Page 111 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I don’t answer, but Kat doesn’t seem to require it. She sets about turning on lights, opening windows, letting fresh air into my dank, stuffy apartment. I hear her on the phone, ordering food, then she calls several other people. My parents, I assume. Probably Grace, the shop. I drift in and out of a hazy sleep/wake state, lulled by the soft cadence of her voice in the other room.
I fall asleep once again.
One small mercy: I don’t dream.
Over the next few days Grace and Kat take turns looking after me. They fill my refrigerator with food, do my laundry, make me meals, hold my hand in silent support when I begin, out of nowhere, to weep. I’ve refused to speak to either one of my parents, but the girls take care of that, too, reassuring them I’m okay, and that I just need a rest.
I might need more than a rest. I might need a prescription for strong painkillers and a long, pleasant stay at one of those places where a nice lady in a white uniform speaks very softly while pushing me around tranquil gardens in a wheelchair.
But slowly, over the next few weeks, my strength returns.
With it comes a terrible, burning rage. I find myself staring at random sharp objects—knives, scissors, the sharpened point of a pencil—and imagining myself plunging them into A.J.’s neck.
It’s a little frightening, but it’s better than the bottomless despair that swallowed me before. At least the rage gives me energy.
I go back to work. I relearn how to smile. Though it’s not genuine, most people either don’t notice or don’t care. Kat and Grace do notice and care, but I think they’re just glad I’m out of my pajamas and back into what passes as the real world.
Not that it is, of course. The real world is back in a crumbling ruin of a hotel in the hills, in a candlelit room with opera music and a three-legged dog and a man who taught me what happiness looked like.
Here, there, all an illusion. Everything is make-believe. Nothing really matters to me anymore either way.
Though part of me wants to burn them, I carefully pack my collection of beautiful origami birds into a box and bury them under a pile of old blankets in the back of my closet. Maybe someday I can look at them without wanting to scream, but for now they’re entombed, like my heart.
June passes, then July. I don’t look at newspapers, I don’t watch television, I don’t surf the web. I don’t want to accidentally catch a glimpse of him. And I can’t bear to listen to the radio. I don’t want to be reminded of all I’ve lost.
Of all that never existed in the first place.
Several times I get the hair-raising feeling I’m being watched, but when I turn to look, there’s never anyone there. I convince myself it’s wishful thinking. No one’s watching over me, not anymore.
Then August arrives, and the wheels of Fate turn once again.
Vegas. I’ve only been here once before, and now I remember why I’ve never been back. I can smell the desperation in the air.
“Now this is what I’m talking about, bitches!”
Kenji, wearing black suede platform boots, skintight purple velvet pants, a fuchsia silk scarf, and a long, black leather trench coat even though it’s over one hundred degrees outside, sails into our suite at the Wynn with his arms held out, a giant grin on his face.
I admit the room is spectacular. It’s actually not a suite, it’s a three-thousand-square-foot villa, with balconies, a private massage room, floor-to-ceiling views of the golf course, and a dining room that seats ten. Fresh flower bouquets are everywhere, scenting the air with the delicate perfume of orchids and roses. The biggest gift basket I’ve ever seen sits in the middle of the mahogany dining table with a personal note from Steve Wynn, welcoming us to his resort.
It’s weird having a famous friend.
Kat and Kenji are sharing one bedroom; Grace and I have the other. It’s Kat’s bachelorette weekend. I’m determined to smile constantly so they’ll all stop looking sideways at me, so obviously wondering how I’m holding up after being jettisoned like shit from an airplane toilet that it makes me want to scream.
“Okay, who needs a drink?”
Like Kenji, Grace is also rocking a definite Vegas style: sky-high stilettos, tons of black eye makeup, hair teased out to there, and a teal Valentino minidress so short I’m sure her coochie is about to make an unscheduled appearance. She stands at the large, curved bar over a three-deep row of bottles, wiggling her fingers in anticipation.
“You know what I need, girlfriend.” Kat drops her handbag on the sofa and kicks off her shoes. She heads toward the bedrooms.
Grace nods. “Margarita: rocks, salted rim, Patrón silver. Coming up. Kenji?”
“Do we have any Hendrick’s?”
Grace looks over the display of bottles, then holds one up. “Yes.”
“I’ll take a gimlet.” He doffs his leather duster, flips the collar up on his shirt, then throws himself dramatically onto the long butterscotch leather sofa, where he sighs in bliss.
“Chloe?”
