Page 48 of Without You

So.

Exhausted.

By the time I walk into my apartment at night, I’ve been gone for fourteen hours, and eaten three sub-par meals that I’ve packed into a cooler. The salon had been advertising the new massage service really well and I was booked solid. That’s a good thing, obviously, but it’s also overwhelming.

On top of that, the weekends are spent making up time at Dad’s office because not only was I behind on my own work, his office manager Jeanie had a baby almost a month ago. Which, unfortunately was two months premature. Fortunately, the baby is healthy even though she has to be in the NICU for a while. Jeanie had planned to help my dad until his retirement at the end of the year then she was going to stay home with the baby. Everything just got moved up and since I already knew the work and it didn’t make sense for my daddy to hire a temp, I’m filling in. My last month of school was stressful enough, but then I added working nights and weekends to the mix, giving me little time to study or anything else.

So yeah, I’m exhausted. And I really miss Brody. The last time we’ve been able to connect in any way other than text, phone calls, or a quick meal was when he brought burgers to my place.

Five.

Long.

Weeks.

Ago.

The morning after, it felt like we were both thrust onto a runaway train and neither of us could find a way off. Our schedules are crazy and part of the reason for that is because he was told that his first deadline needed to be pushed up by quite a bit. He’s been working round the clock and I know his stress level is at its max because even though making vehicles fancy — my term, not his — comes natural to him, he still wants it to be perfect so the production company doesn’t regret their decision.

I walk into my apartment and fall face first onto the bed, my arms and legs spread out and heave out a heavy sigh. What I really want to do is cry and then fall asleep for twenty-four hours straight. I need a shower and a meal that consists of more than a sandwich of peanut butter and jelly or cold cuts. Unfortunately, that takes energy and that’s something I don’t have much of.

I have no idea how long I lie here before there’s a knock on my door and I mumble, “It’s open!”

“You just gonna let anyone in?” Brody’s deep voice says, a little irritated, as he walks into my apartment.

“I’m too tired to care,” I say, face now turned toward him, but still lying down on my stomach.

He sits on the edge of my mattress and places a hand on my back. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“It’s been a long five weeks.”

I whine. “That’s an understatement.”

Brody brushes the hair off my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “Don’t take this the wrong way, babe, but you look exhausted.”

“I am,” I say, embarrassed when I feel tears build in my eyes. I swallow hard and fight against them, willing the tears to stay hidden. It’s always been one of the things I dislike about myself. When I get too tired, tears just appear out of nowhere and I can’t stop them. “I don’t even take offense to that.”

“You need a break.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have time for a break.”

He helps me to turn around and sit up. When he has my attention, he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and gives me a soft kiss on my lips. “Yes, you do. You deserve it, too. You can’t keep this up.”

I can’t help the rush of emotion that hits me and those tears that I worked so hard to hide from Brody begin pouring out of my eyes. Along with a loud sob. He jumps into action, tucking me against his chest and rubs my back, soothing me and letting me cry.

“Hey, hey. It’s gonna be okay.”

I nod but can’t reply. Using the hem of my t-shirt, I lift it to my eyes and wipe away the moisture leaking from them. I sniff, hoping that I don’t have snot everywhere, too.

“I’m s-s-so tired,” I whimper pathetically.

“I know. Me, too.”

I lean back and look at Brody. His handsome face. What an ass. How dare he not have huge bags under his eyes or stress breakouts all over his face? It’s hardly fair. I have a zit the size of Delaware on my jaw, the dark circles under my eyes could be mistaken for mascara smudges for how black they are, my hair is basically made up of dry shampoo now, my lips are chapped, my eyebrows could use a very serious waxing, and my nail polish is chipped. I roll my eyes and curl my lip. “Guh,” I huff, “you’re still good looking, though.”

“Look who’s talking,” he says, raising his eyebrows at me. “You’re beautiful.”

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