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18
CAMBRIA
I’m stuck, and it pisses me off.
I just came back from my follow-up appointment at the neurologist’s office, and he told me that I’m not allowed to dance at all until I’ve reached my six-month check-up with no issues. Even though the pain has abated and I feel fine now, he insists that it’s just the result of my overconfidence.
Knowing that I can’t actually work for my money puts a pit in my stomach. Abram has been supporting me for the entire time I’ve been out of the hospital.
Even though I know he would tell me no in a heartbeat, I decide to ask Ariella for a job as a waitress or a bartender. I know it can get really busy there too, but it’s probably not as risky as flipping myself upside down on a pole and spinning my entire body weight around it. That would almost guarantee a hemorrhage.
I had a lot of tests done today just to make sure that everything is where it needs to be, and despite them not showing anything of concern, I’ve felt sick as hell every single morning for at least the last few weeks.
It’s a peculiar kind of sickness that comes and goes randomly at will. I’ve had food poisoning before, and it’s definitely not that. It’s so persistent that I’m beginning to go crazy. In a way, I’m grateful not to be working because of it.
It’s made me worried that I might have permanent brain damage or some kind of seizure disorder because of my injury. What if I’m sick for the rest of my life with no relief to be seen? I would hate Abram forever.
Whenever I remember that he’s the reason I’m in this position, my stomach turns a little. This person I’ve dedicated so much of my mental real estate to, so much of my emotional wellbeing, has nearly gotten me killed. I would have been collateral damage to him, nothing more.
Even when he’s gone, Abram floats through my head all day long like he owns all of the space in my brain that doesn’t hold vital information. It’s annoying how much I think about him, and even though it’s my own thoughts that I’m irritated by, I don’t want them to stop. Thinking about him all day is a sort of comfort to me. It feels like, in a way, he’s really here with me.
But he isn’t.
He decided to go away for “business,” he said. Whatever kind of business could keep him away for this long, I don’t want to know. Hopefully, if it involves another shootout, I’ll just die instead of having to endure another hellish ten-day stay in the hospital.
If he’s just running away from me, then I need to accept that he’s nothing but a coward, just like I expected him to be.
I’ve finally calmed my nerves about Cole finding me here. I figure that if he hasn’t yet, he won’t. He was never that smart, so if he hasn’t figured out where I live yet, he’s bound to have just given up.
It sends chills down my spine every time I think about the text he sent me, how I suddenly felt the walls closing in around me. But he hasn’t hurt me yet, and every day that passes without problems helps me feel more emboldened against him.
Being able to face my fears without Abram around has helped me realize that I do truly like him as a person beyond his capacity to keep me safe and buy me things. This realization has been both a blessing and a curse, as it implies that I have to face my feelings head-on and deal with them.
Of course, I have feelings for Abram. He’s a strong man with integrity of some kind who has done his best to keep me safe, even though I still ended up getting hurt because of the ruthlessness of his competition. He knows me better than anyone else here, and he’s been nothing but supportive of me while I’ve recovered.
So why do I have these conflicting feelings?
The way he looks at me makes my entire body feel hot. My face turns red whenever he glances at me, even if we’re just watching TV in the living room. He can see right through me, and that terrifies me.
Every guy I’ve ever known who could see through me used it against me. Whenever I was vulnerable and sweet to somebody, it got thrown back in my face. Of course, this happened in a far worse way with Cole.
I decide to leave my apartment and get myself some food from one of the more high-end restaurants near the club. I haven’t gone out by myself in forever since I was injured, and I crave the freedom of just being able to walk around the city without a destination in mind.
I used to do that all the time, just meandering through the streets, watching people come and go, and imagining what their inner thought life must be like. It felt good to consider the problems that other people had in place of my own.
The restaurant I chose isn’t the kind of place I would have ever been able to afford when I was working as a waitress at a diner near my old place. I don’t think they would have even let me inside. They have a very strict dress code for sit-down diners, but since I’m just grabbing my food and leaving, I decide not to stress too much about it.
Airplanes take off overhead as I walk, and I watch them for a moment before they disappear into the sunset above me. I wonder to myself what it must be like to be someone like Abram who can just jump from Chicago to Florida to wherever he is now. I went to New York once to visit some family, but it was just Rochester. I was so underwhelmed when I got there that I slept most of the time while everyone else played board games.
The walk is short, and when I reach the restaurant, I’m almost too self-conscious to go inside in what I’m wearing. A couple walks out briskly, both wearing Prada and Givenchy for a casual afternoon meal.
I was making good money at the club before I was hurt, but I can’t even begin to imagine how expensive either of their outfits is. I envy them to the point of obsession until I snap out of it, walking into the restaurant in my running pants and Marcus’s old college hoodie.
I see the woman at the reception desk scan my outfit with her eyes, sneering a little as I approach. “Hi, I have a pickup order for Cambria Hastings,” I say as I approach the desk.
She stands up straighter as she scrolls through her iPad. “Yeah, that one’s still being made. We had a big lunch rush. Hope you’re fine with waiting,” she says in an adenoidal Boston accent.
I shrug and choose a spot to sit while I wait, scrolling absently through my phone until I think that I hear Abram’s voice.
