AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I was already growing to hate my job, feeling the overbearing stress of his watchful eyes keeping me on track with his goddamn bunny schedule. It was like I couldn’t escape him no matter what I did. I’d always had a reason to leave a job, but goddamn, the issues never cropped up this quickly.
I couldn’t help but wonder why he ended up choosing me. Despite what he claimed, there were plenty of people in the vicinity who were well enough trained for this role. Normally, when going for a job, I’d had to fight tooth and nail to even be seen. I’d told myself that it was because it was a competitive field, that I’d proven to be more qualified than the competition each time I got hired, but with Wade it felt like I was the only possible solution. Like I was the only one that had shown up with enough experience and without a criminal record. Did he chase off everyone else?
I turned the speed up, needing the ache in my ankles. Six miles per hour.
How dare he tell me that I needed the money. How dare he insinuate that it would be easy, that all we had to do was sleep in the same house and go out in public together as if those were things I already wanted to do. It hurt when I had to ask him for an advance, absolutely fucking stung, and he said that was his turning point. That was when he knew I would be perfect for the role because it wasn’t an opportunity. It was exploitation.
My ankles screamed as I ran, running out of breath, running out of steam. Sweat dripped down my face, and the harder I worked, the more I wasn’t sure if it truly was sweat or if I was crying and just couldn’t tell the difference. Down I spiraled, further into the pit that had replaced my mind.
I didn’t want to do it.
I didn’t want to do it.
I didn’t want to do it.
————
Stirring Mom’s soup had become the second most tedious part of my week.
Every night lately she wanted tomato soup and a grilled cheese, no matter how many times I told her she’d just had it the night before. I’d started sneaking in frozen vegetables or blending fresh ones in, trying to get her some kind of nutrients that the canned soup didn’t already have.
Unlike Mom, I didn’t want to eat grilled cheese and soup for the third time in three days. She’d been stuck in a loop now for just as long, insisting both of us were sick when she actually remembered who I was. Tomato soup and grilled cheese had always been her go-to dinner for the family if someone was sick when I was younger. I guess she wasn’t too far off the mark.
I, on the other hand, was going to be completely content with a chicken salad and a glass of wine. I’d earned that. It was a Friday night, after all.
After ensuring the soup had cooled down enough that it wouldn’t burn her mouth, I dropped off Mom’s tray of food in the living room for her. She sat back in her lounger, eyes glued to the screen that played the same episode of The Office that she’d watched at least thirty times now.
“Thank you, honey,” she said, her hand resting on mine briefly. She didn’t turn to look at me. “Join me. It’s just getting to the part?—”
“—where Michael hosts the dinner party? I know, Mom.” This never got easier. Dad said it would when she’d been diagnosed, said we’d learn to live with the new, ever-changing version of Mom. Dad was wrong. “I’ve got some work to do in my room,” I lied.
“Oh.”
I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Just leave your tray off to the side when you’re done. I’ll take care of it later.”
“Okay, sweetie.”
I made my way back to the kitchen and grabbed my bottle of wine, a glass, and my pre-made salad. Luckily, the hallway that led to the same room I’d slept in for twenty-eight years was attached to the kitchen, and I wouldn’t have to sneak the wine past Mom who occasionally thought I was still too young for alcohol.
After setting the wine and my salad on my nightstand, I collapsed in a heap on my bed, thoroughly exhausted from my workout and the mental gymnastics Wade had put me through earlier. I screamed into my pillow, hoping to get that last little bit of rage out, but it still simmered inside of me, bubbling just below the surface.
One glass of wine and a salad later, I felt slightly better. Not enough to level me out, though.
I turned on the television, choosing my favorite comfort show to play in the background while I scrolled on my phone, needing double the distraction. Time seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. It was nearly nine, too early to go to bed. But I didn’t want to sit and watch The Office with Mom, didn’t want to get ahead on next week’s work, didn’t want to do anything but stay in my bed and pretend I didn’t exist.
I looked at the bottle of wine.
It looked right back at me.
One more glass wouldn’t hurt, right? My advance was enough to cover Mom’s medical bills and then some, so if anything happened, I could always call an ambulance instead of driving her to the hospital. I didn’t need to be entirely sober. Just sober enough.
I poured it.
I downed it.
I poured another, giving myself the same excuse, giggling as I sipped, enjoying the buttery taste of the chardonnay while watching Ross tell Rachel that they were on a break.
Another, and my fingers and toes became a little tingly. I hadn’t had more than a single glass of wine in almost a year, hadn’t had the chance to. I’d definitely become a lightweight but I still felt in control, telling myself I could handle an emergency if it came down to it even though I knew that I couldn’t.
