Page 38 of Limbo

Another part of me takes over from there. I climb out, shut the door, and slowly move toward the building, my head down. Only after Jordan drives away do I turn around and wait, unable to escape what comes next.

The door slams, startling me. Graham rounds the bed of the truck. He’s wearing his work jeans with a white tank top visible underneath his unbuttoned uniform shirt.

My eyes flash over his face. Once upon a time, my friend Shayna told me she understood how his face distracted people from him being a complete piece of shit. But all I see is fucking red, his features not even registering anymore. I settle my gaze on a button on his shirt, keeping my face expressionless.

“Where the hell have you been?” His gruff voice is louder than necessary, given how close we are.

“I just got out of class.”

“Who’s the guy? Is that what you do up here?”

“No,” I tell him. “He’s just a guy who gives me rides sometimes.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.”

I cringe at his insinuation, but I left myself wide open for it. “What are you doing here?”

A finger points in my face, and I tense even more.

“Youwillbe at my house tomorrow at six pm,” he says.

“You could have texted or called. You didn’t need to drive up here.”

“And have you say you didn’t get them? No fucking way. We’re not doing that dance again.” He checks the area surrounding us, and I also glance around, hoping no one is witnessing this. “You coming home tomorrow? Or am I taking you with me right now?”

When he stomps a step toward me, I withdraw one. He’s never hit me, but I would never trust him not to cross the line. I meet his steely stare before casting mine to the ground, unable to look at him longer than a few seconds.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I whisper.

“In the door by six, Callista.”

My jaw sets, and all my energy pours into staring at a crack in the sidewalk and steadying my breath. Only a handful of people still call me by my full name, and I hate most of them.

His worn brown boots retreat, and again, the door slams. The truck roars to life, tires squealing as he tears out of the parking lot. I look up and watch the truck disappear down the road. He’s gone. Too bad every negative aspect of him has already consumed me.

And an abstract box won’t do shit to stop it this time.

Felicia and Jess are on the couch when I storm through to my room. My bag lands on the floor along with my coat. I step from the chair onto the desk, my head just meeting the white drop-down ceiling tiles. I shift over the second one from the corner and slap around above me until I hit the plastic bag—my stash of shooters. With two in my hand, I slide the tile back and jump down.

I empty a bottle of vodka and another of spiced rum, one after the other. The warmth spreads but accomplishes little in soothing my nerves. As the walls close in, my eyes dart to the calendar, the day’s date not yet crossed out. I dig out a permanent marker, a pen not worthy of my mood. I don’t stop until the entire square is blacked out. One hundred sixty days left of him. Of not being in control of my life.

The marker slams against the wall, and I sit back on my heels. The gas filling my lungs feels too heavy for real air. Each breath transfers more weight into my chest, pulling me down. Further and further. I’ll suffocate without relief. An escape. I can only think of one place I might be able to breathe again.

The first time an officer pulled me over because Graham had falsely reported my car stolen, I laughed. The second time annoyed me. Then came the canceled health insurance. Lies about Cate being in the emergency room. Withheld mail. All futile attempts to regain control of me after I turned eighteen and refused to see him. As I was no longer the slave of a custody agreement, he couldn’t do anything to change my mind about cutting all ties. I could erase him.

Or so I thought.

Since Lauren never planned on giving me any of the money, she never mentioned the stipulation in their divorce agreement requiring Graham to pay child support until we turn nineteen. Her lawyer intended for the extra money to help during our first year in college or out on our own, but my mother just heardmore money longer.

So, when nothing else worked to get me to go see him, Graham twisted it into a manipulation tactic. He told me that unless I adhere to the visitation schedule with him for another year, he’ll stop writing his monthly check for all his children. At first, I ignored him as usual, not believing the threat, until Lauren threw a fit over her missing money. She wouldn’t buy groceries and told Connor and Cate she couldn’t afford them because of me being selfish.

As always, the only ones suffering were the three of us. I had already endured six thousand five hundred seventy-four days of misery. What was another three hundred sixty-five?

The answer: hell. A year in this strange limbo between the life I want and the one I want to leave behind is absolute hell. And at the moment, I’m doing a shitty job of balancing them.

I decline my standing date with Felicia and Jess for movie night, not much for company right now. Instead, I reconstruct the blanket fort from my bedroom at home. Even with everything from my and Cam’s beds, it could use a few more pillows but will do for the night. It’s warm and safe, and most importantly, I can breathe a little.

A movie plays on my phone, something light and unimposing. Mostly, my mind drifts in and out, barely paying attention to the couple on the screen. One realizes their love for the other a few minutes too late, leading them to rush out the door and across New York City, attempting to win the other back.

---