Page 20 of Sinful
I should call her. I know I should, but calling her means facing everything I've been avoiding for nearly three years now.
It means admitting I'm a coward, and it means going home.
A knock comes to the bathroom door. "Bailey? Are you okay in there?" Jamie, the day cook. Sweet guy, maybe thirty, with a wife and a kid, he shows pictures of constantly.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just—stomach thing."
"Jack's looking for you. Said to take your break if you need it."
"Thanks." I stand, splash cold water on my face.
The girl in the mirror looks like a stranger—too thin, too pale, blonde curls I haven't bothered to brush properly.
Dark circles under brown eyes that are almost black in this light.
I look like someone running.
Because that's what I am.
The back door leads to a small strip of concrete between the building and the dumpster.
Not pretty, but private.
I sit on the curb, pull out a cigarette I bummed off a customer last week.
I don't really smoke—never did before I left Florida, but sometimes I need something to do with my hands.
Something to justify sitting still when every instinct says run.
The lighter clicks three times before it catches.
I inhale, cough, try again.
Better.
The smoke burns, but it's grounding.
Physical discomfort to override the emotional kind.
My phone feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I stare at it, watching the screen light up with another call from Elfe.
Answer it. Don't answer it. Answer it. Don't.
The ringing stops. Voicemail. Thirty seconds later, it starts again.
"Fuck." I answer before I can change my mind.
"What?"
"Helle." Elfe's voice is wrecked, broken in a way I've never heard before. "Oh, thank the Gods. Where are you? Are you safe?"
"I'm fine. I'm at work in Texas. What's wrong?"
"It's Dad." Everything in me goes cold.
"What happened?"
