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When I’m entering her apartment in record time, I’m feeling more than slightly unhinged and deranged. I spot her phone lying on the floor next to her bag, making the insanity spike. My feet pound the floor as I race across the apartment, calling her name, getting no response. The bedroom door slams into the drywall when I sling it open, yelling for her once more. I still get no response, but I hear her. My gut twists because it sounds like she’s in pain.
The space between the bathroom and the door vanishes in a second as I barge in and find her sitting on the toilet with her feet in some kind of tub and something pressed to her stomach. She looks up at me, defeat and misery filling her eyes. “Go away,” she says with a sniffle.
Well, that’s not the reaction I was expecting. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just turn back around and pretend you aren’t sitting here in tears.”
“I’m fine. You’re supposed to be working. Go do that.”
I walk across the bathroom and drop in front of her. My palms grab either side of her face. “Not happening. Now tell me what’s going on. Why are you home?” She huffs, rolls her eyes, then winces. “What was that?”
“It was a cramp, Graham. I came home because my feet were killing me because my toe shoes finally gave out. I wanted to soak my feet and cry because I can’t afford to replace them, and then I got my period. Are you happy?” She pulls away from me and drops her head into her hands.
My attention drops to her feet in the small tub thing. I lift one,and when she hisses, my jaw clenches. My eyes raise to hers as I gently run my fingers over them. “Why didn’t you say something about the shoes?”
Her hands fall as she meets my eyes. A blond brow tips when she tilts her head. “Why would I?”
“You know why, Case? You need new ballet shoes. Fucking ask for them. Don’t hurt yourself because of your goddamn pride.” I don’t bother tempering my tone because I’m fucking pissed she’d do this to herself instead of ask for help. Her mouth flops open for a minute. She’s not used to me raising my voice, but fuck. I drag my hand over my face and roll my neck. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“No. It’s fine. I just need to rest a few days,” she says timidly. She obviously can tell I don’t believe her. “I swear it’s not that bad. I’ve had stress fractures before. This doesn’t feel like that, though…”
“Though?”
“It was close.” She bites her lips as her cheeks turn red, looking properly embarrassed about the right thing. “You’re right. I should’ve asked someone for the money.”
“Damn right you should’ve. There’s nothing wrong with being independent, Casey, but when you have people who can and will help, you don’t need to suffer either.” I set her foot back into the tub and stand. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, but it makes me crazy that you’d hurt yourself over money when I’m right here. What can I do?”
“You could hand me some pain medicine. It’s in my medicine cabinet.”
I stride to the medicine cabinet. “What else?” When she doesn’t answer, I look her way. Her brows are bunched between her eyes. “For your period. Do you need anything?”
Her eyes double, and her mouth falls open in shock. If nothing else, I make her speechless often. “You… You would get those things? You’re not freaked out or anything?”
“Casey, I’m a twenty-eight-year-old grown man. I know how the female anatomy works. It’s normal, so why would it freak me out? Besides, did you forget who took you the very first time?”
“I did, actually,” she whispers. “How did I forget that?”
I shrug and turn toward her medicine cabinet. In all the weeks I’ve been staying here, I haven’t opened this thing. I haven’t had a reason to. Scanning the shelves, I spot several bottles of prescriptions. Each one different, and each one makes my stomach clench tighter.
Grabbing them, I turn to her. “What’s all this?”
“My medicine,” she blinks.
“You take all this?” I don’t mean to growl, but I’m panicking. “This shit can’t be taken together. Why the fuck do you even have it.” I set it all down. The Percocet, the Xanax, the Vistaril, the Effexor. My heart hammers in my chest as I stare at her. I press my lips together, trying to calm down before I speak. “Casey, you can’t take all of this together,” I growl, then wince, because I need to get it together.
My lids close as my head falls back. I scrub my hands over my face as I try to push the memories and grief away.It’s not the same.Sheis not the same.
But my mom’s face won’t leave my head. How she seemed so bright all the time, but it was always a mask to hide how broken she was—to hide how much of a prisoner of her brain chemistry she was. She tried to be strong for us—for Dad, Jagger, and me.
Two hands grip mine, pulling them from my face. She reaches up, brushing her fingers over my brows, then running her fingers through my hair. If she’s upset or offended by myreaction, she doesn’t show it. All I see is concern and sympathy in her eyes. “I don’t take them all together. Well, the Effexor is every day like my birth control, but the rest is just when I need it. I don’t even take the Vistaril anymore. I got it when I had a bad case of hives from stress.” She blushes at the last part.
“What about the rest?” My voice is tight with worry but not judgment. I just need to know… “You can’t take benzos and opiates together. Or drink with them.”
“I don’t.” She winces, and my stomach turns. “At least, I don’t usually. I did drink with the Xanax the other night, but I wasn’t thinking.” I press my lips together, so I don’t lose it even though I’m shaking, and I want to shake her. “I only take the Perocet when I have to. It’s not very often though. Maybe once or twice a month.”
Then I remember her feet. I lift her into my arms and walk us to the bedroom. My arms stay wrapped around her as I sit on the bed. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers.
“Don’t be. It wasn’t a secret, but I guess seeing it all like that might seem that way. The Effexor is for my anxiety, and the Xanax is for when the panic attacks happen anyway. I haven’t…” Her mouth twists with a shy smile. “I haven’t needed it since after the club. You know since you and me…”
That makes me smile, too, for a minute. I love knowing that I help her panic attacks. But it fades away as I realize I need to explain myself. “My mom…” I sigh. “She had chronic depression most of her life. Some days she couldn’t even pull herself out of bed.” Casey nods, understanding written all over her face, and I hate it makes me worry more instead of less. “After our little sister died—”
