Page 7 of True Abandon

My back tightens. I push myself until it hurts and then do ten more.

She said I hate my job. I do, but no more than any other person in the world.

My stomach grows numb. My body wants me to slow down, but I fight through the pain.

She said my romantic life is shit. Why? Just because I’m not ready to play house with my boyfriend?

It gets harder to pull myself up from the supine position. My stomach shakes as the muscles weaken.

She said I let him destroy me.

Pushing harder, rising up, my knees lock.

She was right.

I fall to the ground and lie on my back. My lungs expanding with a tightness in my back. My hairline is coated, slick with sweat—worse than when I woke from my dream. Staring at the popcorn ceiling, I lie in personal silence, waiting for my muscles to relax.

My fingers fiddle with the necklace I wear every day—a gold rosette, a gift from Jackson before he left for college. It’s the one thing Kelli doesn’t know about—otherwise, she’d make me take it off.

With my body exhausted, I give my brain a rest for the remainder of the evening as well.

I rise from the floor and then walk to the refrigerator to pour myself a large glass of ice water and chug it. The television catches my attention where the newscasters are actually report stories instead of whether.

“The Congressional Subcommittee on Energy was in town today. The group made up of eight U.S. Senators were set to discuss a new proposal for solar energy at the United Nations. The meetings were cut short due to the storm and will reconvene in a few days. In other news…”

I groan and exit the living room in favor of the bathroom and turn on the shower letting the hot water hit my scalp; the heat energizes my sore muscles and rejuvenates my spirit. Placing my palms against the smooth porcelain tiles, I bow my head to allow the stream to pummel my spine. Sometimes a baptism by faucet is all a person needs to serve as a reset button on a shitty day.

I dress in black pants and an orange tank top, and then throw a sweatshirt over it. With my hair brushed and my favorite fuzzy socks on my feet, I now sit on the most comfortable spot on the couch.

I welcome my newest paperback to my hands and raise it to my nose, inhaling the scent of fresh pages. The aroma is familiar and cozy—it’s rare that I read a physical book. With the convenience of a Kindle and the significantly lower price of e-books, I find myself entranced by a glowing screen more often than not. But this paperback is part of my hurricane preparedness—the battery can’t die on this baby.

But the lights can.

Crap.

Just as I open my book, the electricity flickers—TV, microwave, and refrigerator, all of them off—dammit

Feeling my way around the apartment, I find the kitchen and grab my flashlight. Nestling myself back on the couch, I pull out my laptop from under the coffee table. It’s fully juiced, so I tap into the Wi-Fi using my mobile hot spot and log onto Facebook.

The virtual world is pandemonium. Post after post shows what is happening in people’s neighborhoods, coupled with news stories from the South where the storm originated—images of destruction clutter my newsfeed.

I hear the noise from the party on the fourth floor. Despite the lack of electricity, they all seem to be having fun. Lord help us they don’t burn the place down with candles. I could go down there, but I prefer being alone.

Scrolling through my newsfeed, the Facebook messenger light pops up. I click on the icon, and my stomach drops at the sight of the name in bold of the incoming message.

Ella Davis.

Jackson’s sister.

My fingers tap on the silver frame of my Mac with nervous anxiety. I haven’t heard from Ella in years, and her message, although still unread, sends my stomach into twisting, painful knots.

We became Facebook “friends” a while back, but that’s not a real friendship—I’m not lying when I say I accepted her friend request because, at one time, the two of us were very close. And if I were to lie to myself, I’d say it wasn’t due to my burning curiosity to keep tabs on Jackson—to catch a rare glimpse of him in a family photo she posts around a holiday or her daughter’s birthday. Or maybe even see her brag about his recent accomplishments. Imagine my surprise, the boy who once was the apple of his daddy’s eye and a future politician, grew up to be a tatted-up musician who goes by the name, Jax.

Cliche, I know.

The subject line under her name reads part of the message.

Trish. I need your help. Jax…