelting onto the tile floor. Again, I take a look in the mirror. How many days has it been? Three, I think. My hair is starting to look oily at the roots. I walk into the shower and—
“Shit,” I say out loud.
My shampoo bottle is empty. I squeezed the last of it out during my previous shower.
I have to meet Benjamin Black at The Stargazer in a couple of hours, and I have no shampoo. At least I have conditioner.
“For God’s sake,” I grumble.
Time to do something the old Tessa never would have done—never would have been caught dead doing.
I squeeze shower gel into my palm and lather it through my hair.
Once my hair is shampooed and conditioned—or rather, shower-gelled and conditioned—I lather up my shower pouf and notice my legs.
From my Mexican-American mother, I inherited a gorgeous head of nearly black hair. But from my Irish-American father, I inherited the wonderful European trait of body hair everywhere.
Yeah, I’m basically the link between man and the ape.
But I can’t bring myself to shave. I just don’t have the energy.
I’ll wear jeans or leggings or something, even though it’s summer and I’ll be sweltering. The bar will be air-conditioned. I gather the energy to at least shave my armpits, and then I turn the water off and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel. Once I wrap myself in it, I grab another to wrap over my long, thick hair.
My face appears in the mirror once more, but this time I can’t see it because it’s steamed up from the shower.
What a metaphor for my life right now.
I’m just existing.
Existing in a fog.
I go to therapy twice a week, and my mother checks on me once a week.
I’ve been keeping up with work, but here’s the thing.
Next week, my boss expects me to go back to the office full-time. No more remote work unless I’m physically sick. I used to love going to the office. Talking to people, looking good, having in-person meetings.
I’ve known for a while that this was coming.
Just like I’ve known Skye and Braden’s wedding is coming, and still I’ve put off planning anything until the last minute.
I’m going to have to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and put them together into something that will hopefully resemble the Tessa Logan I used to be.