Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) (11 page)

As I’m drying my hands, I hear the front door shut. Mandy appears in the kitchen a minute later. And even though she makes fun of my latest therapy session kissing (yes—she saw us on the porch), I’m glad she’s here because she helps Abby with her bath so I can head upstairs for a well deserved (I think) shower.

HIS TEXT COMES ABOUT A half hour later, just after I step out of the shower. Still in my towel, I stand in front of my dresser with my phone.

One. Two. Three. Open text.

Three items of importance.

1.) I cleaned up everything (I even used your favorite wipes on your doorknob), so don’t worry. Oh, and remember—I don’t care if you throw out the sneakers.

2.) Miss South Side was the perfect winner today. She reminded me of you. Ken wanted to get his hands all over her.

I stop reading for a second, watching a blush rise up on my cheeks in my dresser mirror…thinking about, um, Ken’s hands on Miss South Side. All over Miss South Side.
{John Legend comes back in with “
All of Me
.” And with the song comes a fresh wave of memories from my hotel room. The hotel bed. His hands—}

“Callie?” Mandy. Yelling from downstairs. “Should I have Abby put on pajamas?”

“Sure.” I yell back. That’ll be one less thing Doug has to worry about after he drives Abby back home tonight.

I hope Melanie really is getting a lot of rest today, that she’s not going crazy worrying about cases and files and meetings, and, well, whatever else a lawyer has to worry about. I guess I could call to check. But then if she is sleeping, I’ll ruin it.

Nope. Not gonna do that.

So…back to my text. Not looking at number two again, or I’ll never get to class.

3.) You did a good job today. You made Abby less scared, and you got through the session yourself. I know that this
was easier than your usual sessions (since “dirt” and “gardening” were not on your initial list of “dirty” items), but still, you did well. And you deserve an “easy” session right now, before—

U.G.H.

He knew it was easy. That’s why he never mentioned my worst case scenario or odds-based thinking. He didn’t mention relaxation techniques either. He knew it was easy. He planned it that way.
{Lionel Richie and the Commo—}

Wait.
Before what? An “easy” session before what?

One. Two. Three.

I force my eyes to look back at his text. To finish reading his text.

And you deserve an “easy” session right now, before you have to try to get blood work done again.

A queasiness settles over…no, not settles over…takes over…me. I toss the phone—and his words—onto my bed.

Constricted throat. Blurry eyes. Shaky limbs.

I. Can’t. Try. Blood. Work. Again.

Chapter 7

day three (eight)

11:02 A.M. WEDNESDAY MORNING.

Last night blew. Chunks.

After class and my night routine, I went to bed. That was my mistake.

Every time I fell asleep, I dreamed about Judy. Freaking Judy.
{And the freaking theme song from
The Jetsons
played for hours. Hours and hours and hours.}
Judy kept coming at me with her tourniquet thing and a gigantic needle. She found me everywhere I went. At work. At the mall. In the shower.

I’m hoping that she doesn’t find me now as I take an extra shower, an
I’m still bleeding
shower, before I start proofreading the rough draft of my Professional Writing Lab pregnancy paper. Well…before I
try
to proofread my rough draft. I can’t concentrate this morning. Because today might be the day. Today might be
soon
or
some other time
. It might be blood work time again.

The thought makes my stomach turn. Makes my eyes watery. Makes me—

Oh. Shi—

Makes me throw up—right here in the shower.

Repulsive remnants of last night’s salad fly out of my mouth, moving with the stream of clean shower water. The traditional obnoxious throw up smell permeates the small shower space, making me—

Making me throw up again.

And again. And again.

Lumps of vomit swirl down the shower drain. They are probably clogging it up. Probably—

A knock at my bathroom door.

Oh my God
. Judy really is here. She is—

“Callie? Are you okay?” Mandy. Just Mandy.

I stand still. My whole body bent forward. Wet hair hanging over my face. Vomit fumes taking over my senses.

Mouth open. I cough to try to clear my throat. To try to sound normal. “I’m fine, Mandy.”

“Okay…well, I have a package for you. I’ll leave it in your room.”

A package? This early in the day?

“It’s from the hot doctor. He gave it to me earlier this week. He said that I should give it to you on Wednesday morning.” She laughs. “And I would never want to disappoint him…to see that adorable face upset with me.”

A package from him?
What could—

“I’m gonna get going, Callie. I’ll see you later.”

Mouth open again. Thoughts on pause for a nanosecond. “Okay, Mandy. Thanks. Be careful.”

“Later, Callie.”

All right. I can’t open his box right now. I have to clean my shower. And then I need to take a shower. Or three.

But I need to know what’s in that box. What if it’s an invitation to go see Judy at the hos—

My stomach turns. A hard turn.

Okay…I cannot think about the box right now.

Do not think about the box. Do not think about the box. Do not think about the—

{Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg dance around, explaining how to put a—}

CALLIE! Stop. Stop. Stop.

Okay. Quick plan.

Clean me. Body and hair. Throw my bath pouf on the towel outside of the shower. Step out of the shower, right on the towel. Bend and reach awkwardly for the cabinet under the sink. Get dish soap and a new sponge.

Back in the shower. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub the whole shower. Pray that the vomit that went down the drain won’t come back up later.

Throw sponge on the towel outside of the shower.

Towel throwing out. Sponge throwing out. Pouf throwing out.

