Page 70 of The Publicity Stunt
APRIL
My eyes snap open.
My skin is covered in cold sweat. I look around the room, hands shaking and heart pounding, paranoid that the horror may have followed me back here.
It hasn’t. It was just a dream.
Cautiously, I trip out of bed, still shivering, and rub the bridge of my nose.Just a dream, April.I tiptoe against the cold tiles, stumble into the bathroom, and turn on the light. Eyes red and face puffy. I look as stressed as I feel.
I lean against the sink and take a deep breath.
I’m home.
In my apartment.
Holly is in the other room. Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
The distant sirens of a fire truck pull me back to reality and I splash my face with some water. The cold stinging immediately transforms the longing for sleep into a craving for the half-eaten Ben & Jerry’s sitting in my freezer.
Normally, I’d pop a sleeping pill, get back into bed, and try to drift off to sleep. But not tonight. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I’m truly scared to fall back asleep.
I grab my satin robe from the door hook, put it on, and head toward the kitchen. Nightmares are a common symptom of PTSD, I’m aware, but thanks to countless hours of therapy and medication, it’s one I haven’t had to face for years.
Until tonight.
The second I turn on the light, my eyes clock the plates crusted with last night’s dinner brimming in the sink. The white marble counter is a topographical map, its landforms made of empty coffee mugs and tiny bread crumbs. I pull open the freezer, and there’s nothing in there but a box of Trader Joe’s chicken tikka masala and some frozen pizza.
Splendid. Two almost-thirty-year-olds with the collective grocery-buying abilities of a twelve-year-old.
Right then the main door opens. Faint footsteps echo through the otherwise quiet foyer, and I crane my neck to get a better view. “Hol?”
My sister’s startled voice replies a second later. “April?” She walks toward the kitchen, the clicking of her shoes against her marble floor coming to a sudden stop. “It’s two in the morning.”
Even from a distance, I can make out the puffiness below her eyes. “Are you just getting home?” I have to stop myself from doing a double take at her ridiculous ebony outfit. A long-sleeve black turtleneck, skinny leggings, some sort of combat boots and—are those gloves? “Are we … planning a bank robbery?”
She slips her hands into the back pockets of her leggings, her mouth drawing into a straight line. Her shoulders sag. A short pause, then she angles her body to face me entirely. “Emergency amputation at the ER tonight. My outside scrubs got blood on them,” she tells me. “This was the only other change I had.”
I wince. “That sounds … gross?”
“Why are you up?”
Her subtle attempt at changing the topic does not go unnoticed.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Obviously.” Holly hoists herself atop the counter. “Bad dream?”
I swallow hard. She’s the only person who knows about this “problem” of mine—for lack of a better word. And, once upon a time, Parker too.
The irony is glaring.
He knew my fears better than anyone. The first time I had a nightmare this traumatic, he hugged me so tightly that it almost hurt. Like he wanted me and my troubles to sink into him. I remember breathing, then not breathing. I remember not needing to. Because for once, somebody breathed for me. Hayden Parker did everything for me. And even though I’d just had a nightmare, I remember being so utterly and completely happy. No one ever held me like that again. No one even came close.
“Midnight cravings,” I lie. “I wanted some ice cream.”
“That’s adorable, only it’s not midnight.” Her face scrunches up in a frown. “And we’re out of ice cream.”
