58. REEMA

The next day, I call my parents.

They're worried about me and have questions. I reassure them that my body isn't lost in a ditch somewhere, but also say I can't talk about anything right now. Vague promises are made for me to call them later.

Ms.Beatrice left soup on the table, with explicit instructions that if I don't eat it, the food will go to waste and she will be very sad. Right now, she's at her aerobics club and won't be home until the evening.

While staring at the spoon I've failed to bring to my mouth for the last twenty minutes, my phone rings. My eyes flick to the screen, even though I know I won't pick up….

Except, it's Esha.

She flew out to Bora Bora this morning. She should be on a beach in her bikini. The entirety of her concerns should be about putting on enough sun-lotion, but she's calling me. Why?

Fuck, did she find out? Did someone tell her what happened?

I don't want to pick up, but that's so selfish and I've done enough of that already. No, I've got to reassure her Everything Is Fine. At least for now, while she is relaxing and away.

"Hello?" My voice comes out as a terrible croak.

"Reema? Is that you?"

"One minute—" I garble out.

I go to the sink and gulp down some water. Then I put my phone on mute and spend thirty seconds trying to make my voice sound normal.

Esha impatiently calls my name out again.

I unmute the phone and ask cheerily, "How's the honeymoon going?"

"Don't how is my honeymoon me! Where the shit are you?"

"At home."

"Obviously! But where specifically?"

"W-why?"

She groans. "Clearly you're not at work, so I need your apartment address!"

"Wait." I grip the phone tighter. "How do you know I'm not at work?"

"Because I just spoke to your boss." There's another voice in the background arguing with her. It sounds familiar. Like Leo, but what would he be doing with Esha on her honeymoon?

Whatever the case, Esha tells me to hang on. I'm stuck staring at fridge magnets, confused and worried, until she comes back on the line. There's no background noise anymore. I tell her as much.

"I'm in my car," she says. "You have needy coworkers and—others—who want to see you. I barely got out of there alone."

It takes me longer than it should, but finally it makes sense. "You're—you're here?"

"Yes. Give me your address."

When I don't immediately answer, she tells me not to stress a pregnant woman out.

That's a sentence chock full of emotional blackmail. I give in, and she tells me she'll be there in thirty minutes.

While I wait, I try holding onto the numbness which seems to be losing its power. Pain has returned and I would love a stiff drink to shoo it away, but there's no liquor around. The next best thing is Hollywood's Top Plastic Surgery Failures. I watch snippets on my phone, though if you ask me about it, I can't tell you anything.

Too soon, Esha calls again. She's downstairs.

Slowly, I walk down the stairs and down the hallway, and then I open the front door.

"Those are some wrinkled pants," is the first thing she says.

Oh. Right.I've not changed my clothes since my meeting with Mr.Davies.

"Do you want to come in?" I ask, gripping the door open, blocking the entrance with my body.

"No, I'm hovering like an idiot for no reason."

"Did you come by yourself?"

"Gurinder's at a golf course nearby. He's pretty stoked to do that all day."

I let her inside. Miracle of all miracles, the elevator is working. When we start moving up, it strikes me. "You shouldn't be here! You're supposed to be on your honeymoon!"

"Don't worry about that."

The elevator opens. She follows me to the apartment door. Key in hand, I turn to her. "What do you mean, don't worry? You've been bragging about how expensive and extravagant this vacation is for a whole year, but now you're here?"

"I told them someone died. Everything has been rescheduled."

"Someone died?"

She takes the key from my hand. "Yeah, my trust has died because my sister is a lying liar."

Unlocking the door, she barges inside—and then stops abruptly. I hear a softly uttered, "Fuck." She looks around the living room and then goes and pulls aside the curtain. "You live here?"

"I do. That's my bed."

We both sit on the couch.

"Tell me everything," she says with a sniffle. "I mean it. Everything."