Page 33 of His Obsession
It’s just lingering PTSD. My therapist would have a field day if she knew. She’d ask whether I’m grounding myself. Whether I’mdistinguishing between fear and evidence. Whether I’m taking care of my body while my mind is in overdrive.
The answer to all of those questions is no. I’m barely taking care of anything but work.
Which is why, when I start feeling sick, I blame stress.
For a week straight, I wake up nauseous, carrying this weird heaviness in my stomach that comes and goes. Some days the very idea of food makes me want to die, and other days I can’t focus until I order the exact right sandwich from my favorite deli down the street. I throw up once after brushing my teeth too fast and stand over the sink afterward convincing myself it’s anxiety. Anxiety has done worse to my body before.
By the end of that week, though, I’m exhausted in a way that scares me. I know how exhausting it is to run events. This is different. I’m not just overworked, my whole body feels disconnected from me.
One afternoon I nearly fall asleep during a floral consult. Lila catches me staring at the same spreadsheet so long she asks if I’m having a stroke.
“I’m fine,” I tell her automatically.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m just tired,” I deflect.
“You look pale.”
“I was born pale,” I shoot back.
She snorts and goes back to her desk.
I’m sleeping badly. I check my locks twice every night, to the point that it becomes a ritual. I take different routes home just to be safe. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, even though I know that flower and note didn’t appear out of thin air.
The next week passes, and I feel about the same. I’m standing in my bathroom one morning trying not to gag while putting on mascara when the date on my phone catches my eye. I go still.
In all the stress and paranoia, I haven’t been paying attention to the important details. Like the fact that my period is late. Very late. Like over a month late.
Stress can do this, of course. Being terrorized from three thousand miles away would wreak havoc on anyone’s nervous system. I’m working too hard, sleeping too little, and all of that could explain why my period is late.
Then a flash of memory streaks through me without warning. A hot night in a hotel room. One night to get him out of my system. One night without protection.
I sit down hard on the closed toilet lid. This cannot be happening. I stare at the bathroom tile until my vision blurs, then do the only sensible thing I can think of. I call Gia.
She answers on the second ring.
“If this is about flowers again, I’m going to commit a felony.”
I laugh once, and it comes out thin and wrong enough that she goes silent immediately.
“Val?”
“I need you.”
That’s all it takes.
Her voice changes at once, warm and alert and serious. “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I’m coming.”
“No,” I say too fast. “Don’t come here. Just meet me outside in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’m leaving now.”
I’m dressed and downstairs before she arrives, pacing in front of my building like a lunatic. Gia pulls up in her SUV wearing oversized sunglasses, looking like a starlet on a covert mission. She takes one look at my face when I climb in and pouts.
