Page 49 of The Hitch
Dread roils around in my gut, and I can feel my breathing quicken. Fuck.Fuck.Wings? What does that mean? Why was she here? Does she know about Chicago? God, I practically gave her my life story. It feels like so long ago, but it was only a few months. Shit. What if they're the ones who hacked our phones? What if I'm the weakness?
I'm practically hyperventilating when my husband turns to me with wide eyes.
"Hey, hey. None of that now," Dante coos and pulls me in close. "I can practically see your thoughts on your face. You're here. You're mine. You're safe."
Tears well up, stinging my eyes.Safe. I want to believe him. But if I'm the vulnerability, none of us are safe. I could black out again. I could lose time again. I could lead them straight to us. If they catch me at the wrong time, I could tell them my secrets—our secrets—and have no idea I'd even spoken.
"But what if I'm not? What if I have one of my, uh, episodes?" I sniffle into his shirt collar.
"When's the last time you had one of those? Not the murderous urges—the ones where you freeze. Where you lose yourself?" He cups the back of my head and nuzzles into my hair.
Now that I think about it, ithasbeen a while. I know I'm not cured. I know that's not how mental health, or whatever this is, works. Shit, maybe Ella's right. Maybe I do need a therapist. That's a heartbreaking thought.
"I don't know. It's been a while," I say with another sniffle.
"Melody, love. I'm going to say something, and please know that this isonlybecause I need you to be safe." He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. "Please, stay in the house. Just for a bit. Just until we can get this taken care of."
Immediately, I want to fight. I want to argue, I want to yell. I want to tell him to fuck himself. But the rational side of my brainknowshe's right. And I hate it.
"Fine. Promise."
Helena and I sit in the kitchen, sketching the bowl of fruit on the counter. I made an off-handed comment about wanting to learn to draw around Dante, and the next thing I knew, he'd practically bought out an art supply store. Helena, being the good sport she is, decided to learn with me.
Her presence puts me at ease. I know she's paid to be around me, to keep me safe—and I know she's lethal. But I finally gother to actually talk to me, and it feels more like having a built-in friend than a bodyguard. It's nice.
"Your banana looks better than mine," Helena says with a frown.
"That's funny. I actually hate bananas."
"Really? They're my favorite." She plucks the banana out of the bowl and peels it gently before taking a monster bite, laughing as she chews.
I want to laugh with her, but my stomach lurches as I watch her eat the vile fruit. My eyes water. "Oh, fuck."
Helena looks stunned as I race off to the bathroom, emptying my stomach of our breakfast. Tears gather at the corner of my eyes, and I groan pitifully.
"Should I call Dante?" Helena appears at the bathroom door, looking concerned.
"No," I gasp and retch again. "No. Please. I'm fine."
She's already on the phone before I can duck my head back down into the porcelain. Overcome with exhaustion, I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and slump onto the cold tile floor. Cold is good. Cold feels wonderful. It's soothing on my sweat-drenched self. I didn't even know I was sweating until this very moment.
"I hate this," I whisper to myself. I've always been a bit of a wimp about vomiting. My mom always said I'd grow out of it, but I never did. Holy shit, I'm so tired. My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. I want to keep them open, but I'm quickly losing that fight. Is it pathetic to fall asleep on the bathroom floor after puking up my guts? Probably. But I don't really care.
Unfortunately, sleep isn't an option. Helene reappears and jiggles my shoulder, whispering to me that Dante is on the phone.
"Melody? What's going on? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Dante's voice is slightly muffled as Helena positions the phone to my ear.
"Hi Dante," I mumble. "No, I'm okay. Super sleepy. I'm gonna take a nap."
"I can have a doctor at the house in thirty minutes. Promise me you'll tell me if you need it."
"Pinky promise," I giggle and hold out my pinky to Helena. She sighs and hooks her pinky around mine with an exasperated smile.
I felt Dante crawl into bed sometime in the night. I couldn't bear to look at the clock. A whole day wasted, just because I got a little pukey. Pathetic. He must have sensed my internal grumbling because he threw his arm around me and pulled me in tight. I don't remember when I got back to sleep, but I wake up in the morning feeling entirely refreshed.
"How's the nausea, love?" Dante croaks as I shimmy out from his grasp.
"Totally better, thanks. I told you I was fine." I select a comfortable flowy skirt—black with burgundy florals, of course—and a V-neck tee shirt for the day. It's not high fashion, but it's certainly nicer than anything I would have worn back before Dante.
