Page 141 of I’m The Worst

Finally…

Gage let it slip that his field status was updated and he was back in Chicago. The second he said it, my heart reacted before my brain could stop it.

I spent almost an hour debating whether texting Wolff was pathetic before finally tracking down his number through Gage’s friends. I practically begged him for it, which was embarrassing as hell.

Then I stared at the message for twenty minutes before sending it anyway. And now I can’t stop checking my phone like some desperate fucking idiot.

“I’m just saying, you’ve got enough drugs here to start a pharmacy.” She pulls out her vape and takes a long drag, exhaling sweet vanilla-scented smoke toward the ceiling.

Head tilted, she holds up another label. “Sleeping pills, anxiety, depression, painkillers. Fuck, AJ, I’d be floating 24/7.”

I stare at the pill bottle in her hand without answering.

I haven’t touched most of them.

I don’t know how to explain to Sienna that pills don’t fix the problem. That nothing feels right anymore.

Not my room.

Not my own skin.

Not this house.

I spent four weeks staying mostly at my father’s estate after coming home, but he was barely there between Sovereign business and constant meetings. Gage checked in when he could, hovering constantly whenever he was around between training sessions. But he still had his own life to get back to, and eventually, I couldn’t stand the pity in everyone’s eyes.

So I moved back here. Trying to pretend normalcy still existed somewhere for me.

I don’t know why I thought it would help.

“You’ve barely unpacked.”

I glance at her, then at the mess of suitcases and boxes still stacked near the wall. As I open my mouth to respond, a glimpse of navy at the foot of the bed catches my eye.

My blood runs cold.

The corner of my blanket peeks slightly out from beneath the bed.

And the pillow.

Shit.

Before Sienna notices, I quickly stretch my leg out casually and shove both farther underneath with my foot. My pulse spikes anyway. Because if she asks why I’ve been sleeping under my bed instead of in it⁠—

I don’t know what I’d say.

That sometimes I wake up choking on panic because the room feels too open?

That being under the bed feels safer. Like a cage I can control?

I swallow hard and force a smile. “I’ll get to it. Eventually.”

She studies me for a second too long before shrugging and flopping onto her back.

“Whatever. I’m not judging.” She exhales another cloud toward the ceiling fan. “But seriously, girl…you’re home. You’re alive. You need to start living again.”

Home.

The word lands strangely in my chest. Because somehow, I still feel stranded somewhere between Russia and this bedroom. My eyes drift back to my phone again before I can stop myself.