More cleaning. New pouf getting. More scrubbing. More shampooing.

More thinking about the potential contents of his box. Needles. Tourniquets. Blood work lab slips.

More throwing up.

And the cycle starts again. Again and again and again.
{Elton John sings “
Circle of Life
,” and the baby Simba is lifted for all to see.}

2:33 P.M. ON MY BED. WITH his box.
{Again, Justin Tim—}

CALLIE. You are running out of time. Open the freaking box.

But do not think about what might be in the box.

Onetwothree. Rip off tape. Deep breath. Lift flaps.

Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree.

Look.

Look at a piece of paper. A big piece of paper—with his handwriting scattered about all over it.

Three Assignments

Please don’t let this be too harsh. Don’t let it. Because if it is—

CALLIE! Not. A. Lot. Of. Time. READ.

Onetwothree.

1.) Eat pancakes with syrup. At least
some
syrup. You decide how much or how little.

Gross. Sticky gross.

But it could be worse. Could have to do with…well, the thing that makes me throw up.

Luckily, I don’t even have syrup. So I can’t do this one. Next.

Onetwothree. Read.

2.) Use cash to buy a bottle of water at the campus store beside the writing center. Bring me the change tomorrow.

Cash? The stuff just carelessly passed around from person to person to person…carrying along with it snot and spit and germs and diseases and—

Ew.

I don’t have any cash either.
Sorry, Dr. Blake.

Moving on…onetwothree.

3.) I talked to your Professional Writing Lab I professor, Dr. Harper,

What?
Freaking stalker.
Ugh
. Reading more…

and he told me that you have the rough draft of a paper due tomorrow. I want you to make yourself NOT check it three times before turning it in.

And hand it in with possible typos and grammatical errors? And get a B? Or worse?
Not a chance, dude.

What a sucky list of things I don’t plan on doing.

Wait. There’s more.
Dear God.

Onetwothree. Read.

I have a full schedule today, so I want you to try these three assignments on your own. Everything you will need is in this box.

What?

Okay, yes, the box is too heavy to just be holding this paper, his list of instructions, but…UGH. He’s really serious about me doing this stuff.

I’m not ready to see what’s in the box. I’m not ready to see my assignment materials yet (or ever), so I don’t pick up his list of instructions. I don’t find out what’s underneath.

I finish reading instead. Because there’s more. There is still more.

Oh—I’ve also sent some of the articles that you wrote for the conference. I thought you might like to have some of the newspaper clippings.

My articles. The ones published in multiple newspapers. Read by various people. I forgot about them again.

I keep forgetting about them. My Dream Overlooked. Dream Forgotten. Forgotten over and over and over again.

He didn’t forget, though. Or maybe he has used his mind-reading powers to tap into some secret far corner of my mind that I can’t even personally access. Maybe in that secret corner, I have time…energy…space…to be excited about my published work, or—

Buzz. My phone buzzes on my dresser.

I put my (his) box beside me on the bed so I can grab my phone.

A text from Melanie. Open.

Abby had so much fun yesterday. Thanks for watching her!

Write back.

No problem. How are you feeling?

Send. Pick nails.

Buzz. Open.

Great. It’s nice to be back at work today.

Reply.

Just take it easy!

Send. I really hope she isn’t going back into crazy Melanie-work-all-of-the-time-mode. And I hope that she doesn’t start bleeding again.
Please don’t let her bleed again. Please don’t let her bleed ag—

Buzz. Open.

I will. Have a good day, Callie.

P.S. I want to hear about your therapy soon :)

Ugh
. Therapy. That’s right.

I type a quick goodbye message to Melanie and put my phone down. Then my eyes slide reluctantly back to the box on my bed.

Time to see my materials. My stupid freaking materials.

But first, I need to finish reading his instructions. I sit back on my bed and read.

Have a good day, Callie. I’ll text you tonight after you get back from work.

-Aiden

He’s not going to text until after 7:00 p.m. I wonder if he really is THAT busy all day or if he just wants to see if I can do some of this stuff on my own. Or—

Oh my God.

Or, is it possible that this is a trick? What if he’s going to surprise me and show up somewhere today WITH JUDY?

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.

I can’t think about this right now. Or I’m going to throw up again. And then I’ll never make it to work.

Quick decision. Quick distraction.

I tear his instruction letter out of the box and force my eyes to focus on the items beneath.
{Judy Garland sings “
Over the Rainbow”
in my head.}

Item number one. A small, brand new bottle of gooey, nasty syrup. A note is taped to it. His handwriting again.

Microwaveable pancakes are in your freezer.

Ugh.
Back to the box.

Next up…a plastic bag with two dollar bills in it.

How many people have touched these dollars?

Ugh again.
Back to the box again.

Finally, newspaper clippings. In plastic page protectors.
Thank God.
He somehow, of course, knows that I don’t like touching newspapers. Don’t like getting my hands all black.

I pick up the plastic sheets. And I look at the clippings.

My name. My words. Right here in print.

Pretty cool. Something I fantasized about as a kid. Having my words published.

But published correctly.
And in order to publish something correctly, in order to get those words there, here in these newspapers, I read each and every one of them three meticulous times. Three.

But he wants me to turn in a paper without three read-throughs.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

At least there shouldn’t be any blood work today.
There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be.
There shouldn’t be since he’s working all day.

Unless that was a lie. Unless he’s actually going to show up somewhere with Judy and a needle.