Page 29 of Forget Me Not

HawkEye: I’m already looking forward to seeing you again.

I blink a few times as I reread his message. Then I respond with a critical question.

Wildcat: Have we met before?

I’m almost positive HawkEye was never a client of mine. Unless he uses multiple aliases. It’s not uncommon for married men, but I feel like he would’ve told me.

I’m on pins and needles waiting for his response. I scoot up on the bed, folding my legs in front of me as I watch the screen impatiently.

I wait and I wait, but two minutes later, nothing has come through.

Tapping hurriedly into the phone, I hope he hasn’t left the chat.

Wildcat: Are you there?

Another minute passes, and nothing, so I swipe out of the app and drop my phone into my lap.

I’m losing my mind. I’ve always been a paranoid person, but lately, my paranoia has gone to extremes. I often remind myself it would be abnormal not to be a little fucked up after all I’ve been through. Once you travel through the darkness I have, I’m not sure you ever fully walk out of it.

I’m so scared I’ll never change. To anyone out there, I’ll never be more than a washed-up whore. I’ll never be loved again because the only person who ever loved me is my mom, and she’s gone. Letting someone else in feels like a betrayal to her memory, and I won’t do that if it means I’m at risk of losing the place in my heart that has always been reserved for her.

Doesn’t matter. Love is overrated. It never lasts. And if you don’t have it, you don’t have to feel the pain of losing it.

Three Years Ago

My phone vibrates repeatedly against my knee on the bathroom floor. Pulling my face out of the toilet for a nanosecond, I steal a glance and see that it’s Dex, before vomit burns my esophagus again.

I return to the toilet as it climbs up my throat and comes out in heaves. I'm not sure how there’s anything left, considering this is my third time throwing up in the past two hours and I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday.

Once the spasms in my stomach stop, and I’m confident I’m getting a break, I sit on my ass and drop my head against the wall.

Taking deep breaths, I control the urge to return to the toilet. Sweat protrudes around my forehead, so I grab the damp towel on the floor from my bath last night and I wipe my face off.

Finally, feeling a tad better, I reach for my phone.

There are four missed calls from Dex, but no messages. It’s not uncommon, considering we only leave messages when it’s dire.

I tap his name and call him back, and he picks up on the first ring.

“It’s about damn time.” His tone is stern and forthright, and I’m certain he was getting worried. It’s actually a comforting thought, knowing someone cares enough to check in on me.

“I’m sick,” I gripe, followed by a bout of lingual groans.

“Sicksick? Or hungover?”

“You know I don’t drink, Dex. I’m sick. I feel like complete shit. Can’t eat. Been throwing up nonstop.” As the nausea creeps back in, I close my eyes with the phone still pressed to my ear. “I think I caught a stomach bug.”

“Do you need me to put in a call to Perry?”

Perry is a close friend of Dex’s and also a doctor in family medicine. He’s the same doctor who cared for my mom in the end. He also lives in Kentucky.

“I’m in Memphis, Dex.” He can’t see my eye roll, but it’s apparent in my tone.

“No shit. But he might be able to recommend someone in the area who can make a house call.”

“A house call to a hotel?” My sarcasm is still wildly apparent, but I’m being realistic here.

“Just trying to help.”

---