11. Ray

Ihadn't bothered to go back to the office. I didn't care what Wade would say about it, didn't care if he fired me, didn't care if I'd royally fucked up. I headed straight to the gym. I didn't often have time to work out, not with needing to care for Mom, so being able to do it while still technically on the clock was as big of a win as I would get today.

I grabbed the pack of antibacterial wipes out of my purse. I didn't trust the spray bottle or paper towels they had sitting around for people to use nor did I want to touch something that others' sweaty hands had held. Every nerve in my body was firing on overdrive. I could feel the slight to nonexistent breeze inside the gym, could hear a pin drop over the obnoxiously muscled men who grunted and threw their weights. I could smell the snow outside. I could taste sweat in the air.

I set the treadmill to a light pace at first, just two miles per hour to start myself off.

With every step, every inch I walked, I spiraled. Wade's comments had broken something within me that I didn't know how to piece back together. He'd made me feel weak, embarrassed, useless, insinuating that my need for money would be solved by pretending to be in love with him. If anything, it would only make things worse.

I was already growing to hate my job, feeling the overbearing stress of his watchful eyes keeping me on track with his goddamn bunny schedule. It was like I couldn't escape him no matter what I did. I'd always had a reason to leave a job, but goddamn, the issues never cropped up this quickly.

I couldn't help but wonder why he ended up choosing me. Despite what he claimed, there were plenty of people in the vicinity who were well enough trained for this role. Normally, when going for a job, I'd had to fight tooth and nail to even be seen. I'd told myself that it was because it was a competitive field, that I'd proven to be more qualified than the competition each time I got hired, but with Wade it felt like I was the only possible solution. Like I was the only one that had shown up with enough experience and without a criminal record. Did he chase off everyone else?

I turned the speed up, needing the ache in my ankles. Six miles per hour.

How dare he tell me that I needed the money. How dare he insinuate that it would be easy, that all we had to do was sleep in the same house and go out in public together as if those were things I alreadywanted to do. It hurt when I had to ask him for an advance, absolutely fucking stung, and he said that was his turning point. That was when he knew I would be perfect for the role because it wasn't an opportunity. It was exploitation.

My ankles screamed as I ran, running out of breath, running out of steam. Sweat dripped down my face, and the harder I worked, the more I wasn't sure if it truly was sweat or if I was crying and just couldn't tell the difference. Down I spiraled, further into the pit that had replaced my mind.

I didn't want to do it.

I didn't want to do it.

I didn't want to do it.

————

Stirring Mom's soup had become the second most tedious part of my week.

Every night lately she wanted tomato soup and a grilled cheese, no matter how many times I told her she'd just had it the night before. I'd started sneaking in frozen vegetables or blending fresh ones in, trying to get her somekind of nutrients that the canned soup didn't already have.

Unlike Mom, I didn't want to eat grilled cheese and soup for the third time in three days. She'd been stuck in a loop now for just as long, insisting both of us were sick when she actually remembered who I was. Tomato soup and grilled cheese had always been her go-to dinner for the family if someone was sick when I was younger. I guess she wasn't too far off the mark.

I, on the other hand, was going to be completely content with a chicken salad and a glass of wine. I'd earned that. It was a Friday night, after all.

After ensuring the soup had cooled down enough that it wouldn't burn her mouth, I dropped off Mom's tray of food in the living room for her. She sat back in her lounger, eyes glued to the screen that played the same episode of The Office that she'd watched at least thirty times now.

"Thank you, honey," she said, her hand resting on mine briefly. She didn't turn to look at me. "Join me. It's just getting to the part?—"

"—where Michael hosts the dinner party? I know, Mom." This never got easier. Dad said it would when she'd been diagnosed, said we'd learn to live with the new, ever-changing version of Mom. Dad was wrong. "I've got some work to do in my room," I lied.

"Oh."

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Just leave your tray off to the side when you're done. I'll take care of it later."

