Page 37 of Desperate Crimes
My mouth is dry.
My head’s still foggy, but the haze is lifting just enough for the panic to settle in behind it.
I sit on the edge of the massive bed and try to steady my breathing.
That’s when I notice it.
A bottle of water, perfectly chilled, condensation glistening on the outside. Beside it, a small tray with snacks—fruit, crackers, almonds, dark chocolate squares.
The kind I like. The exact kind I like.
It should freak me out more than it does.
I grab the water first, unscrewing the cap and downing half the bottle in a few gulps.
Then, I tear into a square of chocolate with shaking fingers. My stomach knots with every bite, but the sugar helps calm the worst of the jitters.
I try lying down, but I can’t sleep.
Not really.
I just keep shifting atop the sheets, silk brushing over bare skin, too aware of everything.
The scent of roses lingers in the air, and I love it.
I hate that I love it.
Liar.
I ignore my inner voice and close my eyes, but the silence? It’s too loud.
There’s this pulsing beat of something in the air.
And a hum beneath my skin that feels suspiciously like longing.
Eventually, I give up.
I slide out of bed, hugging my tight dress to my body, arms around my waist.
I’m thicker than what’s considered trendy. A size sixteen in a size zero world. But most of the women in my family are curvy, and I know how to dress to accentuate my fuller figure.
That doesn’t mean I don’t have my insecurities. We all do. And I hate that when people meet me for the first time they assume they know me. They assume I overeat, don’t exercise, that kind of thing.
Fuck them.
I played soccer from the time I was in preschool through college. I love to hike, swim, and to go for bike rides. I love walks in the city. Trips to zoos and museums.
Even now, while I try to find what it is I want to do with my life, I’m fairly active. I just started a pole dancing class with my cousins Cora and Jade. It’s on Wednesdays.
The class is fun. And I love spending time with the girls.
And suddenly, I wonder if I’ll ever get back to that. To my life.
That old fear slithers back up my throat, and I try to swallow it down, but it’s not easy.
I inhale a fortifying breath, then I pad across the floor, barefoot and unsure of where I’m going.
My hand brushes over the wall until I find a smooth, hidden seam.