"Okay, sweetie."

I made my way back to the kitchen and grabbed my bottle of wine, a glass, and my pre-made salad. Luckily, the hallway that led to the same room I'd slept in for twenty-eight years was attached to the kitchen, and I wouldn't have to sneak the wine past Mom who occasionally thought I was still too young for alcohol.

After setting the wine and my salad on my nightstand, I collapsed in a heap on my bed, thoroughly exhausted from my workout and the mental gymnastics Wade had put me through earlier. I screamed into my pillow, hoping to get that last little bit of rage out, but it still simmered inside of me, bubbling just below the surface.

One glass of wine and a salad later, I felt slightly better. Not enough to level me out, though.

I turned on the television, choosing my favorite comfort show to play in the background while I scrolled on my phone, needing double the distraction. Time seemed to be moving at a snail"s pace. It was nearly nine, too early to go to bed. But I didn't want to sit and watch The Office with Mom, didn't want to get ahead on next week's work, didn't want to do anything but stay in my bed and pretend I didn't exist.

I looked at the bottle of wine.

It looked right back at me.

One more glass wouldn't hurt, right? My advance was enough to cover Mom's medical bills and then some, so if anything happened, I could always call an ambulance instead of driving her to the hospital. I didn't need to be entirely sober. Just sober enough.

I poured it.

I downed it.

I poured another, giving myself the same excuse, giggling as I sipped, enjoying the buttery taste of the chardonnay while watching Ross tell Rachel that they were on a break.

Another, and my fingers and toes became a little tingly. I hadn't had more than a single glass of wine in almost a year, hadn't had the chance to. I'd definitely become a lightweight but I still felt in control, telling myself I could handle an emergency if it came down to it even though I knew that I couldn't.

I emptied the bottle into my glass, staring at the pale yellow wine in front of me. It was okay for me to let loose occasionally. It had to be. I couldn't and wouldn't be doing this forever. I'd have a life eventually, even if Mom miraculously made it to her nineties. I could find a little cottage in the woods, adopt a bunch of cats. Or stay in the city and yell at kids to get off my lawn. I could drink all the wine I wanted, even if it wasn't great for my skin.

But for now I had things to do. People to look after. Problems to solve. A man to get out of my life as soon as possible.

I stared at my phone in my hand, Facebook open, a photo of Wade and a ski bunny I'd learned was named Melissa filling my screen. Asshole.

I downed the rest of my wine, the rage and irritation from earlier bubbling back up after the alcohol had dampened it. Now it only fed the flames, whispering to me to tell him what a dick he was, to give him a piece of my mind and leave him and his stupid ski resort behind. My advance would suffice until I found another job.

I opened up a job search app, putting in my credentials clumsily with my left hand as I sipped with my right. Job after job showed up. Salaries weren't great, but they existed. I could aim lower. Figure it out.

I was capable. I was strong. I could totally do that.

Or maybe it was the alcohol talking.

Either way it didn't stop me from opening up my work email account, didn't stop me from drafting an email and plugging Wade's email address in. It didn't stop me from writing out how much of an asshole he was through my slightly blurred vision, didn't stop me from calling out his entitlement from the amount of money he had. By the time I'd finished typing and drained my glass, it was three paragraphs long, and the words were a little too jumbled for me to read back. It didn't matter. I was getting my point across one way or another.

What is it missing? I hummed quietly to myself as I watched Friends, thinking absentmindedly about what Rachel would do in my position.

I looked back down at my draft and decided to add eleven words to the very bottom of the page.

Consider this my letter of resignation, effective immediately.

Never yours,

Ray

My stomach churned as I stared at it. Those words felt like too much and nothing all at once, blurring into the darkness of my mind. I was tired. So tired. I'd worked out too hard. I'd been fucked over. I'd made Mom tomato soup for the third time in three days. I'd waited until it cooled.

I sucked in a sharp breath as my mouse pointer collided with the send button.